‘Don’t worry, I can manage by myself.’ She was already heading out of the room, seized with a new sense of purpose. ‘I’m perfectly steady now. And thank you so much for the tour, Mrs Fitch! It was very…educational.’ She bit her lip and then couldn’t resist adding. ‘And don’t forget to close the curtains!’
She hurried upstairs, possibly faster than was advisable, though thankfully without collapsing again, and closed her bedroom door firmly behind her. Based on previous trips to the kitchens, she estimated that she had approximately five minutes before the nurse appeared with a pot of some noxious brew, but hopefully that was long enough.
Quickly, she flung the wardrobe open, heaved out the brown leather saddlebag and tipped the contents all over the floor, revealing two tightly folded cotton dresses, a petticoat, a woollen shawl, a hairbrush, some toiletries, a purse of money and a bundle of letters wrapped in pale blue ribbon. Then she crouched down on her haunches, examining the haul. The clothes and toiletries suggested that she’d been going on a journey, but where? And if that was the case, why had nobody else known about it? And why had she been alone? It didn’t make any sense…
Unless she’d been running away.
Her breath stalled as she remembered the sudden fervour that had gripped her in the hall the other night, the powerful impulse she’d felt to run out of the front door and escape. Had her unconscious mind been spurring her on? Had some part of her been remembering? More importantly, that spoke of her innocence, didn’t it? Because why, if she’d gone to such extreme lengths to compromise a marquess, would she have been running away within a month of her wedding? The rest of the items reinforced the theory because they were all hers, from Cumberland, not ones she’d obtained after her marriage, as if she hadn’t wanted to take anything from her new life… And as for the letters…
The letters… She frowned. She had no idea about the letters.
She threw a swift look at the door before tearing the ribbon away and unfolding the first piece of paper. It opened with a crackle to reveal unfamiliar handwriting addressed to…Dearest?
She gave a squeak of alarm as she carried on reading:Every moment without you is an eternity… I yearn for the day when I can hold you in my arms… Seeing you with him when I ache for you… Signed, your devoted servant.
Yearn, ache and devoted? She stared at the words for a few seconds, the back of her neck prickling with unease, then dropped the letter into her lap and opened another, only to find more of the same. They were all love letters, all unsigned and undated, all declaring their deep and abiding love for…her? But they couldn’t be to her, could they? No one had written her a love letter in her whole life. She didn’t have any suitors and they certainly wouldn’t be from her husband. Yet they were in her possession, which left only one possibility…
No! She clamped a hand to her mouth at the idea. It was bad enough to find herself accused of deceiving a marquess intomarriage, but to discover an illicit correspondence with another man as well, a man who called her darling and dearest, was even worse! What was going on? And how was it possible that absolutely nothing of any great import had happened for the first twenty-one years of her life and now two huge things were happening at once? And she’d somehow forgotten them both!
She racked her brains, trying to come up with some other plausible explanation for the letters. Perhaps they were unwanted? Perhaps she was being bothered by messages from some secret admirer? Although, in that case, why had she been carrying them in her saddlebag like some kind of precious cargo? Why hadn’t she simply destroyed them?
No, whichever way she looked at it, they were incriminating. Just as everything she’d discovered since she’d woken up from her accident was incriminating. And now, as much as she didn’t want to believe any of it, all of the evidence seemed to lead to the same horrible and inescapable conclusion: that not only was she the kind of person who would poach her best friend’s future husband, but she was also the kind of person who would conduct a secret, adulterous liaison with another man within weeks of her marriage! It seemed incredible that her personality could have altered so much within one short month, but it must have. Shedefinitelyhadn’t been corresponding with anyone before the Wadlows’ ball, which meant the letters must have arrived after she was married, which further meant that the other items in her saddlebag were no defence at all. She might not have been escaping so much as running away with somebody else!
Her stomach lurched violently as she packed the items away again, then hastily tucked the bag back into the wardrobe before throwing herself into the armchair by the window. Suddenly she no longer wanted to speak to Jane. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, except possibly her mother, but she was three hundredmiles away, probably still recovering from the shock of learning that her only daughter had somehow married a marquess…
‘Here you go, my lady.’ The nurse entered a few seconds later, placing a cup filled with some foul-smelling brown liquid on the table beside her. ‘This will help to rebuild your strength. It’s an old family recipe.’
‘Thank you.’ Florence wrinkled her nose before taking a mouthful. It tasted even worse than she remembered, but she was too guilt-ridden to care. Now that a seed of doubt had been planted, her mind was a swirling maelstrom of questions. What if her husband was right about her?Couldshe have deliberately trapped him on the night of the Wadlows’ ball? Because if she was completely honest with herself, hadn’t some deep-down part of her been intrigued by those thunderstorm eyes and scowling brows, despite his cold demeanour? Hadn’t she felt a strange fluttering sensation in her chest every time he’d so much as glanced in her direction, and wondered, on occasion, how it would feel to be the recipient of his attention? Hadn’t she even, to her own secret mortification, dreamed about it? And if all those things were true, thencouldshe have been so powerfully jealous of Amabel that she’d seized an opportunity to take her place as the marchioness, destroying all of her friend’s hopes and dreams in the process? Was that why she’d lost her memory? Because she’d done something so heinous that she didn’twantto remember?
She squeezed her eyes shut, every fibre of her being screaming a denial. Amabel was her closest friend. They’d been enjoying the Season together, without even the tiniest hint of bad feeling! She’d never so much as thought about finding a husband for herself in London.Thatwas the truth, she knew it! And yet something had happened, something that she couldn’t remember, and the infinitely more frightening truth was that she had no idea who she was any more.
And if she didn’t know that, then what else might she be capable of?
Chapter Six
This was his mother’s fault, Leo thought, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth as he waited for Florence. The former Marchioness of Rainton was the parent from whom he’d inherited a conscience, one that had been gnawing at him ever since he’d parted ways with his new bride outside her bedroom door two nights ago. Yes, he’d told her the truth that she’d asked for, but he’d been rude—again—allowing his anger to govern his behaviour when he ought to have been sympathetic. And so, whilst he couldn’t bring himself to apologise to a woman who’d manipulated and trapped him into marriage, he’d decided the least he could do, now that she was back on her feet, was invite her to join him for dinner, here in the cavernous dining room with its deep crimson walls, painted ceiling and twelve-foot mahogany table. It was a matter of honour, no matter how much he’d prefer to eat alone, as usual, at the desk in his study. And this time he was determined to behave in a polite and gentlemanly fashion.
The only slight flaw in his plan was that she didn’t appear to be coming.
He spared a glance at his pocket watch, wondering how much longer to wait before telling his footmen to start serving. Five minutes, he decided. Five…or ten. He owed her—and his mother—that much.
Conscience aside, he was also curious to see how she would behave now that his words, the whole brutal truth about their marriage, had had a chance to sink in. As far as he could tell, their last conversation hadn’t triggered any memories, but maybe by now? Despite his resentment, he’d been impressed by the strength of her conviction in her own innocence. Her blue eyes had seemed to shine with an even brighter lustre than usual. She’d actually offered him a divorce and pressed for an annulment! It made him wonder whether her actions on the evening of the Wadlows’ ball had been less the result of pre-meditated calculation and more spur-of-the-moment opportunism. It didn’t change the result, but the idea that she wasn’t quite as conniving as he’d initially assumed made him feel marginally warmer towards her.
Of course therewasanother possibility… He took a sip of wine, pondering. Was it feasible that she’d been telling the truth all along and there really was some other explanation for their having been compromised?Couldshe be a victim in this whole sorry mess too? In which case…hadhe been too harsh on her?
No. He set his glass down again, so roughly that wine almost sloshed over the rim. He’d witnessed her actions with his own eyes. She’d cornered him, lied to him and then trapped him. End of story.
So why did he feel as if he was missing something? Why did he still feel like the villain?
‘Sorry I’m late.’
He jerked his head up at the sound of Florence’s voice. He’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t noticed her enter the room, but it seemed she’d arrived just in time to catch him scowling. He’d become so used to seeing her in a nightgown, it was almost a shock to see her in a dress again, a pretty, pale blue evening gown with matching elbow-length gloves and a simple gold locket around her throat. Her hair was dressed too, pinned up atthe back, with a few curls left free to frame and soften her face, accentuating the slender column of her neck in a way that made him want to reach out and stroke the delicate skin there.
He blinked, mentally comparing her appearance now with that of the wild-eyed wraith he’d found in the entrance hall just two nights before. Thankfully, the bruise on her forehead had faded and her nose had returned to an almost normal colour, and yet despite that, she seemed diminished somehow, like a shadow of the woman who’d argued with him so vociferously. Her shoulders were slumped, her brows were drawn, and her mouth was turned downwards at the corners. As for her eyes, all the brightness he’d admired had faded completely away. Something about that caused an unwonted pang in his chest.
‘Good evening.’ He stood up and bowed. ‘I was starting to think you weren’t hungry.’
‘My lady’s maid wanted to try out a new hairstyle, but it was more complicated than she expected.’ Her voice sounded different, almost listless, as she gestured vaguely at her head. ‘Eventually, we settled for this.’
