“Oh—Oh, dear.” Mrs. Kent rushed up the remaining stairs and enveloped Alicia in an embrace.
“Moll.” Mr. Kent’s tone reprimanded.
“’Tis not my place,” Mrs. Kent said with a stony glare. “But this isn’t right. None of this is right. Never thought he’d be as callous as his—
“Moll.”
Mrs. Kent harrumphed. “’Tis the devil’s own work to let her go without a by-your-leave. And here I thought she’d be the one.”
The one?
Mr. Kent’s troubled gaze came to rest on Alicia. “Pay her no mind. The carriage is prepared.”
Alicia nodded, gathering her wits. She may feel as if she shattered, but she was whole. Whole, if with a breaking heart.
She squeezed Mrs. Kent, grateful for the sympathy, but Mr. Kent was right. Whatever despair she may feel, Ash—no, she would think of the Duke of Ashbey ashis graceorthe dukefrom now on—had not lied.His gracehad acted precisely how he had warned her he would act.
Truth was a harsh salve.
“I am ready,” she said.
Mr. Kent nodded. “I’ll retrieve your bag.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Kent said suddenly. “This came for you this morning.” She rushed to the sideboard and returned to deliver a package.
Alicia unwrapped the brown paper. A cloak—she shook out the fabric—but a cloak like none she’d ever seen. The outer layer was black wool, and the inner lined with the thickest, blackest fur she’d ever seen. Her mind went blank; all she could do was blink.
...a coat of sable.
Mrs. Kent looked away. “His Grace ordered it the night you came. Mr. Kent rode all the way to Bath.”
She touched the lining—rich and smooth and supple. A coat like this could keep her in constant coal for a year or more. A coat like this would remind her of the dark, sumptuous nights they shared.
“Do you have the cloak I was wearing when I came?”
Mrs. Kent shook her head no. “Destroyed on His Grace’s order.”
She pursed her lips. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want something that would remind her of this awful moment. But she’d freeze without the protection of a coat.
“Take it, please.”
Mrs. Kent did not. Alicia laid it gently over the rail and made her way back up the stairs through his bedchamber into the dressing room. She spotted his banyan on the wall, grabbed it from the hook, held the cloth to her face and inhaled.
Her body, not truly understanding the morning’s change, instantly relaxed.
He was a devil—a devil for whom she cared so much more than she wished to care. And if he wanted her to have a memento, she much preferred this. She rolled up the banyan and tucked the bundle under her arm.
With her head once again held high, she returned below stairs to say her goodbyes.
She wasn’t certain what point she’d proven, if she’d proven one at all. But at least she had four more hours wrapped in his scent.
She stepped onto the stair the coachman had positioned to help her into the coach. A lump the size of a pumpkin lodged in her throat.
Stay. Stay and fight.
She closed her eyes to squeeze out the threatening moisture. He’d made his wishes clear.
She would heal. She always healed. And if she ever permitted herself to look back, she would do so only to wonder if it had happened at all.
