Chapter 31

31

Leo didn't sleep, or barely did. It wasn't as though he was churning thoughts over in his head; once he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she didn't love him, there was really nothing else to say. To think. She hadn't deceived him. She'd never promised to love him, or even to open herself to the possibility of doing so. She'd always said she wouldn't, couldn't, that her love had been given to her dead husband and she had none left.

It was torture, but then it always had been, right from the start. He'd thought himself reconciled to that, with the ever-present knowledge hanging over him that one day soon it would be over. But the cruel hope was what had made it so much worse. He'd had a taste of it at the assembly, aware as he had been of her eyes on him as he danced with other ladies, and tried to fend off Susannah's flirtatious sallies over supper. If that had been all, he'd have dismissed it as a fantasy born of a desperate need for her affection, but when she raised the topic when they were alone together, a little flame of possibility had kindled in his heart, and he'd recklessly decided to tell her how he felt. He had only himself to blame. He'd hurt her, and he was sorry, but he'd hurt himself far more. Now it was over, and even the self-indulgence of hope was denied to him.

He knew he ought to leave the Castle – make some excuse and go home, to nurse his misery where nobody could see – but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. She would leave in a week or so, he'd made sure of that in his stupidity tonight, and it seemed cruelly possible that he'd never set eyes on her again as long as they both lived. Was he so lacking in self-respect that he'd stay here, struggling under the added burden of concealing his profound distress from his closest family, just so he could see a little of her, be in a damn room with her even if they didn't speak, or only exchanged the merest commonplaces? Apparently he was.

She didn't come down for breakfast – none of the ladies did, not even his mother, and he was glad of that at least, since he was in no mood to hear a single word more about last night's assembly and how very agreeable it had been. He ate with Bastian, Matthew and Tom Wainfleet, and none of them was likely to be reminiscing fondly about an evening they'd all endured rather than enjoyed.

He'd hoped last night wouldn't even be mentioned – he would have welcomed an entirely silent masculine meal – but it was not to be. Bastian said suddenly, ‘Something horrible has just occurred to me.' They all looked at him enquiringly. ‘I think it's reasonable to expect an unusually large number of calls from the ladies of the neighbourhood over the next few days.'

‘Following up on their good work last night,' said Matthew with a grimace.

‘Precisely. Enquiring about your prospects and the precise size and location of your estate, I shouldn't wonder,' said his lover sweetly.

‘I'm penniless,' Matthew replied promptly. ‘Notoriously so. The poorest man in Yorkshire. I dropped a few hints to that effect, in a subtle sort of a way – naturally – while I was dancing. Any woman who marries me will have to learn to shear sheep and churn butter.'

‘Well,' said Bastian with a wicked grin, ‘she'd do well to set up a hobby.'

Mr Wainfleet had plainly been cogitating over Mr Pendlebury's remark, for he said now, darting hunted glances about him as if expecting a battalion of ladies to burst into the room at any moment, seize him bodily and carry him off in triumph to the sacrificial altar, ‘When d'you think they're likely to arrive? A fellow needs to be prepared.'

‘Not till well after nuncheon, surely,' said Mr Pendlebury soothingly. ‘You can go out. We can all go out. Let's do that. Leave Cassandra and my aunt to deal with them – obviously I mean Aunt Sophia, not Louisa. They don't care for Louisa, most of them – she's too satirical.'

‘I might just stay if I could be guaranteed that Lady Carston would give them a lecture about the position of women in society and how marriage is a snare and a delusion,' said Matthew. ‘It might almost be worth it to see their faces. But no, on reflection, it's too dangerous. One incautious word, Tom, or a smile in the wrong direction, and before you know it you'll be engaged to marry some girl you barely know, with no getting out of it. The whole hideous thing was Cassandra's idea, I distinctly heard her propose it, so I agree, let her suffer the consequences.'

‘Let's play billiards till nuncheon, and go out shooting afterwards,' proposed Bastian. ‘If it gets too cold, we can look in at the Queen's Head in the village, and sit snugly by the fire there till it's safe to come back.'

Leo wasn't sure he much relished the idea of spending the day in company, but his cousin was quite right; they'd be besieged by ladies again later in the afternoon, and that really would be unendurable. He'd pass the time in the way Bastian had suggested, and torment himself with mooning over Isabella in the evening. ‘I'm in,' he said shortly.