He nods. His mouth has settled into a grim line. He appears so different from how he was just minutes ago, when he was inside of me.
“I will leave you to dress,” I say quickly, pulling on my robe. “I will see you next Sunday, Mr. Saintsbury.”
He startles. “You are leaving?”
“Yes. Our evening is at an end. You cannot stay too long. Someone might notice if you leave Trescott too late. I might be beyond respectability, butyouare not.”
Of course, I am not being completely truthful. We could have another few hours at least. But I can’t bear it. Spending time with him is so sweet but alsopainful. He makes me feel things that I do not want to feel. I have gotten what I want from him. I need to harsher where he is concerned. And I will be. Beginning now.
For a moment, I think he will object. He seems to open his mouth to do so. But then he closes it again.
“Very well,” he says, nodding. “You will call for me again?”
I close my eyes at this question.
I am ruining this man’s life, and he asks for his doom to come faster.
“If I desire it,” I say, ice in my tone.
I head towards the door.
“Annab—Miss de Lacey?”
I turn back towards him.
“Yes?”
He is still on the bed with only the counterpane pulled up over his lower half. In his dishabille he looks so delectable, so worthy of every kind of pleasure, that I have to fight to keep my place by the door.
“Thank you. For tonight.”
He isthankingme. After I have deceived him and whimpered at his every thrust and then told him that I want nothinglessthan to be his wife. He is thanking me despite it all.
The man is a fool.
There is only one thing to say.
“Don’t thank me, Mr. Saintsbury.”
And then, unable to bear the sight of him any longer, I flee.
Chapter 17
Annabelle
Over the next few days, to my distress, I find it exceedingly difficult to not think of Alfred Saintsbury. As I scowl over the estate ledgers and answer correspondence from London, I think idly about how I might see Alfred without appearing to seek him out. I can summon him at any time, of course, but that feels too dangerous right now. If not for the angry mob that threatened me on my last sojourn, I might have tried taking a turn about the village square in my carriage. I contemplate driving on the road to the vicarage, along which he walks every day.
In my study at night, I shake my head. I am being absurd. I can wait a few days before summoning him. I should not behave as if I am ravenous. The point of this affair is to please myself, get with child, and then discard my father’s choice.
Yes, the man has endeared himself to me on a slight acquaintance. I must not act like it is such a dangerous thing. A preference, even a tenderness, is natural enough in anyone. These things occur from time to time. In the past, Iexperienced such things with lovers, although perhaps not tothisextent. It does not mean anything.
I already resolved to amend my plan by not exposing him to infamy. He need not be consumed in scandal upon losing his post. That was amendment enough. I need not grow sentimental.
But it is difficult to be completely secure in this knowledge when I find myself assailed by memories of Sunday night. He looked at me with such aching need.
Seeking to rend his hold on me, I touch myself to the memory of our evening together again and again. But still these feelings of tenderness plagued me. My ministrations do not have the desired effect.
Indeed, they only drive me to want himmore.
