Nicola Cornick by True Colours Page B

endless detail the time she had spent with James, his every word, her every feeling. Every emotion had flared into vivid and unbearable life and when the searing pain had finally died down she had been an empty shell, a shadow of her former self.
    A tear trickled down Alicia’s face, mirroring the raindrops on the pane outside. Widowhood had not been unpleasant for her. She was rich, beautiful and much courted, and though she knew there were those who would always consider her bad ton because of the scandal of her marriage they would never say so to her face. She had her friends, her charitable works, and her grandmother. She had enough money to do whatever she wanted and if there was a monotony and emptiness about her life it was at least materially comfortable and undemanding.
    She would never marry again. Alicia had known that already, before the unexpected encounter with Mullineaux had opened up wounds which had never truly healed, but could perhaps have been tacitly ignored. Unconsciously she had always compared every man she met with him and found them all wanting. And now he had come back…She shuddered at the prospect of meeting him socially in some dowager’s drawing-room and being obliged to treat him as the merest acquaintance. A moment later, her mind presented her with the even less palatable picture of Mullineaux choosing one of the approaching Season’s debutantes as his wife and she could not prevent a shudder of misery. Jealousy, long dormant, stirred in her again.
    Shivering in the draught from the ill-fitting window, Alicia groped her way back to the armchair and drew her cloak about her for comfort. She was stiff and tired, but her mind stubbornly refused to rest. Huddled in the chair, she thought about their quarrel.
    It was all too obvious now that Mullineaux considered her to be without a shred of honour. Briefly she tried to imagine explaining it all to him and gave up almost immediately. They were as strangers afterseven years—she could never tell him the terrible events which had overtaken her.
    Emotionally exhausted at last, Alicia settled herself to sit out the rest of the night. The inn had a long-case clock at the foot of the stairs and she heard it chime every hour through the night.
     
    Alicia did not look her best the following morning, although she had done what she could with no clean clothes, no hot water and no maid to help her. Jack had managed to retrieve her valise the night before, but it was both crushed and soaked from resting in the ditch and its contents were largely unusable. Alicia knew she looked wan and pale in her crumpled dress, and about as young as a schoolroom miss with her hair in one long plait down her back. Looking and feeling scruffy gave her none of the confidence she needed to face James Mullineaux over breakfast.
    She pushed open the door of the breakfast parlour somewhat apprehensively and found Mullineaux moodily eating buttered eggs and toast. He rose to his feet, unsmiling, as she entered.
    His immaculate appearance made Alicia feel both dirty and resentful. There was not a mark on the close-fitting buckskins and his boots had a high gloss again. The coat which fitted his shoulders without a wrinkle was not of Weston or Stultz’s making, but had an indefinable continental elegance for all that. He had not shaved and the stubble already darkening his tan only served to emphasise the piratical air Miss Frensham had observed the previous day. It did not detract from his spectacular good looks. Alicia, feeling as tongue-tied as a new debutante, looked away and hoped her colour had not risen.
    ‘Good morning.’ Mullineaux’s observant gaze did not miss the violet shadows beneath Alicia’s eyes, nor the fine lines of fatigue on her face. ‘I trust that you slept well and are feeling better this morning?’
    ‘I feel very well thank you,’ Alicia responded with obvious untruth, but in tones that dared him to argue. It won her an assessing glance, but he