“You know. Lovemaking. I’ll tell you now if you want. Mother says it’s not so bad because it’s always dark so you can’t see what he’s doing anyway, and if you lay still enough, it’ll be over quick as can be and you can get on with whatever you were doing, and if he doesn’t jostle you about too much, you might even be able to compose shopping lists in your head while he—”
“Susan.”
“Yes?”
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“If you think you might have the slightest chance of entering into a physical relationship with a man, for marriage or otherwise—”
“Why would I do it otherwise?”
“Listen to me. If you even have adreamabout kissing, promise me you will write immediately for my advice.”
“You have advice?”
“More like a counterargument, yes.” Evangeline lifted the pot of dirt and rose to her feet. “But right now, I have to find Gavin before he leaves. I owe him an apology…and to let him know he owns my heart.”
Before the opportunity to set things right was lost.
Chapter 43
The brisk October wind rifled Gavin’s hair, chapped his dry cheeks, destroyed his cravat. He didn’t care. He felt suddenly free. Freer than he’d ever been. He had his family again. As long as he didn’t swing for Francine’s crimes.
He caught sight of the Rutherfords up ahead and overtook their carriage within moments. When their wheels slowed to a stop, Gavin leapt from his horse, strode over, and yanked open the door.
Francine stared at him with barely-concealed horror.
“Lioncroft,” she managed, her hands twisting nervously in her skirt. “What a surprise.”
He inclined his head coldly. “Isn’t it?”
Benedict regarded him with a furrowed brow. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I came to congratulate you,” Gavin said, “For your future heir.”
Benedict frowned. “I’m not the future heir anymore, Lioncroft. Now I’m the earl. Horrifying as it is,Edmundis the future heir.”
“Actually, that’s not the case at all,” Gavin bit out. “Is it, Francine?”
She paled.
“Uh-oh.” Gavin flashed a ferocious smile. “You haven’t told him? He’s going to notice, sooner or later.”
Benedict coughed into his napkin. “What the hell are you talking about, Lioncroft?”
Gavin swung inside the carriage and arranged himself atop the rear-facing seat. He lounged back against the squab, knees spread, arms crossed. “Your wife killed Heatherbrook because she’s pregnant with his child.”
Benedict froze.
“He’s a liar!” Francine clutched her husband’s sleeve, hands shaking.
“She’s been lifting her skirts for him for years, it seems, and it’s finally paid off,” Gavin continued relentlessly. “She might very well have the next little Lord Heatherbrook in her belly.”
Francine closed her eyes and dropped her hands from her husband’s sleeve.
Benedict stared at his wife, face ashen. “You promised me it was over. When that scandal sheet came out, you promised me it was an exaggeration, a one-time relapse blown out of proportion.”
