Chapter 13 #2
Augusta studiously avoided their speculative gazes while silently giving thanks that the current state of her bonnet and dress were as easily due to the brisk breeze encountered in an open carriage as to any other cause.
The park was rapidly filling with other vehicles, making all but the most banal conversation impossible.
As neither of them seemed inclined to exchange platitudes, the drive home was accompanied by naught but the sound of the jingling harnesses and the cadence of the hoofbeats.
On drawing to halt in front of her townhouse, the earl hesitated in dismounting. “I’m sorry if I upset you.” His eyes seemed to be searching her face for something. “Perhaps we had best … talk about what is happening between us.”
That was the last thing in the world Augusta wished to do. “Perhaps we had best try to avoid letting it happen again,” she said. “Obviously, the heat of the chase is affecting our reason.”
If she didn’t know better, she would have thought she detected a look of hurt in his eyes. But whatever had been there quickly masked by a cool detachment that matched her own. “Ah, you think that is what it is?”
“What else could it be?” There was a fraction of a pause.
“At least for me. You, no doubt, are quite used to stealing kisses in carriages.” She stared down at her tightly clasped fingers.
“I imagine if it had been—” She caught herself, aghast at the words that had been about to slip out.
Of course he would rather have kissed Marianne.
She didn’t blame him in the least, for any man would.
But she would never wish to reveal to anyone, much less the earl, how much that hurt.
“If it had been what?” he asked softly.
“If … if it had been any female, the result would have been the same,” she stammered.
“Damnation.” Though the words were barely audible, she could see that he was truly angry.
“You have read my letters, and yet you insist on seeing me as nothing more than a profligate wastrel? Then perhaps your depth of understanding runs only as deep as ink on paper, for in person you show remarkably little perception or empathy.”
His jaw muscle twitched. “Your intellect may be unassailable, but in matters of feeling, you should think twice about signing yourself as Firebrand. In truth you are as rigid and cold as ice.”
Looking away, Marcus threw down the reins and climbed down without further words.
It was all Augusta could do to keep from bursting into tears as he escorted her up the marble stairs. He was wrong. Her intellect was as suspect as her emotions. She was a fool—a bloody fool, to borrow his words. Now she had lost everything that mattered, her best friend as well as her heart.
And she had always thought that she was so clever. With such hubris, she supposed she deserved what she got.
As Marcus gave a rap with the brass knocker, she asked in a small voice, “About Lord Ludlowe …”
“If you mean will I abandon the quest for justice, you may be assured that I will not succumb to boredom and walk away from the matter.”
She didn’t dare look at him. “But what do you intend to do?” she went on, her eyes locked on the hem of her dress.
There was a moment of silence. “Perhaps I’ll send you a note to keep you informed,” he replied coldly.
The door swung open.
“Good day, Lady Augusta.” He turned and his boots beat a staccato retreat on the polished stone.
Augusta went inside, barely aware of the butler’s greeting, or of how she managed to put one foot in front of the other. As she passed by the drawing room, her mother appeared in the doorway, a broad smile on her lips.
“Augusta, my dear!”
She shuffled to a reluctant halt, her ears hardly registering the rare endearment. “Yes, Mama?”
“You sly puss. Here I thought Marianne was the one going to make the splendid match.”
Augusta stared in some confusion. “Marianne is engaged? She said nothing to me about—”
“Oh, do stop teasing, my dear. You know my constitution has not allowed me to go out very often these past few weeks, but I have just heard the most interesting news from Lady Framingham about the attentions a certain gentleman has been paying to you. And now I see for myself that the gossips have not been exaggerating. I vow, I hadn’t dreamed it possible you could be so clever! ”
A cat-in-the-creampot smile spread across her mother’s face. “When do we expect an announcement?”
Augusta looked utterly perplexed. “An announcement of what?”
“Why, of your betrothal to Lord Dunham.”
A look of disbelief crossed her face. “You must be jesting,” she blurted out, even though she knew her mother had precious little sense of humor— especially not on the subject of marriage. “I assure you, Mama. Lord Dunham has no intention of legshackling himself to me.”
“Don’t use such horrid cant,” snapped her mother out of habit. Then her brow puckered in distress. “What do you mean? The carriage rides, the marked preference at balls—”
“They have nothing to do with the earl’s interest in me personally, Mama. We have merely been trying to solve an … intellectual problem.”
“Unnatural child,” she huffed. Disappointment made her mother’s words even harsher. “A chance to attach a man such as Dunham, and you can think of nothing but your silly books and theories? How many times do I have to tell you that men don’t find a bluestocking at all attractive?”
“I’m well aware of that fact,” she answered in a near whisper.
Her mother heaved a grumpy sigh. “Well, maybe it isn’t too late. Maybe the earl has suffered some heavy losses at the gaming table and is desperate for a large dowry. At least you have that.”
Augusta’s eyes pressed closed. “I doubt it would be near enough.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Mama.”
“Hmph.” Her mother started back toward the settee and her tea tray. “Do try to act like a normal female when you are with him. And try not to give him a disgust of you with your odd whims and notions.”
She hung her head. “Yes, Mama,” was about the only answer she could manage.
Why bother informing her parent that it was much too late for that.
Why, the moon would turn into a wheel of Stilton before the Earl of Dunham would cast another look at her.
With such a lowering thought in mind, she hurried on into the sanctuary of her study and flung her bonnet and reticule aside.
Only then, seated at her desk, head buried in her arms, did she allow the bitter tears to flow.
Through the muffled sobs, she didn’t hear the sound of the door opening and closing a short time later. It was not until a gentle touch steadied her quivering shoulders that she was aware of Marianne’s presence in the room.
“Oh, Gus, whatever is wrong?” asked her sister.
Augusta didn’t look up. “Please, Marianne. Right now I just want to be alone.”
Her sister refused to be put off so easily. “Do you? I doubt it. You’ve always been a source of comfort and wisdom to me when I’m upset. Why won’t you let me try to be the same?
“Wisdom! Ha! What a charlatan I am to give advice.” There was a quiver in her voice. “Why, I’m the biggest fool of all, always thinking I have the answer.”
Marianne was tactfully silent as Augusta searched for a handkerchief in her pocket and blew her nose. Then she ventured a tentative smile. “You always say it helps to talk things out in rational manner. And you are usually right. Things never seem quite as dreadful after one does.”
Augusta brushed at her cheek with her sleeve.
“Do I really say that? Then I’m more of an idiot than I imagined.
What really makes one feel better is falling into a fit of vapors.
” Her mouth finally managed to form a rueful grimace.
“I have considerably more sympathy for all those brainless heroines who turn into watering pots at the slightest provocation. Perhaps they are onto something.”
Marianne stifled a giggle.
She blew her nose again. “In fact, I think I shall curl up for the rest of the afternoon with one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels and thoroughly enjoy all the rantings and weepings.”
“Well, I am glad to see your normal sense of humor reasserting itself.”
“Actually I’m being quite serious.”
There was a moment of silence, then both of them couldn’t repress a soft burst of laughter.
“Dear Gus,” murmured Marianne, giving her sister a quick hug as their voices subsided. “Now out with it. What happened between you and Lord Dunham that has you in such a rare taking?” Seeing that Augusta’s spirits seemed sufficiently recovered, she essayed a bit of teasing. “A lover’s quarrel?”
That was perhaps not the best tack to take.
Augusta’s expression immediately lost any glimmer of her usual sense of humor.
“Hardly. For that would imply there was any romantic interest in the first place.” She couldn’t repress a ragged sigh.
“We did, however, have a certain … friendship, but now I’m afraid I’ve managed to destroy that.
He finds me totally repugnant and wants nothing more to do with me,”
“Gus, I’m sure that’s not true. I’m under the distinct impression that Lord Dunham is, er, not adverse to your company.”
“Not true,” answered Augusta. “Last night he called me a stubborn, willful t-t-termagant …” Her voice had begun to quiver.”And that’s not the worst of it. Today he said …” Whatever she was going to say was swallowed in a loud snuffle.
Her sister made a number of sympathetic sounds as she patted Augusta’s hand. ‘Well, that wasn’t very gentlemanly of him, but I’m sure he will make a handsome apology—”
“No, he won’t. I’ve said enough dreadful things to him that he will never forgive me.”