“I’ve packed nothing but a few serviceable dresses.”
Lady Soanes’ eyes brightened. “Perfect. You must endeavour to be yourself, Miss Harland. No masks. No clever tricks. Refuse any other role he gives you. He’s accountable for his actions, and you shall remind him of that.”
She couldn’t deny the thought of confronting Mr Hawkehad appeal. A few days away from London would keep her out of harm’s way and give her time to think. And she wouldn’t have to waste precious funds on a stage ticket.
“Very well, my lady.”
“Excellent. And you must call me Charlotte.” The lady couldn’t hide her elation. She captured Daphne’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Come. Let me write a letter, and we’ll devise a plan. The first being how you get past the guard at the gate.”
CHAPTER THREE
Of all the craven bastards in Christendom, Lord Harland topped the list. Did the man have no shame? He could debauch a widow, blackmail her into silence, permit his daughter to face humiliation, and still sleep soundly in his feathered bed.
Dominic had paced through his suite at Mivart’s hotel for the better part of eight hours, the carpet near threadbare beneath his boots. He would have downed an entire decanter of brandy had he not needed to keep his wits. Hell, he’d opened the gold case on his full hunter so many times he’d nearly worn out the clasp.
Was Harland arrogant enough to believe himself untouchable? Did he not have a shred of honour to his name?
Dominic had considered seeking the blackguard out, dragging him from whatever vice-ridden corner of London he currently infested. But what greater insult was there than silence? Harland hadn’t sent a second. Hadn’t issued a reply. He’d ignored the challenge entirely, as though Dominic and the disgrace he’d orchestrated were beneath his notice.
Now, on the road to Kingston in the cold light of day,Dominic thought of the woman he’d tried his damnedest to forget.
Miss Daphne Harland had been a surprise. A pleasant one.
Few people left a lasting impression. Perhaps that’s why he’d done the unthinkable and offered her a way to escape her predicament.
But that wasn’t what bothered him now.
He should have been plotting to destroy Harland. Or, at the very least, sleeping against the squab so he didn’t feel half-dead. So why did every thought circle back to the woman he’d ruined?
Had her father locked her in her chamber?
Was she already warming some profligate’s bed?
The last thought landed like a punch to the gut, ridiculous, given she owed him nothing. So why the hell did he care?
Had she taken his advice and sought out Lady Soanes? Was she at the modiste’s, seeking ways to display her sumptuous body to perfection? Which licentious lord would earn the privilege of that clever mouth?
They were all undeserving.
A darker thought took root.
Someone else would have the gift of her virginity.
For some baffling reason, he kicked the seat.
The carriage slowed, his coachman mistaking the sound for a summons. “Drive on, Jones,” he barked.
He never raised his voice.
He never assaulted the furniture.
Woe betide anyone who crossed him today.
Keen to put his thoughts in order, he had Jones stop at All Saints Church. He took the posy from the seat, the one he’d bought before leaving London, and walked the gravel path to his mother’s grave.
He knelt—she was the only woman to bring him to hisknees—and picked the few weeds, brushing dust from the new Carrara marble he’d had imported from Italy.
He laid the posy for his mother, her beloved white roses, and refused to glance at the lichen-covered stone marking his father’s plot.
