now?”
Andrew. She’d forgotten him. “Yes, do come out.”
He opened the door and slunk into the parlor, his hand clutched around his hat. Her heart gave an awful throb at his red, disconsolate face. Her poor darling, he must think it was all his fault.
“It’s quite all right, Andrew,” she said encouragingly.
“No, it’s not.” His voice shook. “It’s all gone wrong—like your brother said it would.”
She took hold of his hands, the brim of his hat hard in her palm. “Listen to me. This is not your fault.”
Behind her Hastings rolled his eyes—no doubt he meant for her to see it in the mirror opposite. She clenched her jaw and repeated herself. “None of this is your fault.”
Hastings shrugged into his waistcoat. “Stay here for now, Martin. Let me make sure it’s safe; then I’ll smuggle you out through a service door.”
“Thank you,” Andrew said, his voice barely audible. “Most kind of you.”
“And, Lady Hastings, I trust you will conduct yourself with some decorum.” Hastings shot her a look that was almost hostile in its intensity. She stared back, but had to break his gaze when her heart started to thump unpleasantly. “When I return, we’ll speak to your family, my love.”
CHAPTER 4
H astings’s soon-to-be wife looked out the window of the hansom cab, her back straight, her jaw set, her hands clasped tight in her lap, as if she were Napoleon arriving upon the stark shores of Saint Helena, understanding deep in her bones that this time there would be no escape.
The interior of the hansom cab was narrow. They sat shoulder to shoulder, the expanse of her skirt brushing against his knee. In the seconds before the scandalmongers had burst in on them, she had been anything but frigid. He could still taste their kiss upon his tongue, still feel the heat of her slender body pressed into his. But now she might as well have been on the far side of Siberia, as cold and remote as the Bering Sea.
He had not meant to force her into marriage: It simply had not occurred to him that there were any other possibleexplanations for him to be seen making love to her. Apparently she thought him the sort of man who entertained himself by ruining unmarried young ladies from good families.
And she’d rather become a pariah than his wife.
It did not console him that he was largely to blame for her antagonistic views. She was blind, this girl, as blind as Justice, except her set of scales had broken years ago, and all she weighed in her hand were her prejudices.
He looked down at his own hand, at his index finger poised atop his walking stick, applying the merest pressure to keep it upright, as if he hadn’t a care in the world beyond the balancing of this gentlemanly accessory.
“It’s unfortunate that maid of yours left,” he heard himself say, in a tone as insubstantial as his hold on the walking stick. “She would have tied you to the bedpost without blinking an eye.”
Her skirts twitched. She said nothing.
“No matter,” he continued. “I’m sure I’ll find someone for the task. Perhaps I can teach you a few knots myself. You are a clever girl. There’s no reason you can’t truss yourself in a most satisfactory manner.”
Her voice was a low growl. “The man I love is beyond my reach. I must marry a man who holds no appeal for me whatsoever. Have some decency, Hastings. Save your gloating until after the wedding.”
There, he’d successfully provoked her again, out of habit—out of pure reflex, almost. And his satisfaction was emptier than ever, his heart all but losing its beat.
He’d gone too far. Well before he opened his mouth, he’d known he’d go too far. Yet he hadn’t been able to help himself, the way a man who’d lost his footing on a steephill only gathered speed as he stumbled toward a precipice.
“I never do anything for as silly a reason as decency. I will, however, grant you a reprieve of silence, but that is only because now I shall expect even
Andrew. She’d forgotten him. “Yes, do come out.”
He opened the door and slunk into the parlor, his hand clutched around his hat. Her heart gave an awful throb at his red, disconsolate face. Her poor darling, he must think it was all his fault.
“It’s quite all right, Andrew,” she said encouragingly.
“No, it’s not.” His voice shook. “It’s all gone wrong—like your brother said it would.”
She took hold of his hands, the brim of his hat hard in her palm. “Listen to me. This is not your fault.”
Behind her Hastings rolled his eyes—no doubt he meant for her to see it in the mirror opposite. She clenched her jaw and repeated herself. “None of this is your fault.”
Hastings shrugged into his waistcoat. “Stay here for now, Martin. Let me make sure it’s safe; then I’ll smuggle you out through a service door.”
“Thank you,” Andrew said, his voice barely audible. “Most kind of you.”
“And, Lady Hastings, I trust you will conduct yourself with some decorum.” Hastings shot her a look that was almost hostile in its intensity. She stared back, but had to break his gaze when her heart started to thump unpleasantly. “When I return, we’ll speak to your family, my love.”
CHAPTER 4
H astings’s soon-to-be wife looked out the window of the hansom cab, her back straight, her jaw set, her hands clasped tight in her lap, as if she were Napoleon arriving upon the stark shores of Saint Helena, understanding deep in her bones that this time there would be no escape.
The interior of the hansom cab was narrow. They sat shoulder to shoulder, the expanse of her skirt brushing against his knee. In the seconds before the scandalmongers had burst in on them, she had been anything but frigid. He could still taste their kiss upon his tongue, still feel the heat of her slender body pressed into his. But now she might as well have been on the far side of Siberia, as cold and remote as the Bering Sea.
He had not meant to force her into marriage: It simply had not occurred to him that there were any other possibleexplanations for him to be seen making love to her. Apparently she thought him the sort of man who entertained himself by ruining unmarried young ladies from good families.
And she’d rather become a pariah than his wife.
It did not console him that he was largely to blame for her antagonistic views. She was blind, this girl, as blind as Justice, except her set of scales had broken years ago, and all she weighed in her hand were her prejudices.
He looked down at his own hand, at his index finger poised atop his walking stick, applying the merest pressure to keep it upright, as if he hadn’t a care in the world beyond the balancing of this gentlemanly accessory.
“It’s unfortunate that maid of yours left,” he heard himself say, in a tone as insubstantial as his hold on the walking stick. “She would have tied you to the bedpost without blinking an eye.”
Her skirts twitched. She said nothing.
“No matter,” he continued. “I’m sure I’ll find someone for the task. Perhaps I can teach you a few knots myself. You are a clever girl. There’s no reason you can’t truss yourself in a most satisfactory manner.”
Her voice was a low growl. “The man I love is beyond my reach. I must marry a man who holds no appeal for me whatsoever. Have some decency, Hastings. Save your gloating until after the wedding.”
There, he’d successfully provoked her again, out of habit—out of pure reflex, almost. And his satisfaction was emptier than ever, his heart all but losing its beat.
He’d gone too far. Well before he opened his mouth, he’d known he’d go too far. Yet he hadn’t been able to help himself, the way a man who’d lost his footing on a steephill only gathered speed as he stumbled toward a precipice.
“I never do anything for as silly a reason as decency. I will, however, grant you a reprieve of silence, but that is only because now I shall expect even
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