With Richard, she had surrendered to him, given in to his kisses and caresses, and he had played her and caressed and pleasured her and…
Then abandoned her.
She had trusted him, but she had thought, over and over again, that she was simply one more woman in a long line of women to him, that she could not matter to him, not the way he mattered to her, being the only man to have ever touched her in that way.
Then, he’d come for her, married her, and she had felt she must marry him, that—in many ways—it was already done, that she had surrendered her heart to him already, that somehow, her heart had gone with her stays and dress, that she had fallen for him because of their physical closeness, almost against her very will.
She had trusted him, gifted him her vulnerability, and he hadn’t honored it.
Not until she had spoken to Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy hadmade himmarry her.
So, in the end, which of these men truly cared about her? Which of them seemed concerned with her safety and well-being? Which of them was willing to put himself at a significant disadvantage and to endure a great deal of misery for her sake?
And which of them used her for his own pleasure?
But it didn’t matter.
She was married to Richard. That could not be undone.
Well, if she had kept it a secret, perhaps…
No, she mustn’t think that way, because it did not matter, not in the end. It was done now. Everyone knew the rumors, and she must not regret anything she had done. There was no point in the regretting of things that could not be taken back.
She would have likely continued in these thoughts into the wee hours, but she heard a noise at her door, the knob turning.
She told herself the knob could not actually be turning, that she was imagining it, but she turned in bed, staring at the door.
And, slowly, an inch at a time, it opened.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A SERVANT GIRLwas there, one that Elizabeth did not know. She had brought her maid of all work from Weythorn along on the journey to see to both herself and Jane, but this was not her own servant. It was a servant who worked for Barralds, she thought, and she eyed the girl with trepidation.
“You’re awake, ma’am,” said the girl. “That’s good. I was worried about waking you.”
“I am,” said Elizabeth.
“A man is downstairs, right outside the servants’ entrance. He says he wishes to speak to you.”
“A man? Who?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I don’t know all the names of all of the guests, I’m afraid,” said the servant girl. “He says it’s important he speaks to you.”
It had to be Mr. Darcy, though why he wouldn’t just come to her room, Elizabeth couldn’t say. Maybe he wished to take advantage of the servants’ watchful eye, which would be welcome, she agreed.
She got up and hurriedly threw on something over her sleeping clothes to cover herself. Her hair was down, and she began to braid it quickly and sloppily as they went together, trying to make herself look at least vaguely presentable.
Not that it should matter what Mr. Darcy thinks about the way you look!
But then she descended the steps to the servants’ area and was taken outside to meet the man, and it wasn’t Mr. Darcy at all.
It was the Duke of Neithern.
He had a marriage license. “Bennet,” he said, pushing it into her hands. “Matilda Bennet.”
Elizabeth gasped, hand to her throat as she scanned the license. “We… then…”
“You are my sister, Elizabeth,” said the duke. He smiled at her.
