Page 88 of Libby's London Merchant
“He said he would. Problems rarely go away because we wish them elsewhere.” Mrs. Ames sat down suddenly, her face set, hard. “I blame myself. Listen to me, talking of proprieties when I was so indiscreet myself so many years ago!” She could not look at her daughter. “A fine muddle this is, Libby. I have learned such propriety over the years. Would that I had exercised it much sooner that first time your father came into the tobacco shop!”
Libby sat down beside her mother and put her arms around her. “Mama! Don’t dredge up the past like that. I, for one, am glad you did such a foolish thing. I would not be here, had you not ‘forgotten your place,’ as Grandfather Ames probably put it.”
Mrs. Ames wiped her eyes and allowed herself to be comforted. She kissed her daughter and then looked away. “I have had ample occasion to scold myself, but no, I would not have changed things, no matter how ill it has fallen out for you. I loved your papa. I love him still.”
She took a turn about the room and stood before her daughter. “This brings me to a bit of plain speaking. My dear, you have expressed to me your own doubts about your feelings for Dr. Cook. I suspect that this turn of events, however unwelcome, will force you to examine the quality of that relationship.’’
“Mother, what are you saying?’’ Libby exclaimed.
“I am saying that you had better know your own mind,” her mother persisted. “When the vows are spoken, my darling, you will be a long time married. As improperly as the duke is behaving, you had better study it out carefully in your own mind and be certain that you are marrying the right man.”
Libby sat on the front steps and waited for the doctor to appear. When the evening’s chill made her rub her arms, she went indoors. Mama had set up the card table and eyed her hopefully, but Libby only shook her head. She sat in silence and growing irritation with Anthony Cook. Tomorrow was the eve of their wedding, and she had scarcely exchanged ten words with him since her return from Brighton.
Are you so sure of yourself, Anthony? she thought.
“Did the duke say when he would return?” Libby asked finally as the clock prepared to strike ten.
“In the morning, my dear.”
Libby left the room without another word and trudged up the stairs to her bedroom. She almost cried to see it, books everywhere, clothes jumbled about. She wanted to rush about and put everything back the way it was and forget that she had ever given her impulsive agreement to an equally impulsive proposal. She would put everything in order again and tell Anthony … Tell him what? Tell the duke what? How in the world did women navigate courtship and marriage? She wanted to be young again, and back in Spain - anywhere but in Kent. I wish I truly knew, was her last thought.
Libby was awake before the maid tiptoed into the room with her can of hot water. The day was already uncomfortably warm. She threw off the covers, hugging her legs close to her body and wishing that the morning would bring its usual measure of optimism to her. When it did not come, she dressed quickly in her coolest muslin and went downstairs.
Candlow brought her a note during breakfast. “I found this pinned to the front door, Miss Ames,” he said, handing it to her.
It was a page tom from Anthony Code’s prescription book. “I was too late. I will be at your house for dinner as planned. Yours as ever, Anthony.” He had underscored “will” several times.
Without a word, she passed the note to her mother. “Do you think he will come?”
“I know he will try, my dear.”
Libby went into the sitting room, restlessly fluffing pillows on sofas, arranging chairs, and straightening pictures that were already plumb with the room. She sat down, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
Soon she heard the curricle in the front drive, followed by a brisk knock. In another moment, Candlow stood at the door to the sitting room.
“Miss Ames, the Duke of Knaresborough,” he said, his face utterly unreadable as he stood aside to let Benedict Nesbitt pass.
The duke paused a moment in the doorway and then came forward swiftly, hands outstretched, a smile on his face that brightened the whole room. He stopped in front of her, bowed, raised her to her feet, and kissed her hand.
“I was going to ask how you did, but it’s perfectly obvious, Libby,” he said. “You do well.” He touched her cheek.
It was a shock to see him so elegantly dressed. She remembered the sober suit of the London merchant, and then her father’s shabby pants and shirts that he had worn during his convalescence. The peer who stood before her with a question in his eyes was slap up to the mark, a credit to his tailor and bootmaker.
He wore the clothes of a country gentleman, and they hung to perfection on his frame, buckskins and buff coat, with gleaming boots tasseled and without a blemish. His neckcloth was an ornament of mathematical precision. As Libby admired his splendor, the thought crossed her mind that Anthony would never have the time or patience to devote so much effort to his person. The duke smelled of some mysterious fragrance that caused her mouth to water. His hair was curled without a strand out of place. He could have come directly from Bond Street without a single detour. He was all that was correct.
“I am well enough,” she said when the silence threatened to swallow her whole. “Please be seated, sir.”
He shook his head and strode instead to the fireplace, where he rested his elegant shoulders against the mantelpiece. I wonder, she thought as she watched him, does he think he appears to better advantage there?
He stood there a moment and then came back to sit beside her. She moved away slightly to make room, and a look dose to pain crossed his face.
“What I did was unforgivable, Libby Ames,” he said quietly, looking her in the eye. “I hope and trust that you can forgive.”
“I think perhaps the least said about it, the better,” Libby replied honestly. “I am certainly willing to let the whole thing go, if that will assuage whatever feelings of regret you have. ”
“It’s more than that, Libby,” he said, moving closer and taking her the hand.
“I don’t think it can be, ” she replied, pulling back her hand.
