Simply Unforgettable

The thought of never seeing him again was almost unbearable.

He squeezed her hands painfully. “I will remain in Bath with you, then,” he said.

For a moment her heart leaped with gladness at his willingness to be the one making the sacrifice—but only for a moment. It would not work. He was Viscount Sinclair of Cleve Abbey. He was a wealthy, fashionable aristocrat. He lived much of his life in London. What would Bath have to offer him that would keep him there indefinitely? If he stayed, they would be merely postponing the inevitable. Nothing could ever come of any relationship between them. And no relationship satisfying to him could exist between them in Bath. No sexual relationship anyway—and no other type would satisfy him. Good heavens, she was a teacher!

There simply was no future for them. Some realities were that stark, and all one could do was accept them.

She shook her head, her eyes on her hands still clasped in his.

“No,” she said. “I would rather you did not stay.”

“Why the devil not!” he exclaimed, his voice louder and more irritable—the voice of a man unaccustomed to being denied what he had set his heart on.

She tried to withdraw her hands, but he held on, squeezing her fingers and hurting them.

“The last couple of days were very pleasant,” she said. “At least, yesterday was. But it is time to get back to normal life, Mr. Marshall—Viscount Sinclair. It is time for both of us. I will never be your mistress and you will never marry me—or I you for that matter. There would be no point, then, in trying to prolong what was merely a pleasant interlude in both our lives.”

“Pleasant,” he said, sounding more than irritable now. He sounded downright thunderous. “We spent a day in close company with each other and a night in bed together, and it was pleasant, Frances?”

“Yes.” She kept her voice steady. “It was. But it was not something that can ever be repeated. It is time to say good-bye.”

He stared at her for a long time before releasing her hands. His eyes had flattened, she noticed, so that she could no longer read any of his thoughts or feelings in them. His expression had changed in other ways too. His mouth had lifted at the corners, but not really in a smile. One eyebrow had risen. He had retreated behind a mask of cynical mockery. It felt as if he had already gone away.

“Well, Miss Allard,” he said, “it seems that I was right about you at the start. It is not often I am rejected by a woman. It is not often my lovemaking is damned with such faint praise as to be called pleasant. You have no wish for any continuation of our acquaintance, then? Very well. I shall grant your wish, ma’am.”

In one short speech he had turned into a chilly, haughty aristocrat who bore little resemblance to the Lucius Marshall who had held her and loved her through the night.

She had expressed herself poorly, she realized.

But how else could she have expressed herself when she must have said essentially the same thing? There was no point now in telling him that his lovemaking had been earth-shattering, that her heart was breaking, that she might well mourn his loss for the rest of her life.

None of those things was true anyway in all probability. They were all true today, but tomorrow they would be a little less so and next week less so again. It was in the nature of strong emotion that it faded away over time. Her own previous experience had taught her that.

They sat silently side by side until finally—it seemed like forever, and it seemed far too soon—they were entering the outer limits of the city of Bath.

“You see?” he said, his voice so normal that her heart lurched again. “I told you I would deliver you safely to your school.”

“And so you did.” She smiled brightly, though he did not turn his head to see. “Thank you. I appreciate your coming out of your way more than I can tell you.”

“Miss Martin will be relieved to find that she is not to be one teacher short for tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes, indeed.” She was still smiling. “This evening is going to be a very busy one, with classes to prepare for tomorrow and everyone clamoring to share their Christmas stories with me.”

“And you will be happy to be back at work.” It was not really a question.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” she assured him. “Holidays are always welcome and always pleasant, but I enjoy teaching, and I have good friends at the school.”

“Friends are always important,” he said.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” she agreed brightly.

And so their last few minutes together were frittered away in bright, stilted, meaningless chatter as they avoided touching or looking into each other’s eyes.

The carriage turned onto Sydney Place and passed Sydney Gardens before turning onto Sutton Street and then onto Daniel Street, where Peters drew it in ahead of another carriage, which was disgorging a few passengers, including a young girl, and a mound of baggage outside the two tall, stately houses that together comprised Miss Martin’s school.

“Hannah Swan,” Frances murmured. “One of the junior girls.” As if he might be interested.

He reached into one of his pockets and drew out a visiting card. He folded it in two, pressed it into her palm, closed her fingers about it, and raised her hand to his lips.

“You may prefer it if I remain in here unseen,” he said. “This is good-bye after all, then, Frances. But if you should have need of me, you will find me at the address in London written on that card. I will come immediately.”