After an hour or more they had reached a flat area, very appealing as a secluded grotto where they might set up a campsite, when a sudden icy draft of wind extinguished both lantern and torch in the blink of an eye. By some instinct, Richard lunged and caught hold of Gerhard’s jacket, to avoid being separated. But that still left them marooned deep in acavern in pitch black darkness, with no idea how to find their way out.
In his memory, it took hours to strike a spark from his flint in that damp, dark cave, with his hands shaking from cold and terror. He’d had to rip off bits of his shirt for additional tinder, and when he finally,finallygot a spark to catch, Gerhard’s face had been ghostly pale and streaked with tear tracks through the dirt that covered him. They’d both burst into tears and clung to each other.
After that, he remembered nothing before stumbling into his home hours after midnight and hearing his mother scream with relief that he was safe. He had no idea how they had made their way out, how they had got home, or what he told his parents. Not a single piece of their assembled gear made it home with them. Gerhard never spoke of it again, and he didn’t, either.
Richard had never gone into another cavern. That feeling of utter isolation, of not knowing which way was up, down, left, or right... of the serious possibility that he was standing in his own grave... had never been forgotten. And it was the nearest thing he could name to how he felt, walking out of Evangeline’s house with her parting words echoing in his head.
By the time he reached his home, he was beyond numb; he might have been deaf and blind, oblivious to everything around him. He sent Karl away and just sat. The next day he didn’t leave his room. The day after that, Gerhard knocked on the door and demanded to know what was wrong. Richard didn’t reply. Gerhard then shouted that he was sending for a doctor. An hour later there was a tumult when the doctor arrived, but Karl went and spoke to the man, and all was quiet again.
The third day, when Clemency—summoned no doubt by Gerhard—knocked and called his name in a pleading whisper, Richard opened the door.
“What is wrong?” she asked anxiously. “Are you ill?”
“No. Why would you think so?” Richard headed for the stairs. Behind him, she gasped, no doubt spying through the open door Karl clearing away the empty brandy bottles and half-smoked cigars, opening the windows for fresh air, and carrying away the rumpled and stained clothes Richard had worn for three straight days.
“What has happened?” she cried, rushing down the stairs behind him.
“Nothing.” That was true, reflected Richard. Nothing had happened, certainly not the thing he desired most in the world, and now it never would.
“Have you and Evangeline quarreled?” his sister asked hesitantly.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs. Clemency stopped, too, twisting her hands together, her face creased with concern. “Do not worry about me,” he said gently. “Lady Courtenay... She and I are no longer seeing each other. That is all.”
“That is all!” she exclaimed in astonishment. “Not seeing each other! When you’re so madly in love with her you can’t even see straight? What happened?”
In truth he didn’t know, as if the trauma of it had burned his memory to ash, destroying all traces of that night. He remembered dancing with Evangeline, holding her close and knowing that he was helplessly in love with her and always would be. How he had drawn her into a quiet room and laid his heart at her feet and asked her to reconsider her vow against marriage. The way her face had turned pink, and her slightly stunned smile, as if she hadn’t known. Hadn’t even suspected he might be mad for her. And how she had said she would consider it.
It hadn’t been a proposal, and there was no engagement. But it had been a step toward one, and Richard was still dumbfounded over how it had fallen apart so disastrously.
He had hoped... prayed... it would blow over. She had been violently upset, and he acknowledged that he’d been responsible for some of the actions she was currently flaying herself over. For three days he had waited, smoking, drinking, neither sleeping nor eating, always listening for the sound of a rider, a carriage, an arrow shot through his window—anything that might be a message bearing a softer tone. If she had written to him...
But there had been no word. No message. It had unsettled him, unnerved him, and finally unmoored him.
He looked away. “Alas, dear sister. The lady is not in love with me, and she has sent me on my way.”
Clemency inhaled in understanding. “Oh, no.Richard. . .”
“It is her right, of course,” he went on, speaking over her. “She is not my wife. No promises were made, so none were broken. She asked me to leave, and I have left. I cannot force my company upon one who no longer desires it.”
“Richard.” Clemency laid her hand on his arm. “She must have spoken rashly. It—it happened after the to-do over Miss Bennet and Lord Burke, didn’t it? She’s upset. Call on her.”
The moment either one of us wishes to end it, it will end—calmly, rationally, with no outburst of recrimination or dismay from either.He could still hear her saying it, just as he could still hear his own voice accepting the bargain. He had known all along, but he wasn’t prepared for it. He hadn’t thought it would happen; he had taken such care to respect her every boundary and right. He hadn’t guessed that some random scoundrel of a viscount and a headstrong girl in love would be able to ruin everything.
“No. I promised I would not badger her. She told me to leave.”
“Oh, but she couldn’t have meant it! She was upset! You must be patient, go back when her temper has cooled...”
“And then?” he demanded, his temper finally fraying. “She told me to leave, Clemency. Now I should barge my way in, and say that I did not believe her? That she could not mean what she said? Scold her for being emotional and overwrought?”
“No,” she protested, cowed. “Perhaps . . . persuade her . . .”
Richard pressed his thumb to his forehead, between his brows. Some in the Far East said it relieved stress and encouraged calm. He didn’t think it was working today. Nothing was easing the tension that strung his muscles miserably taut. He’d thought of those things—he’d thought of a lot of things, in three long days of silence and solitude. “I cannot do that, either.”
“But why not?” his sister cried.
“Because it would make me the sort of man she despises,” he said savagely. “Tell her what she ought to think or feel or do!” He shook his head. “Or else it would make me despise myself. Persuade a woman to have me, against her own inclination? Even if she agreed, I would always know it was not her wish to be with me, that she had been browbeaten or beguiled into having me, and I cannot live like that. If she wants me gone, it is better for me to go.” He sighed at his sister’s stricken face, his anger and despair draining away, and clasped her hand for a moment before easing it away from his sleeve. “Clem... I’m giving up this house.”
Her eyes went wide. “No! No, do not run away! Richard, she cares for you—I know it! It may have been a bad quarrel, but shelovesyou?—”
