“You did not really propose. You did not mean it. It was an easy, safe proposal because you made it to a woman who never intended to marry. I am only saying that I do not want you now making it serious out of guilt.”
“It is not guilt. Although, considering what just happened, there really is no choice now.”
“Of course there is. Do not pretend that honor now requires it. You knew I was a virgin yet did not restrain yourself. More to the point, you knew I was a virgin who would not marry you even after we did this.”
He would not insult her by saying he had known nothing of the sort. The odds had been about even on the virginity question. She was the kind of woman who might have taken a lover out of curiosity if nothing else.
She may have just done that with him.
“So we are agreed. No guilt, and also no obligations,” she said.
He agreed to nothing. There was time enough to argue about it another day.
That topic finished to her satisfaction, she nestled in beside him again. “I know why you really left England. I know about your father.”
He had barely put his mind back together, and this turn in subject took him aback. “What do you know?”
“How he died. You must have been very sad.”
“I was more angry than sad. At him. At his reasons.”
“I know about those too. The reasons. It all sounds most unfair to me.”
“What do you know?” he repeated, carefully.
“Bits and pieces only. About the rumors. I heard some jewels played a role.”
He made great efforts to keep his tone casual and not pointed. “Who told you that?”
“Lady Hollsworth, at the garden party.”
It had been a mistake not to force a conversation with Hollsworth. A mistake to put it off.
“I know nothing about any jewels. I think she misspoke,” he said.
“Perhaps.”
Nothing more came for several minutes. He dared allow himself to begin falling asleep.
“I have thought since I first met you that you carried a darkness in you,” she said, pulling him awake again. “Something that made you brood. Just now, while we were together in pleasure, I was spared even the slightest touch of grief for the first time in six months. It seemed to me that perhaps the darkness lifted in you too, for a while. If so, I am glad.”
It had lifted, in ways it never had in France no matter whose bed he shared. That she had noticed impressed him. That she was glad for it touched him.
She required no confirmation that she was correct. Having said her piece, she was done. She nestled beside him, silent in her contentment, not even demanding more conversation.
Chapter Fifteen
“Milady, milady!” Mrs. Finley’s frantic call penetrated the door of the bedchamber.
Clara bolted up in her bed, still half-asleep. Her nakedness slapped her awake. While she grabbed her bedclothes around her, trying to cover every inch of skin up to her neck, her gaze bolted around her chamber, seeking evidence of her visitor.
None could be seen. He was gone, probably hours ago while she slept, just as he promised. The only evidence of last night washer.
Jocelyn hurried to open the door. Mrs. Finley gasped out words between heavy breaths. “The countess. The earl. Here. Their carriage.” She stopped and inhaled deeply. “The house is not ready. There is not enough breakfast. I will run and tell the cook to do something.” She turned and hurried off.
Jocelyn ran to the window overlooking the street. “They are at the door.”
“What can they be thinking, coming at this hour?”
