Sucked in a breath then slapped him with a hard crack to his cheek.
He gaped, stunned, confused, horrified by the accusation thick on the rush of air she exhaled.
Tears welled in her eyes, the shimmer of them orange and red, each drop threatening to spill down her flushed face. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, as if she could no longer breathe.
Before he could say a word, she rushed past him, skirts aswirl, and vanished out the door. He stood completely at a loss, thoughts tightening into a black snarl. Should he go to her? Apologize? Drop to his knees and swear never again to accost her in such a reckless, unthinking fashion?
Instead, he lifted a shaky hand to his cheek and collapsed into a chair as if the life had been drained from him. His arms, so recently filled with her warmth, now hung useless and cold.
“What have I done?” he whispered into the flames. “Oh God, what have I done?”
Chapter 18
By the time weak morning light painted a thin line on the horizon, Juliet was halfway through the woods to Aunt Margaret’s. Leaves crushed beneath her pounding steps. The sting of an October mist against her cheeks was a welcome annoyance. Better to focus on the cold than relive the taste of Henry or the feel of his warmth, as she had done all through the long night. What a trollop he must think her! Had she not cleaved to him? Matched him passion for passion? Allowed his advances when she knew she ought not?
But oh, how she could have spent eternity there in his arms.
Bah!
She upped her pace, putting as much space between herself and Bedford Manor as quickly as possible. Her fingers curled into tight fists, nails digging crescents into her palms. She would not—wouldnot!—bring them to her lips again, touching in wonder where his mouth had so perfectly pressed against hers. Not again.
Pausing at the cottage gate, she held herself still, every muscle taut, thoroughly vexed with herself. With Henry. With the mess she’d allowed to happen. Stars above! Had her life not been complicated enough?
And now this.
She yanked open the gate, surprised at the easy give and nearly losing her balance because of it. Pulled from her morose thoughts, she gaped at the freshly painted fence. There was nowa neatly curving cobblestone path leading to the front door—thenewfront door with a brass knocker. Recently glazed windows sported lacy white curtains on the inside. The eaves had been repaired, without great gaping pieces missing. And over it all was a tightly shingled roof with nary a spot of moss or mould. Many a happy fairy tale could be written about this snug little house, all dressed up with crisp whitewash.
Juliet pressed her hand to her heart. My! No longer was this a shack of desperation but a cheerful haven, one that promised warmth and laughter, not chills and dread. Henry was to thank for this.
The very man she’d struck full in the face.
Heart aching, Juliet made her way to the door, faintly knocking before letting herself in. If Aunt Margaret were yet asleep, she’d not wish to startle the old dear. She’d simply put the kettle on and have some hot tea ready for when she awakened.
“Juliet?” Seated at the table in front of a worn Bible, Aunt Margaret glanced up. Her brows furrowed. “It’s barely morning, child. What are you doing here so early? Is all aright?”
“All is fine with me.” She smiled, the fabrication prickly on her tongue as she shrugged out of her pelisse and hung it on a peg. A new rug adorned the floorboards, soft beneath her feet as she crossed the room to buff a light kiss against the crown of Aunt Margaret’s head. “And you … are you well?” Retreating a step, she studied her aunt’s face. Her skin, once pale and pulled tight over sharp bones, was now vibrant, her cheeks plump and rosy. Juliet’s smile grew into a large grin. “You look like a new person.”
“I feel like one too. Actually”—Aunt patted her belly—“I feel like a stuffed sausage what with all the good food I’ve had of late.”
“I am happy to hear it.” Juliet beamed, gratitude welling towards a man who had every right not to speak to her again … but better not to dwell on that right now. “Shall we have some tea?”
“That would be lovely. There are also plenty of eggs and bacon to be fried. Will you stay for breakfast?”
“I would like to, but I cannot tarry long.” She strode to the hearth, thoughts straying to the basket of tinctures she ought to be packing for Charity right now. She couldn’t afford to chat overlong, but oh how good it was to see her aunt so hale and hearty.
Grabbing a densely woven cloth, she removed the kettle and poured two cups, then returned to the table. “Here you are.” She set down Aunt Margaret’s steaming brew before sinking into the adjacent chair. Cupping her hands around her mug, she peered at her aunt over the rim. “I was wondering what you would recommend for bilious fever.”
“So, there is a purpose to your visit after all. Who suffers such an ailment?”
“Charity Russell. I have three days to prove that your remedies are superior to Dr. Branch’s bloodletting.” Setting aside her mug, she squeezed Aunt Margaret’s knee. “Which I know they are.”
“Hmph! I should say so.” The old dear lifted her nose in the air. “We shall pack you a basket after our tea and put Miss Russell back to rights without spilling any of her blood.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Juliet saluted her aunt with her mug. For several cozy moments, she enjoyed the warmth of the tea, the crackle of the hearth, and the fact that no more draughts crept in through the windows. But deep down, turmoil mixed with her drink. She needed to return to Bedford Manor and not only see to Charity but also face Henry.
She set her mug down, then said with a smile, “You would have howled to see Miss Potter at service last Sunday. I swear her hat had half the parish garden atop it—berries, blooms, even what looked like a velvet turnip.” She gave a soft laugh. “If eccentric millinery were a weapon, that woman could conquer armies.”
Aunt Margaret chuckled, the sound like a balm.
