Gail Whitiker - Revenge In Regency Society

‘Don’t be a goose, of course he wants to see you.’

‘You weren’t there,’ Peregrine said ruefully. ‘You didn’t see the look on his face. Why do you think I lied to him, Anna? God knows I didn’t want to. But when I saw how disappointed he was at even having to ask me if I was involved with Lady Yew, I knew I couldn’t tell him the truth. So I lied. That’s why I couldn’t stay here last night,’ Peregrine admitted. ‘I was too ashamed to sleep under the same roof as him. He’s been so good to me. I couldn’t bear to repay him like this.’

‘Oh, Peregrine,’ Anna whispered. ‘If Father was disappointed, it was only because he cares about you and wants you to do well in London. He knows how harsh society can be towards those who flaunt its rules.’

‘Then society is a hypocrite!’ Peregrine cried. ‘I’m not the only man involved with a married woman. There are countless other such affairs going on and everyone knows it!’

‘Yes, and they are tolerated as long as they are conducted discreetly and with neither party voicing an objection,’ Anna told him. ‘But for whatever reason, Lord Yew has chosen to object to the liaison and, as a gentleman, you have no choice but to withdraw.’

The gravity of her words must have penetrated his romantic haze, because for the first time Peregrine seemed to appreciate the magnitude of what he had done. He glanced down at his boots, his mouth working. ‘Very well. I shall go for my ride as planned and while I am out I shall think about what I wish to say. Then, I shall come back and write a letter of apology to Lord Yew.’

Anna did a quick mental calculation. Sir Barrington had said he was meeting with the marquess at two. There wasn’t a hope Peregrine would be back from his ride in time to have the letter finished and delivered by then, which meant she had no choice but to send word to Sir Barrington herself.

‘Peregrine. Have I your word that you will stop seeing Lady Yew, that you will say as much in your letter to Lord Yew?’

Peregrine frowned. ‘Have I not just said I would?’

‘Yes, but I need to be very clear as to your intentions.’

‘From where I stand, I don’t think I have any choice.’

‘Fine. Then off you go on your ride,’ Anna said. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’

‘Not tonight.’ Peregrine got up and slowly walked towards the door. ‘Edward said he would be dining at home this evening and I have no intention of sitting at the same table and letting him humiliate me any further in front of your father.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because I was foolish enough to confide my feelings for Lady Yew to him.’ Peregrine looked at her and sighed. ‘He knew exactly how I felt—and he said nothing at all about it being a hopeless quest.’

Anna needed no further explanation. How could she explain that it was just her brother being himself? ‘I’m sorry, Peregrine. Really, I am. And I know how hard it is not to be with the person you love, but there will be others. You have only to open your heart and let love find you.’

His mouth twisted. ‘I’ve been open to love a long time, Anna, but this is the first time it’s come anywhere close to finding me. Infatuation is one thing, but true love doesn’t come along every day.’

No, it did not, Anna reflected as she sat down to write the letter to Sir Barrington. True love was elusive: as fragile as a sigh, as mysterious as the night. It inspired placid gentlemen to write romantic poetry and sensible young women to lose themselves in dreams. For those lucky enough to find it, love could be a life-altering experience.

But falling in love could also be a painful and humiliating experience, one that shattered a person’s belief in their own self-worth and that was best forgotten as quickly as possible. Her brief, ill-fated liaison with the Honourable Anthony Colder was a prime example of that, as was poor Peregrine’s misplaced affection for Lady Yew. If anyone needed proof of the destructive power of love, they need look no further than that.

Lady Annabelle’s note arrived well in advance of Lord Yew’s visit and while Barrington was relieved that a solution had been found, her words did not make him feel better. Not when he knew what it had cost her to write them.

Sir Barrington,

As time is of the essence and Mr Rand is otherwise occupied, I thought it best to send word of his intentions as quickly as possible. I have been informed that he is indeed guilty of having an affair with the lady in question; however, he has assured me that he intends to end the relationship and that he is willing to confirm the same in a letter addressed to her husband. I hope you will convey these sentiments to the gentleman and that he will find it a satisfactory resolution to the problem.

Neither my father nor Mr Rand has been made aware of this correspondence and I would prefer that it remain that way. As one who has been accused of ‘involving herself in the convoluted lives of others’, I think it the wisest course of action.

It was simply signed ‘Annabelle Durst’ in a clear and legible hand.

So, Mr Peregrine Rand had been unable to maintain his lies in the face of the lady’s questioning. Good—because there was no doubt in Barrington’s mind that Annabelle had questioned him. Profess to believe him she might, but she had still needed to hear from his own lips that he was innocent of the charge and that the rumours were not true.

How devastated she must have been to find out that they were … and how difficult for her to write this note. She had believed wholeheartedly in the young man’s innocence, put trust in her intuition when it came to what he would and would not do—only to discover that her intuition was not strong enough to stand up against the wishes and desires of his own heart. Disillusionment was always a bitter pill to swallow.

He glanced again at the parchment in his hand. Closing his eyes, he raised it to his nose and gently inhaled. Yes, it was still there … a lingering trace of her fragrance, the scent sweet but sensually provocative. An echo of the lady herself. He set the parchment down and walked slowly towards the long window, his mind filled with thoughts of Anna.

It was a long time since a woman had affected him to this degree. Indeed, he wasn’t sure one ever had. For the most part, he’d always believed aristocratic ladies to be like exotic birds: lovely to look at, but troublesome to own. They strutted around society’s stage like the fragile, inconsequential creatures they were, generally offering nothing of substance beyond the ability to play the piano or paint pretty pictures. It was the reason he had found commitment so easy to avoid.

But Lady Annabelle was neither fragile nor inconsequential. She was intelligent. Passionate. The quintessential lady and beautiful beyond all. But beauty without soul had never appealed to him, and it was because she cared so much about other people that Barrington found himself so strongly attracted to her. She cared about Mercy Banks and the host of other silly young women who needed her help in extricating themselves from situations that could have ruined them. She cared about her country visitor, who might well be her half-brother, and about her father, who, with typical male arrogance, was ready to dismiss everything she said. Yes, admirable indeed was the Lady Annabelle Durst. A lady worth getting to know.

And yet, as a result of what had passed between them, Barrington doubted a deeper acquaintance was possible. In his hand, he held her acknowledgement that she had been wrong, and he right. That was the first strike against him. He had proven everything she had most desperately wanted not to believe. She had stood up for a man who hadn’t deserved her loyalty, and she had been let down. Matters would never be easy between them now.