He’d found that companionship again with Marion. It had come so quickly, so effortlessly, that he couldn’t say when the connection had been forged. And as that connection had persisted and grown, he’d come to love her as he’d loved no one else before. He’d found the possibility of happiness . . . and it was pointless. Heaven had arranged that.
He’d failed Bridget so entirely. Despite the idea of her illness being a form of madness, something out of his sphere of understanding, Layton couldn’t entirely shake the thought that somehow he’d been responsible. If only he’d been a better husband, if only he’d loved her more, treated her better, then perhaps she would have recovered or even been well to begin with.
Philip was right. Seeing someone you cared for in pain was an awful experience. First, Bridget struggling with whatever it was that had afflicted her, rebuffing his futile efforts to help her. Then Marion, such soul-wrenching pain in her eyes every time he’d encountered her since his ham-fisted explanation of their situation.
Suppose things had been different, that he’d had enough standing in society to weather the scandal a union between them would create? Suppose she hadn’t been a governess at all? He still wasn’t sure he could have married her. He’d only fail her like he had Bridget. He couldn’t see her go through that.
Yes. Philip was right. Acute torture.
Chapter Twenty-One
The wedding guests had been arriving for two days, though nearly a month remained before the ceremony. Marion had overheard Stanley telling a fair-haired beauty, whom she’d come to understand was the younger sister of the bride-to-be, that everyone was so shocked that someone had actually agreed to marry his oldest brother that no one who knew the earl could do anything but engage in a weeks-long celebration.
Thus far Marion had managed to keep to the nursery wing throughout the inundation. She and Caroline were seldom at the Meadows. They would climb into the Farland carriage and make the ten-minute drive to Lampton Park. Layton likely would have forgone the carriage altogether except for Caroline’s obvious enjoyment of it all. She said more than once that she felt very grown-up being driven about.
Marion loved watching Caroline, loved her enthusiasm over such small, simple things. Seeing that excitement never failed to bring a smile to Marion’s face. Often during their carriage rides, she would look to Layton, wondering if he found his daughter’s elation as captivating as she did. Inevitably, their eyes would meet, and Layton would smile at Marion for the briefest of moments before resuming his more somber expression. That fleeting connection between them wrenched her heart anew, and yet, she enjoyed it. She never stepped out of place, always diverted her eyes the very next moment, and didn’t speak. Layton didn’t speak to her either. Caroline obligingly filled in what would have been an awkward silence.
Twice a day they made the journey. Once to the Park. Once back. Layton took Caroline to the drawing room, where she was oohed and ahhed over. Marion took herself to the nursery wing, where she sat alone and waited. She quietly collected Caroline in time for her luncheon then sat again as the girl slept. It was quiet and peaceful and miserable.
But, she told herself, at least she hadn’t seen any of the guests. Until the first morning of new arrivals, Marion hadn’t thought through her particular entanglement. Despite Father’s having been a veritable recluse during the last ten years of his life and the isolated nature of their existence in the years before that, there was a slight possibility someone among the guests would recognize her. That, she knew all too well, could be disastrous.
“Miss Wood.” A male drawl broke Marion from her musings the third morning of what she had come to think of as her exile to the nursery wing of Lampton Park.
“Lord Lampton.” She rose and curtsied.
“May I introduce you to my betrothed, Miss Sorrel Kendrick.”
Marion exchanged curtsies with the dark-haired beauty, noting as she did that Lord Lampton’s future wife significantly favored one leg. She seemed so comfortable with her walking stick that Marion came easily to the conclusion that the condition was not a new one. If Lord Lampton could overlook what most gentlemen would consider an insurmountable flaw in his beloved, why couldn’t his brother have loved her? She was a servant, true enough, and red haired and outspoken to boot, but were those such horrific shortcomings?
“I have heard a great deal of praise for you, Miss Wood,” Miss Kendrick said.
Marion flashed a concerned glance at Lord Lampton. How much had he told his betrothed of their last and only conversation?
“But not too much praise, I assure you.” Lord Lampton’s look was one of detached amusement. He was in his disguise again, though why he insisted on affecting a cover, she couldn’t say. “I would hate to have my dear Sorrel bash you over the head with her infamous walking stick in a fit of jealousy.”