Page 36 of A Rogue's Downfall
Precious Rogue
by
Mary Balogh
Holly House, Summer 1818
She had so little time to herself. It seemed unfair that her peaceful solitude should be shattered after a scantfifteen minutes. Nobody ever came to the lily pond,since it was a full ten-minute walk from the house andinaccessible by carriage because of the trees. She hadcome to think of it as her own special hideaway—whenever she could get away by herself, that was.That was not very often.
She was high up in the old, gnarled oak tree that she had appropriated as her own, sitting comfortablyon a sturdy branch, her back braced safely against thetrunk. She had not brought a book with her as sheusually did. She had learned by now that she wouldnot read it anyway. When she was at the lily pond,surrounded by the beauties of nature and filled by itspeace, she liked nothing better than to gaze about herand allow all her senses to come alive. And sometimesshe merely set her head back and gazed upward atbranches and leaves and sky and went into a daydream.
There was so little chance to daydream. Night dreams were not nearly as pleasant, since one couldnot control them—or even remember them half thetime. She daydreamed about—oh, about many foolishthings. About being beautiful and charming and witty,about having pretty clothes and somewhere special towear them, about having friends and beaux, about loving and being loved, about having a home and a husband and children. All foolish things. She alwaysreminded herself as she climbed nimbly downwardback to the ground and reality that she was wellblessed, that it was downright sinful to be discontented, that there were thousands of women far lessfortunate than she—and that was an understatement.
But today she had only just begun to relax. She was still enjoying the sight of the pond with its large lilypads almost hiding the water and of the trees surrounding it and of the blue sky above. She was stillenjoying the smell of summer greenery and the soundof silence—oh, blessed silence. Though the worldabout her was anything but soundless, of course.There were birds singing and insects whirring andchirping. But they were natural sounds, sounds towhich she did not have to respond.
And then an alien sound. A man’s voice.
“Ah,” he said, “a lily pond. How charming. I do believe Mother Nature threw it down here this veryminute in a desperate attempt to rival your beautyand distract me. She has failed miserably.”
A trilling, female laugh. “What absurd things you say,” the woman said. “As if I could rival the beautiesof nature.”
There was a pause as the two of them came into sight beneath the old oak tree and stopped beside thelily pond. Mr. Bancroft and Mrs. Delaney—two of theguests from the house. The house was full of guests,Nancy having just completed her first Season in London but not having quite accomplished the purpose ofthat Season. Oh, it was true that she had found herfuture husband. Everything was settled except for oneminor detail. The gentleman had not yet proposed.
It was a mere formality, of course. The two of them had a clear understanding. Mr. Bancroft was young,unmarried, heir to a barony, and thoroughly eligiblein every possible way. He had paid court to Nancyquite persistently through the spring, dancing with herat a number of balls, accompanying her to the theaterone evening, driving her in Hyde Park one afternoon,and generally hovering in her vicinity as much as goodmanners would allow. And he had accepted her invitation to spend a few weeks at Holly House.
Two facts about him particularly recommended him to Nancy and her mama—or perhaps three, if onetook into account the indisputable fact that he wasexcessively handsome and elegant. Nancy sighed overthe fact that she was about to net one of London’smost notorious rakes. All the female world loved him,and half the female world—or so the rumor went—had had its heart broken by him. It was a singulartriumph for Miss Nancy Peabody to be the one to gethim to the altar. Not that she had him there yet, ofcourse. But she would before the summer was out. Hehad made his intentions quite clear.
The rather strange fact that recommended him to Mrs. Peabody was that he was poor—as a churchmouse, if gossip had the right of it. Mr. Peabody, onthe other hand, was enormously wealthy and had onlyhis daughter on whom to lavish his riches. It mighthave been expected that the Peabodys would wish toally their daughter with wealth, but far more important to Mrs. Peabody was to see Nancy move upthe social scale. As Mrs. Bancroft she would be abaroness-in-waiting, so to speak. And until that daywhen Mr. Bancroft would inherit his uncle’s fortuneas well as his title, he would have to rely upon thegenerosity of his father-in-law to keep him in funds.He would be a husband kept firmly to heel.
It all seemed wonderfully perfect to Mrs. Peabody.
And now he was down below the oak tree telling Mrs. Delaney that nature could not rival her beauty.What a ridiculous untruth, the young lady in the treethought. Mrs. Delaney was too fat—though she hadto admit that it was the type of fatness that some menmight find appealing. Mr. Delaney was not one of theguests at the house, though apparently he was notdeceased.
And Mrs. Delaney had fished for further compliments. Mr. Bancroft did not disappoint her.
“In you, ma’am,” he said, “the beauties of nature have combined with breeding and taste to producedazzling perfection. How can I appreciate the scenearound me when you are here with me? I do protestthat you make your surroundings appear quite insipid.”
The young lady in the tree held her nose.
Mrs. Delaney tittered. “I do not believe a word of it,” she said. “You flatter me, sir. I wonder why.” Shereached out a lace-gloved hand and rested her fingertips upon his sleeve.
Mr. Bancroft possessed himself of the artfully offered hand and raised it to his lips. “Flattery?” he murmured. “You have not looked in your glass recently, ma’am, if you believe that. I have had eyes forno one else since arriving here three days ago. And Ihave had sighs for no one else.”
“Now, that is a bouncer, sir,” she said, allowing himto return her hand to his lips for a second kiss. “Everyone knows that you have come here to court Nancy Peabody. She is a remarkably pretty girl, it must beadmitted.”
“Girl,” he said. “Ah, yes,girl,ma’am. You are in the right of it there. A pretty girl can please the eye.It takes a beautiful woman to stir all the senses. Amature woman of your years. A woman who haspassed the age of twenty.”
It appeared to the young lady in the tree that Mrs. Delaney had passed her twentieth birthday long since,but it was a clever way of paying a compliment, shesupposed.
“Sir,” Mrs. Delaney asked, “are you flirting with me?”
The girl in the tree held her nose again.
“Flirting, ma’am?” His voice was like a velvet caress. “I do protest. Flirters have no serious intentions. Mine could not be more serious.”
“Indeed?” The lady’s voice too had become hushed and throaty. “Do you intend to tumble me on theground, sir, when I am wearing my favorite muslin?”
The watcher stopped holding her nose. She felt sudden alarm.
