She was in a hopeless muddle. Before the ignominious arrival of Mrs. Edwards, he had been offering his version of what she had seen. They still owed each other some explanations, and after what had just transpired, he now owed her more. More, she feared, than he could reasonably elucidate.
He offered her his arm, and she settled her hand there as if it belonged. His familiar bay scent washed over her, reassuring. The day was preternaturally warm for autumn when they emerged, the sun shining, nary a hint of fog.
They made it no more than three paces before he stopped, turning toward her. “I am sorry, Julianna. You never should have been witness to such a scene.”
“Mrs. Edwards is another mistress of yours,” she said unnecessarily.
“Shewas,” he confirmed, grave. “I have not seen her since you have returned to London until today.”
Resignation swept over her. “You are a rogue.”
She wondered how many women had warmed his bed in the two years she had been gone, and then she hated herself for wondering. She did not want to know. It did not matter.
Did it?
“You left me, Julianna. What was I to have done? I had already followed you to New York City only to find you the darling of the town, a beau on your arm.”
“Youare the reason I left you,” she countered. “You and your mistress. Two years later, and here I am, facing the same man, the same problem, the same broken heart.”
“You should have asked me. When I came to you to ask you to marry me, you laughed at me and said you had no wish to wed. You said what happened at Farnsworth Hall had been a distraction, nothing more. You said you wanted to experience life, to take other lovers.”
“Because I wanted to hurt you.” The admission was torn from her. “I wanted to hurt you the way you had hurt me.”
It had been small of her. The natural reaction of a woman who’d had her heart dashed to bits the day before after witnessing that kiss.
“Have you ever stopped to think what would have happened had you been honest with me that day, Julianna?” His jaw was hard, and she had the fleeting thought that if she ran her fingers over it, that rigid angle would slice her open.
But that was fanciful thinking. Because the only way he could slice her open was with his actions and words.
“I was too devastated by what I had witnessed to ask,” she confessed, a tremor in her voice that had her nails biting into the tooled leather of the Keats volume she held. “What was I meant to think? You had returned to London from the country, and I had not known you had arrived. But she did. She did, and she was not just there with you, but kissing you. You had never mentioned her to me once in all that time at Farnsworth Hall.”
“Was I to have announced to you that I had a mistress?” He raked his fingers through his wavy hair. “It is common enough in our set, I know, but it is not the sort of topic a gentleman broaches with the woman he wants to marry.”
“Not two years ago and not now either,” she observed bitterly.
“Christ, Julianna. Charlotte means nothing to me.”
Charlotte.His familiarity with the beautiful woman hurt, and she could not deny it.
“Cease calling her by her Christian name, curse you!”
He frowned. “You are shouting.”
“Your mistress threw my breakfast at the wall. What would you have me do?” She scowled at him, irritated with herself for the biting sting in her eyes.
Tears.
She would not cry.
Would. Not. Cry.
Must not—
Her vision was swimming. She blinked, and fat droplets rolled down her cheeks.
“Julianna, love.” He reached for her, his voice soft.
She sidestepped him. “Do not touch me, Shelbourne.”
