First Season Page 18

  No, Miss Biddle had been free to accept another man’s suit. What was worse, he could not even despise his rival, for Thomas Goodman’s innate worth was evident for all to see. He could not even know for certain, he realized with chagrin, whether Miss Biddle would have chosen his suit over Mr. Goodman’s if she had known of his feelings.

  Jules had known that dancing with Miss Biddle would be torment, yet he had been unable to refrain from asking her. She was so beautiful with her fair skin, dark curls, and deep blue eyes, and here in her home district she had a self-assurance that had been lacking in London. No, if he had known she was betrothed he would never have come to Derbyshire. But now that he was here, he could not turn around and leave lest he insult Lord and Lady Woodburn.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Lady Emily said, tapping her brother lightly on his arm with her fan.

  Jules started, surprised to find his sister standing next to him. “Pardon me, Emily, my thoughts were elsewhere.”

  “And not very happy ones, dear brother, from that scowl on your face. You had best erase it, or else Lord Woodburn will think his entertainment not to your liking,” Emily teased her brother.

  Jules smiled ruefully and made an effort to erase the frown.

  “Why did you not tell me Miss Biddle was betrothed before we came to Derbyshire?” he asked abruptly.

  “I did not know of the betrothal,” Emily said, fanning herself lightly. “It is quite odd. She has been betrothed to Mr. Goodman since July, yet not once did she mention it in her correspondence.”

  “That is odd,” Jules replied thoughtfully. “Do you suppose it was because he is a farmer and she was ashamed to tell you?”

  “No. After her experiences with some of the London ton, Miss Biddle may have hesitated to impart the news she was marrying a farmer, but I do not believe that was the primary reason for her silence. It did quite puzzle me at first, but now I think I have figured it out.”

  “What was the reason, then?”

  “I think Hetty does not love Mr. Goodman.”

  “Not love Mr. Goodman?” Jules repeated. “Then why would she enter into a betrothal with him?”

  “Because Miss Biddle does not know she is not in love with Mr. Goodman.”

  Jules looked at his sister in exasperation. “Don’t be enigmatic, Emily. Explain what you mean.”

  “Remember how unhappy Miss Biddle was in London. Society taunted her for her social blunders and made it clear that she was being accepted only because of her wealth. When she returned here to Derbyshire, Mr. Goodman’s solid worth and sincere regard for her must have been balm to her bruised self-esteem. I think she accepted his offer out of gratitude for his genuine love and admiration, and mistook her own gratitude for love.”

  Jules was uncomfortably aware that his thoughtless words to the Beau had been responsible for giving Miss Biddle some of those unhappy times in London, but his sister’s words gave him a flash of hope nevertheless. Then, just as suddenly, the hope vanished as he remembered her betrothal.

  “Whatever her reasons for entering into the betrothal,” he said, “it has been done. One must allow that Mr. Goodman is a worthy man. Miss Biddle would not jilt him.”

  “Too fine and worthy a man to be married out of gratitude,” his sister stated. “I only hope that Miss Biddle and Mr. Goodman come to a realization of the true state of affairs before it is too late.”

  “I agree, but it is none of our affair,” Jules commented.

  “I am not so certain of that,” she replied so softly that Jules was not sure he heard his sister aright. Their host arrived to claim Lady Emily for a dance, and Jules was unable to pursue the conversation further, but his sister’s remarks made him regard her thoughtfully the rest of the evening. Could Emily be correct in her surmise about Miss Biddle’s feelings? And why was his sister so concerned over the matter? It was not as though the object of Miss Biddle’s affections was a bounder, as in the case of Lord Courtney. Was there another reason for her interest? He looked speculatively at Thomas Goodman, and then shook his head in derision at his momentary suspicion. Emily must suspect his own feelings for Miss Biddle and wished him to win the woman he loved.

  The morning after the dance at Lord Woodburn’s, Tom Goodman arrived unexpectedly at the squire’s and asked Hetty to join him for a short walk. Surprised, for the farmers were extremely busy with the harvest, Hetty agreed.

  It appeared to Hetty that Tom had something on his mind, for he walked slowly, gazing at the ground, a solemn expression on his face, his hands clasped behind his back. When they were some distance from the squire’s house, he stopped beside a Spanish chestnut.

  “Miss Biddle, if you wish it, I am offering to release you from our betrothal,” Tom said without preamble.

  Hetty looked at him in astonishment. “Why would you think I wished to be released?”

  “There are so many fine gentlemen from London come to pay you court this autumn. I remember that you told me they wanted you only for your fortune, but I think even you must admit they are not all like that.”

  Lord Wakeford’s face flashed through Hetty’s mind at Tom’s words, causing her to feel guilty and exceedingly unworthy.

  “No—how can you suspect me of such inconstancy,” she protested, looking into Tom’s eyes. “Perhaps they are not all here in hopes of gaining control over my fortune, but none of them are equal to you in my eyes.”

  Tom looked at Hetty searchingly, his brown eyes seeming to penetrate her very heart in his search for the truth. Hetty withstood his scrutiny, hoping he could not discern any of the faint doubts she ruthlessly suppressed.

  “If those are truly your feelings,” he said at last, “but if you are not certain, Miss Biddle— Hetty— if you are not very certain of your feelings, it is better to say so now. Marriage is a very serious step, and a final one. It would not do for us to enter upon it if you harbor any doubts at all.”

  Tom’s words made Hetty feel very small and undeserving of a man of his character. If she were truly honest, thoughts of Lord Wakeford, the man who had been the cause of much of her distress in London, did often take the place of thoughts of Tom, the man who offered her his love and care. But they should not. She, who had suffered so from the derision of the London ton should have learned enough to value true character as much as Lady Emily did. Hetty, uncomfortably ashamed, nevertheless forced herself to looked up at Tom to find him regarding her steadily.

  “I am certain that I do not wish to be released from the betrothal,” Hetty said firmly, feeling she could say that, at least, with truth.

  Tom ceased to demur and reached for Hetty, drawing her to him and kissing her lips. As before, Hetty felt a sense of warmth and safety at the touch of Tom’s firm lips upon hers. She responded shyly to his kiss, and then rested her head against his shoulder. Tom placed an arm around her back and regarded her quizzically.

  “You are still a child, Miss Biddle, for all your Season in London,” he said softly.

  Hetty wished to ask for an explanation of his words, but Tom began walking slowly back toward her home, and she fell into step beside him, leaving her question for another time.

  October arrived, and the shorter days heralded the hunting season. Although some of the women rode to hunt, most of the gentlemen frowned on women sharing their activity, and Hetty and Lady Emily spent many pleasurable hours together riding, walking, and playing with Lady Emily’s white kitten, their friendship deepening.

  One morning in mid-October when Lady Emily went to call upon Lady Woodburn, Hetty, desiring some time by herself to think, declined to accompany her friend and took her mare Acorn out for a ride. Since Tom Goodman’s unexpected offer to release her from their betrothal, Hetty had wondered if something in her behavior had given rise to his doubts. She had to admit, when she was truly honest with herself, that when she saw Tom Goodman she did not feel the same as she did when she saw Lord Wakeford. She was always glad to see Tom, and she and Lady Emily often spent time at the Good
mans’ home, but Tom’s presence brought only feelings of warmth, security, and fondness. The presence of Lord Wakeford, in contrast, caused her heart to race and brought feelings of anticipation that raced up and down her spine. She had thought the calmer more steady response she had to Tom Goodman reflected the more mature feelings of real love. But did they?

  Hetty’s ride brought her to the top of a rise, and, catching sight of the hunt, she stopped and dismounted under a Spanish chestnut to watch it go by. Fox hunting was a rough-and-ready sport, and the riders rode recklessly, jumping hedges and hummocks. Hetty watched interestedly as the best riders kept up with the hounds by looking ahead and avoiding fields of heavy plow, cutting corners, and trying to avoid the paths other riders took. Less experienced riders trailed far behind, and Hetty smiled to see that many of them were the London visitors.

  A gust of wind blew Hetty’s red skirt and showered her with red and gold leaves from the chestnut. The movement appeared to catch the eye of one of the horsemen, who fell back from the others and turned, riding toward her. As the rider drew near, Hetty saw it was Lord Wakeford, mounted on one of Lord Woodburn’s bays. He help his whip aloft in greeting and cantered up to her.

  “I thought I recognized your little mare,” Lord Wakeford said, smiling. “It is much too fine a day to waste indoors, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Hetty agreed. “I love the country in the autumn. It makes one feel so alive. The wind seems to demand one follow it, and the air is so clear and invigorating. How I do go on,” she finished in confusion, blushing.

  Lord Wakeford smiled again and dismounted, tossing his reins over his mount’s head and coming to stand with her beneath the tree.

  “I know how you feel, Miss Biddle. I would like to have an estate in the country. My family does not have one, oddly enough. They have always been content to remain in London.” He stopped speaking and joined Hetty in appreciation of the view, fields stretching far into the distance in a patchwork of red, orange, yellow, and brown. Scattered white clouds hurried across the vividly blue sky, and a few brightly-colored wildflowers nodded their heads in the breeze .

  Another gust of wind showered them with leaves, and Lord Wakeford turned his attention back to Hetty, gazing at her intently. Hetty, knowing she must appear quite rosy and windblown, tried to look away, but his eyes locked with hers and tension became palpable between them.

  Suddenly Lord Wakeford reached out and pulled her into his arms, placing his lips over hers. Hetty, ashamed because this was what she knew she had been wanting but should not want, put up her hands to push him away, but instead found herself clutching at his coat and pulling him closer. His kisses became more and more demanding, and Hetty responded avidly, powerful, strange feelings sweeping through her body. Abruptly Lord Wakeford lifted his head from hers and spoke huskily.

  “Miss Biddle, you must cry off from your betrothal. You love me, not Mr. Goodman.”

  Lord Wakeford’s words brought Hetty back to a sense of what she was doing and what her position was.

  “I cannot love you,” she cried in distress, pulling away and turning from him, resting her hand on the trunk of the tree to support herself, so weak she felt from his kiss.

  “You do love me, Miss Biddle, confess it,” Lord Wakeford said from behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders and turning her back to face him.

  “I must marry Mr. Goodman,” Hetty protested.

  “No. You cannot marry one man when you love another. It would not be right.”

  “But I love Mr. Goodman too,” Hetty insisted.

  “It is not the same love, and well you know it,” Lord Wakeford countered. “I have often observed you together the past weeks, and I know you do not feel for him as a woman should for the man she is to marry. Do you respond to his kisses the way you responded to mine?”

  Hetty made no answer, knowing in her heart that what Lord Wakeford said was true. They stood a moment in silence, Hetty staring unseeingly at the leaf-covered ground, Lord Wakeford watching the play of emotions over her face.

  “Think over what I have said carefully, Miss Biddle,” Lord Wakeford said after several moments. “We shall discuss it again.” He remounted and cantered off to find the hunt.

  As Lord Wakeford rode away, Hetty sank to the ground at the base of the tree, unmindful of her new London habit of velvet. The kiss had been a revelation to her. That was what she had known intuitively a kiss should be. Not disgusting like Lord Satre’s, or warmly comforting like Tom Goodman’s, or even only spine-tingling like Lord Courtney’s. Lord Wakeford’s kiss had contained the qualities of Lord Courtney’s and Tom’s, and added to them some powerful feeling that made her want to press closer and closer to and never let go.

  Should she cry off from her betrothal to Tom? He had offered to release her, and she was the one who had refused. Could she hurt him now by being the one to ask to be released? As Hetty contemplated her predicament, another thought occurred to her. If she did cry off from her betrothal to Tom, what then? What were Lord Wakeford’s feelings for her? He had not said he loved her, only that she loved him. Did he love her, or want her for his wife? Even if he did, what would happen when they went back to London? Would she be “Half-baked Hetty” to him again? Could he ever be truly happy with a simple squire’s daughter from Derbyshire? Hetty sat beneath the tree a long time, watching the sun move slowly to the west as she searched for answers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hetty spent an uncomfortable afternoon and evening after her encounter in the woods with Lord Wakeford, trying to decide whether she had done wrong by becoming betrothed to Tom, or whether she had simply not known her own feelings.

  After a sleepless night spent trying to arrive at a conclusion, Hetty rose, bathed her face, and went downstairs. The Biddles and Lady Emily were partaking of a late breakfast when a servant came with an urgent request that Squire Biddle speak with Mr. Goodman. A few minutes later the servant returned with a request that Hetty join Mr. Goodman in the small parlor.

  Wondering why Tom would wish to see her father and then her, Hetty excused herself from the table and hurried to the parlor. Her father was nowhere in evidence, but Tom stood by the parlor window, head bowed, apparently deep in thought. He turned at her step.

  “What is it, Mr. Goodman?” Hetty asked in alarm, knowing from Tom’s expression that something must be terribly wrong.

  “Betsey has left with Lord Satre.”

  “Lord Satre?” Hetty replied. “Why?”

  Tom’s eyes expressed anguish.

  “From the note she left, she believes that Lord Satre intends to marry her, but your father and I fear we have reason to suspect that is not his intention.”

  “Oh, dear,” Hetty cried, lowering herself into a chair. “How long ago did she leave? Do you think there is a possibility of overtaking them?”

  “She has a two-hour start on us, but in reality they have even more of an advantage than that appears, for we have no idea where they have gone. That is why I wished to speak to you. You told me of Lord Satre’s pursuit of you in London. Did he ever happen to mention an estate in this area?”

  Hetty’s forehead creased in concentration as she tried to remember. “No, I cannot recall him ever mentioning one. Perhaps Lord Wakeford would know,” she suggested. “I believe he is acquainted with Lord Satre.”

  “I suppose I shall have to take his lordhsip into my confidence, although I had hoped to hide my sister’s disgrace from as many as possible,” he said heavily. “If you cannot help, the squire and I had best leave. Every minute we tarry allows them to get that much farther ahead.”

  Tom picked up his hat and stopped next to Hetty, dropping a brief kiss on her forehead.

  “Godspeed, Tom,” Hetty said, pressing his hands in hers.

  Hetty remained in the parlour after Tom left, wondering how such a shocking thing had occurred. How was it no one had noted the development of an understanding between Betsey and Lord Satre? How had they hidden it? Looking ba
ck, Hetty supposed it had been there to see—she had often noticed Lord Satre dancing and speaking with Betsey, but it had not seemed anything to cause alarm. Betsey was a giddy young girl and flirted with many of the gentlemen, and it had never occurred to Hetty that Lord Satre could be seriously interested in a farmer’s daughter.

  How naive she had been, Hetty castigated herself. A man might want a girl like Betsey for many reasons other than marriage. She shuddered at the thought of young Betsey in Lord Satre’s hands.

  Reluctantly Hetty stood up and returned to the breakfast parlor to inform her mother and Lady Emily of the developments. Both were horrified by the news.

  “I fear the situation is worse than Squire Biddle and Mr. Goodman imagine,” Lady Emily informed her hostess gravely. “Lord Satre was a member of the notorious Hell-fire Club in his youth. I am relieved they plan to ask Jules for his assistance. He may be able to help.”

  “The Hell-fire Club, what is that?” Mrs. Biddle asked.

  “It is no longer in existence,” Lady Emily explained. “It was active some years ago. Jules would not tell me much about it, but I do know its membership included many of the most unprincipled rakes of the time. Their motto was ‘Do whatever you want to.’ ”

  And Lord Satre was the man my aunt wished me to marry, Hetty thought as Lady Emily spoke. Although it was possible Lady Hardwick had not been aware of the full extent of Lord Satre’s disreputable past, Hetty allowed. A new thought struck her.