“Genova.”
She turned at the door.
“I’m very sorry.”
She knew what he meant, but she deliberately misunderstood.
“Please don’t worry. I won’t let this trap you.”
Once outside, she hurried away, but all her willpower couldn’t stop tears. She turned toward her room and almost ran into it.
And there she wept until she was limp, until she was drained of everything, even pain. For now. Grateful for generous hosts, she poured herself a glass of the sweet ratafia Thalia liked.
Thank heavens it wasn’t brandy. She might never be able to drink brandy again.
As she drank, she became aware of her body, of soreness and lingering sensitivities. Then it struck her. What if she was with child?
She drained the glass, accepting that the possibility had been there all along. If she had conceived, it was his fault as much as hers, but she wouldn’t make it into a chain to bind him.
He would never know, because if he did he probably would insist on marrying her. She was the antithesis of Lady Booth Carew. She could not bear the thought of marriage by force.
For now, she must do her best to undermine any suspicion. She checked her appearance again, then dabbed at her eyes with a cold cloth. She’d go to the dimly lit ballroom, where the ravages of the night might not show, and dance her cares away.
Chapter Forty-two
Ash stood in his room half dressed, feeling strangely at a loss. His earlier euphoria at being free of Molly’s schemes, and the growing hope of an end to the conflict with the Mallorens, now seemed like dust.
Genova.
He had lost her.
No, he’d thrown her away.
After only a few days, he couldn’t imagine life without her, but that was his course, it would seem.
She’d played such a crucial part in clearing his mind and clearing his name. Without her, he might not have broken free of hatred. Without her, he would not have learned the truth about Molly.
Despite her delusions, he would have left the child to the care of the parish charity in Hockham. He would have left money, certainly, but he wasn’t sure he’d have given the child a thought thereafter. He certainly wouldn’t have been around to discover the truth, that Molly had never been pregnant at all.
He should be celebrating. His life was now in order again. He would soon be able to move forward with his plans to restore his property and powers. Grandy would hate peace with the Mallorens, and perhaps resist his other plans, but he would deal with that.
He should be celebrating, but he felt dull in the extreme.
Or perhaps simply unhappy.
Devil take it—he smashed his hand into an oaken post of the bed—he couldn’t marry Genova Smith!
The bed only shook, but his hand hurt like Hades. He welcomed that. He deserved that.
She brought nothing with her.
Except herself, her wits, and her courage.
How many women would have been able to make a dignified exit from this room? None that he knew.
And she’d shot a man. He should be grateful there were no pistols to hand here. But no. He corrected that flippant thought. She valued justice, his Genova.
HisGenova.
