Page 40 of A Counterfeit Engagement
Jonathan heaved a deep sigh and wished that the ball might be over quickly. There was a special torment in having what felt like every member of the London ton congratulate him on his wife’s brilliance, her originality, her taste.
All of it true, and all of it painfully inadequate in view of the truth that he had married the one woman who wanted what he could not give her. Who had hoped to marry not for his title or his money, but for his heart.
When Arthur found him two hours into the ball, Jonathan did his best to muster up a smile. “A pleasant night, isn’t it? I hope you have had fine partners in the dance.”
Arthur gave him a rather stiff smile in return. “I danced with your sister, which is always a great pleasure. And I made an attempt at a compliment to Miss Anderson, which she did not disdain. Perhaps we will be friends yet.”
“I hope so,” Jonathan said. “Truly, Arthur, I do not know what is wrong, but I am sure she cannot dislike you as you imagine. Miss Anderson is a sweet, gentle girl, and I could not wish a dearer friend for Sarah.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Arthur replied politely, though his doubt was clear. “In any case, I must say I am surprised to see you so little on the dance floor. You have not danced tonight, is not that right?”
“It is,” Jonathan said briefly. “I — I am not inclined to dance.”
“Not even with your wife?”
“No,” Jonathan said briefly, and fell silent.
Arthur looked him up and down. He was silent for a long moment, and Jonathan had the impression that he was carefully weighing how much to say.
At last, he spoke. “Jonathan. You are my best friend. I cannot say how lonely I would be in London without you. And I wish you would tell me what is wrong.”
Jonathan cursed the unmanly stinging at the corners of his eyes. With an effort, he kept his voice perfectly steady. “I do not think it is entirely mine to tell.”
“Then do not tell me what you should not, to be sure. Tell me whatever is yours to tell.” Sensing his hesitation, Arthur seized him by the elbow and led him onto the garden path before letting go. “Let us walk a moment. Your guests will not miss you for a quarter of an hour. Come, talk with me.”
Jonathan fell into step with his friend, wordless. His mind seemed strangely blank, and he forced himself to concentrate solely on walking in time with Arthur, modulating his pace to compensate for his limp.
“Well, then,” Arthur said at last. Jonathan winced at hearing the careful gentleness of his tone. “Something has happened. Of that much, I am certain. You were so happy — both you and your duchess, I mean — and now you are not.”
“Is it so obvious?” Jonathan forced out.
Arthur shook his head. “I do not think the ton at large knows, no. Your manner in company together has been too courteous for that. But it cannot remain a secret much longer. As soon as one gossip realises the truth, they will all know. Your marriage is the story of the Season, after all. And to those of us who know you well, the difference is obvious.”
“It was foolish of me to think it could be concealed,” Jonathan said under his breath.
“Perhaps,” Arthur replied. “I knew at once, and I am sure your sister and your wife’s relations must have seen it as well. Will you not tell me what is wrong?”
“I suppose it cannot make matter worse,” Jonathan said slowly.
“I should think not. And you will at least have the relief of a burden shared.”
“Very well then,” Jonathan said. “It is what Sophie wishes of our marriage. She had hoped for a true love match and was hurt when I attempted — gently! — to disabuse her of the notion.”
Arthur was staring at him, doubtless in surprise that the practical, intelligent Sophie could be so foolishly romantic.
“And how did this come about?” Arthur asked.
Jonathan sighed. “It was the evening after we all went to the theatre together. When we returned home, Sophie told me she loved me with all her heart. And I imagined she had hoped for my declaration in return, but I would not lie to her. I told her plainly that love is nothing more than a fairytale. She took it rather badly, I am afraid.”
“Do you mean to say,” Arthur said at last, “that your wife of only a few weeks came to you, said she loved you deeply, and you responded by telling her you do not love her? That love is a lie? Jonathan, have you gone mad?”
“You know what my parents’ marriage was, what my father did in the name of love,” Jonathan said hotly. “There is nothing I would not do rather than repeat his mistakes. If that is difficult for Sophie, I am sorry for it, but it remains the truth.”
“The truth! It is anything but the truth!” Arthur exclaimed. “Your father’s cruelty was not love, whatever name he gave to it. And surely you do not truly think there is no such thing as love.”
Jonathan only shrugged. “I do not mean to say that I do not think anyone can care about another person. That would be absurd. I have no argument with friendship or companionship. It is this business of making a lie out of life, of saying that your hearts are forever one or whatever twaddle the poets spout that raises my ire.”
“Jonathan, I have known you for years. I have seen you before meeting Sophie, and after, and now with this strife between you. Whatever you wish to call it, you do love her! It is madness to say otherwise.”
“In any case, I will have my way in the end,” Jonathan said.
The thought did not afford him much satisfaction.
“We are married, and Sophie is too wise to throw away all the benefits of that simply because I cannot give her everything she wants. However accidental our marriage, and however complicated now, it remains better than the alternative.”
“And is that enough for you?” Arthur demanded. “Jonathan, I had thought better of you. Can you be happy knowing your wife submitted to your wishes because she had no other choice?”
Jonathan thought wearily that he ought to be angry at such a challenge, but he found he could not manage it. “Perhaps not,” he said at last, “but I do not see that I have any other choice. I will not willingly abandon the marriage, whatever Sophie may do.”
“I am glad to hear that, at least,” Arthur muttered. “Wait — is that not Sophie now? The woman with her looks rather odd.”
Following his friend’s gaze, Jonathan saw Sophie standing by a garden fountain. She was at the point of turning to speak to the other woman, and that woman was —
“Mary Collins,” Jonathan gasped.
Mary Collins, who deliberately had not been invited to the ball. Mary Collins, who bore Sophie a grudge, and should not have been there. Jonathan ran towards them, almost at the point of calling out to stop whatever hateful nonsense Miss Collins intended to hurl at her.
Arthur caught his arm moments before he would have burst out of the avenue and interrupted them.
Jonathan stopped short, astonished by the effort Arthur must have put forth to catch up with him, hampered as he was by his imperfectly healed leg.
The pain it had cost him was evident in the drawn lines of his face and the slight sweat on his brow.
“I have the greatest respect for your wife,” Arthur told him softly. “Let us hear how she deals with Miss Collins.”
Even at that moment, Sophie was speaking. The women must not have noticed the sound of their approach, screened as it was by the sound of the fountain.
“Good evening, cousin,” Sophie said. Jonathan marvelled at the calmness and evenness of her tone. “I had not expected to see you here this evening.”