“Then why did you make me believe that we had an understanding?”
Darlington took her hands in his as though they were broken-winged sparrows. He withdrew his handkerchief and blotted away the blood on her palms, then kissed each one with a great degree of tenderness. “We did indeed have an understanding. The first time I wed, Miss Welles, I did so for love, and counted myself extremely fortunate and exceptionally unusual in that regard. After Marguerite’s death, I had not intended to enter the marriage mart again, as I no doubt have mentioned to you. But you so captivated me that I decided to change that decision. I had fully planned to offer for you formally when Lady Oliver made her revelation.”
“Why did I suspect that your aunt had something to do with this?”
Darlington seemed unwilling to accept that his aunt’s machinations had as much to do with the disposing of Miss Welles as with preserving the family estate. “Once Lady Oliver realized that I had prepared myself to remarry, she acted as she has done for the past several decades: with paramount pragmatism.”
“How typical of your aunt,” C.J. said, smudging the tears on her cheeks. “That love should play no part.”
“Miss Welles, you must truly know little of the English aristocracy, although you were born into it. In most unions, love is never the driving force or guiding beacon. There is something much, much stronger.”
“Duty, yes. And have you no duty to me after . . . ?” C.J. swallowed hard. “After the time we spent together . . . and the . . . result? If not duty, what could be stronger than love—unless you refer to hate?”
“Money.” Darlington helped C.J. to her feet. “I regret, too, that I must see you home, Miss Welles. I am sure Lady Dalrymple is anxious about your sudden departure from the Assembly Rooms and is on her way back to her town house as we speak.”
“Take me there,” C.J. demanded.
“Where?”
“To Delamere. Not a few moments ago you expressed the wish to show it to me. I need to see what happens there, your lordship. How people live.”
“Do you disbelieve me? I swear on my honor—”
“Take me there now, your lordship. I want to see. I must content myself by witnessing with my own eyes what goes into running such an estate.”
“I can arrange to drive you there in my carriage, if you are properly chaperoned, perhaps one day next week, Miss Welles. It is a good distance from Bath.”
“Now.” C.J. was adamant. If she was going to lose Darlington forever and raise their child alone, then she wanted to see the reason for her fate firsthand.
“I cannot bring you there in the middle of the night, Miss Welles, particularly in your current dishabille. You must admit, even in your present state of despair, that it would be unseemly. And, undoubtedly, your aunt is already made anxious by your absence.”
“Yes, you’ve already said as much. Please, your lordship,” C.J. insisted, wiping away her falling tears with her filthy gloves. “If nothing else, do me this final kindness, and I will never ask anything else of you. After this night you may forget there ever was a Miss Welles in your life.”
Darlington’s heart was breaking. He could not bring himself to cause Miss Welles any further distress this night by refusing her, and thus felt compelled to honor her uncommon request. An hour later—torn between duty and desire, and despite his better judgment—the earl commandeered his own carriage and, with C.J. still wrapped securely in his cloak, set forth on the open road for Delamere.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Containing a revelatory excursion to the English countryside, following which, our heroine is thrown to the wolves with no champion in sight.
IT WAS STILL DARK when Darlington’s coach sped up a circular driveway and clattered to a halt in front of an imposing villa in the Florentine Palladio style. With no servant in sight, the earl handed C.J. down from the carriage. In the moonlight, she could still make out the impeccably trimmed hedges and manicured lawns that formed the immediate landscape.
“Follow me, Miss Welles.” Darlington led the way up the gravel path to the front door and rapped sharply upon it with his walking stick.
It was some minutes before the door was opened. The mobcapped matron who welcomed them rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Good heavens, sir, is everything all right with your lordship?” She turned around to regard the enormous grandfather clock, which struck three as she spoke. “’Tis the dead of night.”
“My profoundest apologies, Mrs. Rivers. My . . . companion . . . wished to see Delamere and insisted that her visit could not be postponed.”
Mrs. Rivers was either myopic or discreet, for she passed no comment on the companion’s disheveled appearance. She took a moment or two to puzzle over her employer’s
