Chapter 38
Alistair could only be glad that he’d kept his temper as well as he had. A sort of red mist had descended upon him when he’d seen Pallant bowing over Cecilia’s hand, practically slobbering over it, and seen too the revolted expression on her face. She had looked trapped, and it had infuriated him.
His rage had receded a little when he’d heard the perfectly magnificent set-down she’d given him, but reignited when the man had dared to step towards her with what looked remarkably like violent intent, and then offered her a fresh insult into the bargain.
He would very much have liked to knock the fellow down, and a few years ago, he would have done it without a second’s hesitation, but he was almost thirty now and he knew, as his younger self would not have done, that no lady could be expected to enjoy being implicated in a public fracas.
Cecilia must have disliked the attention and resulting notoriety even if he had any solid, undeniable right to protect her, as a relative, fiancé or husband – and he was most painfully aware that he did not.
‘I’m going out to see if he’s really left,’ Rory told them, frowning. ‘It’s certainly better if you do not, Alistair, in case he’s lurking outside with some foolish idea of revenge in his head.’
‘I can’t imagine even he would be so reckless,’ the Major responded. ‘And I saw that Sebastian followed him out like a whipped dog; I’m sure they will be calling for their carriage at the inn by now, and good riddance to them. But it is as well to check, I suppose – thank you, Ro.’
‘Yes, sir, and thank you for your forbearance too, Major,’ Cecilia said with a creditable show of composure as the younger Bartrum left them.
‘I confess at one moment, I feared that you were about to hit him, and though he richly deserved such a set-down, it would undoubtedly have been a mistake. Indeed, I wish now I had not said all I did. But I have a sadly rash temper and I simply could not endure his attentions for a moment longer.’
‘Nor should you have been obliged to,’ Miss Macintyre put in bluntly.
‘Chaperons exist partly to discourage such appalling creatures, or what am I here for? I blame myself for the fact that I have not been able to do so, and so would your mother if she knew of it. Like Lady Synett, I have not previously been known for my lack of resolution. But then, he had not quite overstepped the mark till his attentions just now. It is not possible at this point in history, unfortunately, for a lady simply to tell a gentleman that she really does not care for his manner or his presence. I wonder if it ever will be?’
‘Let us take some refreshment and think no more about it,’ said Mrs Bartrum comfortably.
‘Perhaps we should reassure ourselves that he was drunk, as gentlemen – though not my sons, of course, I am happy to say – often are on such an occasion. And not just gentlemen. Alistair, do you remember the time when…’ And she continued in the same placid vein as she shepherded the little group away to where glasses of orgeat and cider were being served to the thirsty dancers.
Alistair hoped he was making a fair show of ease, but doubted that he was.
Unlike his mother, it was not quite possible for him to shrug Pallant’s behaviour off so easily, but he would have liked to give an impression of insouciance, as if what had occurred was nothing serious, even though he feared it was.
In truth, there were a great many unpleasant thoughts roiling in his head.
Chief among them must always be the fact that Cecilia had just made an undoubted enemy of Oliver Pallant.
She had had every right to say what she said, and he would never have wished her – or any woman – to endure such unwelcome attentions from anybody.
But he profoundly distrusted the Baron, and wondered what he might do now that his marital ambitions, and his brother’s, had been decisively thwarted.
This was an undeniable concern even before one considered the reactions of such a man to being, as he would see it, publicly humiliated.
Pallant had been doing as he pleased and getting away with it scot-free since his earliest youth; as far as Alistair knew, nobody had ever stood up to him before, or at least not with any effect.
Certainly, no lady had ever given him such a dressing-down in public.
The Major was not a man to indulge himself in Gothic imaginings, and he was aware that if what little he had understood of the terms of Mrs Albery’s will was correct – and he had only Cecilia’s brief comment just now to judge by – it would do Pallant no good to contemplate such extreme actions as kidnapping or compromising his erstwhile prey, or either of her sisters.
If she married, she’d lose her fortune, and her fortune was all he wanted.
Surely, that fact would guarantee her safety, the safety of all of them, if only for a year, unless indeed His Lordship was so deranged that he decided to seek revenge, regardless of the consequences.
Alistair, maintaining his part in light, inconsequential conversation with a great deal of effort, could not entirely put this grim possibility from his mind. And that was not the end of his worries, by any means.
He could not know the precise terms of Augusta Albery’s will, and the last thing in the world he could do was enquire.
If he mentioned the subject directly, if he asked an elaborately casual question of one of the sisters or Miss Macintyre, if he set his mother or his brother or anybody in the bloody world to find out, it would inevitably appear to Cecilia when she heard of it that he was a fortune hunter, every bit as bad as Pallant.
She would be wary of his motives, and rightly so.
But it would be unnatural in the highest degree not to mention it at all.
So saying nothing would be almost as bad.
And continuing their… their liaison was out of the question.
He did not believe, looking back on their past meetings, the thought of which still stirred his blood even in his current distress, that they could go much further without engaging in actions that would lead any honourable man to call a halt and propose marriage.
Indeed, by every standard of decency, he should already have done so, and she might by now be wondering why he had not.
But if he did, he’d be asking her to give up the financial independence that meant so much to her.
He could support a wife; of course he could.
But he had not her level of wealth. Why should she deny herself that, for him?
What kind of man would ask her to? It seemed she was doomed to think him either horribly mercenary or a selfish idiot.
There was no other choice that he could see.
If he asked her to wait a year, if he said that he would be quite happy to do so, there was the fortune hunter again, cunningly securing an heiress for himself while trying to gain the credit for being noble and considerate.
The truth was, he loved Cecilia Constantine; he’d realised that only a few days ago, and been almost overwhelmed by the wonder and surprise of it.
He could ask for nothing better than to spend his life with her, fortune or no fortune, and know himself the luckiest person alive.
But it would be the height of arrogant folly to imagine for a second that she felt the same.
He was no great bargain, scarred and wounded as he was.
She’d told him, hadn’t she, in the plainest of terms that she did not mean to marry for a long time, if ever?
And now he knew why. She’d entered into her clandestine relationship with him precisely because she was free for a year to do whatever she wished.
And when the year was over, she could marry anyone in the world she pleased; her sister’s connections gave her access to gentlemen of the highest rank in society, as they’d all learned tonight.
She too could look as high as a duke or a marquess or a leader of fashion.
How could he make demands on her, then, as if he were any kind of catch at all, instead of a scarred cripple of no particular rank or fortune?
All the colour and enjoyment had gone out of the evening.
He couldn’t even bring himself to ask Cecilia to dance again, as much as he’d like to; he had no idea what he would say to her, or she to him.
He had the headache and, as if to remind him exactly what he was, his wounded leg was throbbing as it had not done for weeks.
Would this interminable affair never end?