“My lord,” she had written. She could remember every word—she had taken a whole hour to write it. Words—even written words—did not come easily to her. “Forgive me if you ever can. I cannot continue our betrothal. I cannot marry you. The fault is not yours. It is all mine. I have written to my brother and to the Duke of Harndon to tell them so. With regret, Emily Marlowe.”
His eyes lifted and met hers and held them.
“Why?” he asked.
She could only stare mutely at him.
“Your promise has been given,” he said. “The marriage papers have been signed by both Royce and myself. The betrothal has been announced to your family—and to my own.”
She bit her lip.
“Is it fear?” he asked. “Fear of leaving here where you are loved and understood? Fear that your affliction will cause insuperable problems when you go to live among strangers? Is that it?”
No. She had felt that fear, but she had been willing to accept the challenge. She shook her head.
“Why, then?” He was frowning now. “Two evenings ago the answer was yes. Yesterday the answer was yes. Why is it suddenly no this morning when ’tis too late for no? There must be a reason. Write it for me.” He looked about the library and strode toward the desk by the window. He pulled a piece of paper to its edge, tested the nib of a quill pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it out to her.
She moved reluctantly toward him and took the pen from his hand. What had he said so quickly and so angrily? What did he want of her? How could she marshal thought and feeling into words? Writing was almost as impossible to her as speech. Her mind did not think in words.
“I cannot,” she wrote. But he already knew that. He deserved more. She wished she could explain, but she could not.
“Because of this?” he said. “Because you cannot speak? Because you cannot hear? I knew these things before I came to Bowden Abbey. I was prepared even before I met you to accept you as a bride. You are eligible in every other way. Explain yourself.”
She could see that the anger in his face was almost explosive now.
“I am sorry,” she wrote after dipping the pen in the inkwell again. She kept her gaze on the paper. She could not continue the conversation—if conversation it was. As it was, she would see his bewildered, angry face in her memory and feel his humiliation for days and weeks to come. Perhaps longer. She had no illusions about that.
What she had done to him was unforgivable. She would never forgive herself. She did not even have the excuse of having been so caught up by emotion that she had not thought of all the implications and consequences of what she was doing.
She had known.
But he had not finished with the conversation. His hand came beneath her chin and raised it and even turned her head to the light from the window. It had started to rain, she saw. It had looked this morning as if it might rain. Heavy clouds had covered the sky since she had been lying outside, looking up at the stars.
“There is someone else,” he said when her eyes came to rest unwillingly on his lips. “There has to be. And it takes no genius to discern who that someone must be. Lord Ashley Kendrick.”
She frowned and closed her eyes and shook her head. But his hand tightened on her jaw and lifted it higher so that her head was at an uncomfortable angle. She opened her eyes again.
“He danced with you,” he said. “You gave him the set you had granted to me. You had nothing but smiles for him. He calls you ‘Emmy.’ There was the fondness of brother and sister between you, I thought. I begin to believe I am a fool. But he will not marry you. He is a duke’s son. He is enormously wealthy, from all I have heard in the past day or so. He is somewhat above my stamp, Lady Emily. He will look for more in a bride than I am able to. Besides, he lost a wife just over a year ago and has been devastated by her loss. Perhaps you dream of comforting him and replacing her in his affection?”
It hurt her to see the sneer on his face. It was not a pleasant or a becoming expression. And she had put it there. She could not grasp what he was saying. She read only the hurt and humiliation behind his words.
“Perhaps,” he said, “he will take the comfort if you offer it blatantly enough. But he will not marry you. You will be sorry you did not have me when you had the chance. I will take my leave of you. I will be gone from this house before the day is out. Believe me, it cannot be soon enough for me.”
He had removed his hand from her chin at last. He made her now a deep and mocking bow before hurrying past her. She did not turn to watch him leave the room. She lowered her head and stared downward for a long time, her eyes directed unseeing on the carpet beneath her feet.
10
SHEwas not at the falls, though he walked there in the rain to look for her. She was not in the nursery, where the children played with loud enthusiasm. He found her in the conservatory, seated among the large potted plants, almost hidden from view. She did not look up when he came into her line of vision.
He stood looking down at her, not even attempting for a while to speak with her. Her hair was neatly dressed this morning. It was smooth over her head and knotted at the back. She wore no cap. She was wearing stays and small hoops beneath her simple, unadorned open gown. Her face was pale and composed. The hands in her lap were still.
He remembered the smiling, exuberant girl who used to bound about outdoors like a young colt—or a little fawn. He remembered the smiling, trusting eyes as she watched him speak. He remembered her warm, responsive hand, her cheerful patience as she mended his quill pens when he worked for Luke. Dear Emmy. Sweet child.
This was what she had come to, this pale, calm, beautiful woman. This was what he had done to her. He could still scarcely believe how all the tender brotherly feelings he had always had for her had been converted into unbridled lust last night. He had tried to fight it, it was true. He had urged her several times to leave. But the fault for what had happened was entirely his. Emmy had had only two faults—a vast innocence and an unbounded generosity. She had seen him suffering and she had come to comfort him.
She had not understood that he could no longer take comfort from her in the old way. And yet when she had realized it, she had not taken fright. She had given anyway. She had given the ultimate gift.
And now her betrothal, her future, her life, were in ruins. There had been a fondness—perhaps more—between herself and Powell.
