Only Beloved

Imogen's wedding has recently taken place in London and George has just waved her mother and aunt, his house guests, on their way home. Now he is sitting in his library, alone:

It seemed almost incredible that all six of his fellow Survivors had married within the past two years. It was as if they had needed the three years after leaving Penderris to adjust to the outside world again after the sheltered safety the house had provided for the previous three years but had then rushed joyfully back into full and fruitful lives. Perhaps, having hovered for so long close to death and insanity, they had needed to celebrate life itself. He was quite certain too that they had all made happy marriages. Hugo and Vincent each had a child already, and there was another on the way for Vincent and Sophia. Ralph and Flavian were also in expectation of fatherhood. Even Ben had whispered two days ago that Samantha had been feeling queasy for the past few mornings and was hopeful that it was in a good cause.

It was all thoroughly heart-warming to the man who had opened his home and his heart to men—and one woman—who had been broken by war and might have remained forever on the fringes of their own lives if he had not done so. If they had survived at all, that was.

George looked speculatively at the biscuits but did not take one. He picked up his coffee cup, however, and warmed his hands about it, ignoring the handle.

Was it downright contrary of him to be feeling ever so slightly depressed this morning? Imogen's wedding had been a splendidly festive and happy occasion. George loved to see her glow, and, despite some early misgivings, he liked Percy too and thought it probable he was the perfect husband for her. George was very fond of the wives of the other Survivors too. In many ways he felt like a smugly proud father who had married off his brood to so many happily-ever-afters.

Perhaps that was the trouble, though. For he was not their father, was he? Or anyone else's for that matter. He frowned into his coffee, considered adding more sugar, decided against doing so, and took another sip. His only son had died at the age of seventeen during the early years of the Peninsular Wars, and the boy's mother—Miriam—had taken her own life just a few months later.

He was, George thought as he gazed sightlessly into his cup, very much alone—though no more so than he had been before Imogen's wedding and all the others. Julian was his late brother's son, not his own, and his six fellow Survivors had all left Penderris Hall five years ago. Although the bonds of friendship had remained strong and they all gathered together for three weeks every year, usually at Penderris, they were not literally family. Even Imogen was only his second cousin once removed.

They had moved on with their lives, those six, and left him behind. And what a blasted pathetic, self-pitying thought that was.

George drained his cup, set it down none too gently on the saucer, put both on the tray, and got restlessly to his feet. He moved behind the desk and stood looking out through the window onto the square. It was still early enough that there was very little activity out there. The clouds were sparser than they had been earlier, the sky a more uniform blue. It was the sort of day designed to lift the human spirit.

He was lonely, damn it. To the marrow of his bones and the depths of his soul.

He almost always had been.

His adult life had begun brutally early. He had taken up a military commission with great excitement at the age of seventeen, having convinced his father that a career in the army was what he wanted more than anything else in life. But just four months later he had been summoned back home and forced to sell his cornetcy when his father had learned that he was dying. George had sold out, married Miriam, lost his father and succeeded him to the title Duke of Stanbrook himself all before he turned eighteen. Brendan had been born before he was nineteen.

It seemed to George, looking back, that he had never been anything but lonely, with the exception of that brilliant flaring of exuberant joy he had experienced all too briefly when he was with his regiment. And there had been a few years with Brendan…

He clasped his hands behind his back and remembered too late that he had told Ralph and Ben yesterday that he would join them for a ride in Hyde Park this morning if his cousins made the early departure they had planned. All the Survivors had come to London for Imogen's wedding, and all were still here, except Vincent and Sophia, who had left for Gloucestershire yesterday. They preferred being at home, for Vincent was blind and felt more comfortable in the familiar surroundings of Middlebury Park. And the bride and groom, of course, were on their way to Paris.

There was no reason for George to feel lonely and there would be none even after the other four had left London and returned home. There were other friends here, both male and female. And in the country there were neighbors he considered friends. And there were Julian and Philippa.

But he was lonely, damn it. And the thing was that he had only recently admitted it to himself—only during the past week, in fact, amidst all the happy bustle of preparations for the final Survivor wedding. He had even asked himself in some alarm if he resented Percy for winning Imogen's heart and hand, for being able to make her laugh again and glow. He had asked himself if perhaps he loved her himself. Well, yes, he did, he had concluded after some soul-searching. There was absolutely no doubt about it—just as there was no doubt that his love for her was not that kind of love. He loved her exactly as he loved Vincent and Hugo and the rest of them—deeply but purely platonically.

During the last few days he had toyed with the idea of hiring a mistress again. He had done so occasionally down the years. A few times he had even indulged in discreet affairs with ladies of his own class—all widows for whom he had felt nothing but liking and respect.

He did not want a mistress.

Last night he had lain awake, staring up at the shadowed canopy above his bed, unable to coax his mind to relax and his body to sleep. It had been one of those nights during which, for no discernible reason, sleep eluded him, and the notion had popped into his head, seemingly from nowhere, that perhaps he ought to marry. Not for love or issue—he was too old for either romance or fatherhood. Not that he was physically too old for the latter, but he did not want a child, or children, at Penderris again. Besides, he would have to marry a young woman if he wanted to populate his nursery, and the thought of marrying someone half his age held no appeal. It might for many men, but he was not one of them. He could admire the young beauties who crowded fashionable ballrooms during the Season each spring, but he felt not the slightest desire to bed any of them.

What had occurred to his mind last night was that marriage might bring him companionship, possibly a real friendship. Perhaps even someone in the nature of a soulmate. And, yes, someone to lie beside him in bed at night to soothe his loneliness and provide the regular pleasures of sex.

He had been celibate a little too long for comfort.

Two horses were clopping along the other side of the square, he could see, led by a groom on horseback. Both horses bore sidesaddles. The door of the Rees-Parry house directly opposite opened, and the two young daughters of the house stepped out and were helped into the saddle by the groom. Both girls wore smart riding habits. The faint sounds of feminine laughter and high spirits carried across the square and through the closed window of the library. They rode off in evident high spirits, the groom following a respectful distance behind them.

Youth could be delightful to behold, but he felt no yearning to be a part of it.

The idea that had come to him last night had not been purely hypothetical. It had come to him complete with the image of a particular woman, though why her he could not explain to himself. He scarcely knew her, after all, and had not seen her for more than a year. But there she had been, quite vivid in his mind's eye while he had been thinking that maybe he ought to consider marrying again. Marrying her. It had seemed to him that she would be the perfect—the only—choice.

He had dozed off eventually and woken early to take breakfast with his cousins before seeing them on their way. Only now had he remembered those bizarre night yearnings. Surely he must have been at least half asleep and half dreaming. It would be madness to tie himself down with a wife again, especially one who was a virtual stranger. What if she did not suit him after all? What if he did not suit her? An unhappy marriage would be worse than the loneliness and emptiness that sometimes conspired to drag down his spirits.

But now the same thoughts were back. Why the devil had he not gone riding? Or to White's Club? He could have had his coffee there and occupied himself with the congenial conversation of male acquaintances or distracted himself with a perusal of the morning papers.

Would she have him if he asked? Was it conceited of him to believe that she would indeed? Why, after all, would she refuse him unless perhaps she was deterred by the fact that she did not love him? But she was no longer a young woman, her head stuffed with romantic dreams. She was probably as indifferent to romance as he was himself. He had much to offer any woman, even apart from the obvious inducements of a lofty title and fortune. He had a steady character to offer and fidelity and companionship and... Well, he had marriage to offer. She had never been married.

Would he merely be making an idiot of himself, though, if he married again now when he was well into middle age? But why? Men his age and older were marrying all the time. And it was not as though he had his sights fixed upon some sweet young thing fresh out of the schoolroom. That would be pathetic. He would be seeking comfort with a mature woman who would perhaps welcome a similar comfort into her own life.

It was absurd to think that he was too old. Or that she was. Surely everyone was entitled to some companionship, some contentment in life even when youth was a thing of the past. He was not seriously considering doing it, though, was he? Perhaps he was too old and staid in his ways to adapt to the inevitable change.

A tap on the library door preceded the appearance in the room of a youngish man carrying a bundle of letters.

"Ethan?" George nodded to his secretary. "Anything of burning interest or vast moment?"

"No more than the usual, Your Grace," Ethan Briggs said as he divided the pile in two and set each down on the desk. "Business and social." He indicated each pile in turn, as he usually did.

"Bills?" George jutted his chin in the direction of the business pile.

"One from Hoby's for a pair of riding boots," his secretary said, "and various wedding expenses."

"And they need my inspection?" George looked pained. "Pay them, Ethan."

His secretary scooped up the first pile.

"Take the others away too," George said, "and send polite refusals."

"To all of them, Your Grace?" Briggs raised his eyebrows. "The Marchioness of—"

"All," George said. "And everything that comes for the next several days until you receive further instructions from me. I am leaving town."

"Leaving?" Again the raised eyebrows.

Briggs was an efficient, thoroughly reliable secretary. He had been with the Duke of Stanbrook for almost six years. But no one is perfect, George mused. The man had a habit of repeating certain words his employer addressed to him as though he could not quite believe he had heard correctly.

"But there is your speech in the House of Lords the day after tomorrow, Your Grace," he said.

"It will keep." George waved a dismissive hand. "I will be leaving tomorrow."

"For Cornwall, Your Grace?" Briggs asked. "Do you wish me to write to inform the housekeeper—"

"Not for Penderris Hall," George said. "I will be back…well, when I return. In the meantime, pay my bills and refuse my invitations and do whatever else I keep you busy doing."

His secretary picked up the remaining pile from the desk, acknowledged his employer with a respectful bow, and left the room.

So he was going, was he? George asked himself. To propose marriage to a lady he scarcely knew and had not even seen in a longish while?

How did one propose marriage? The last time he had been seventeen years old and it had been a mere formality, both their fathers having agreed upon the match, come to terms, and signed the contract. A mere son's and daughter's wishes and sensibilities had not been taken into consideration or even consulted, especially when one of the fathers already had a foot in the grave and was in some hurry to see his son settled. At least this time George knew the lady a little better than he had known Miriam. He knew what she looked like at least and what her voice sounded like. The first time he had set eyes upon Miriam had been on the occasion of his proposal, conducted with stammering formality under the stern gaze of her father and his own.

Was he really going to do this?

What the devil would she think?

What would she say?

© Mary Balogh