by Vincy, Mia
She let the letter drift away from her, watched it float over the room for a few feet then land on the blue carpet.
In a rough, swift movement, Rafe scooped up the letter, screwed it into a ball, and hurled it toward the empty fireplace. It flew neatly into the gap between the ornamental fire screen and the cold grate within.
“Sod your family. Sod Ventnor and the whole blasted lot of them. You don’t need any of them. We’ll get married, properly, and it won’t matter what anyone thinks.”
Thea stared at the place where the letter had flown, then back at him. “Get married?” she repeated. She had lost her wits, it seemed; perhaps they had run away with her virtue.
Rafe certainly seemed to think so, if his incredulous expression was anything to judge by. “Of course we’ll get married. We made love. An hour ago. Or had you already forgotten?”
Marrying him. Properly. Living here at Brinkley End. Could he mean it?
Well. She’d be a countess. For real, this time. Never again would she need to worry about her next meal, or where she would sleep, or what she would wear. Invitations would come flooding in. The wedding vows would work like a magic spell, transforming her from unwanted, impoverished outcast, to a desirable member of society.
And Rafe… Kind, heroic Rafe. He would be the one to save her. She would always have him nearby, to give her hugs and kisses, to dine with her and make her smile. How honorable he was. Yet if those blissful moments under the willows had turned his mind as soft and dazed as her own, he wouldn’t be thinking straight. After all, if her own parents didn’t want her, why would he?
“You are being honorable and self-sacrificing again,” she managed to say. “Fancy that. A nobleman who is actually noble.”
“I’m being… I don’t…” He ran his hands through his hair, paced wildly for several steps, then threw himself into a chair that could barely contain his restless limbs. “I mean, we… You could be… Under the willows…”
“You don’t owe me anything,” she said softly. “Not when it won’t last.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Why won’t it last?”
“Because nothing ever does.”
“But this—” He surged to his feet again, his sentences coming in short bursts. “I want to be that man who— Hell, I am that man. To have a bride, in this home. Now I understand about the past…about Katharine… I see how my life can be different.”
Despite his words, he paced like a fierce animal caged. Something squeezed her chest and she feared she would cry.
“Then how can you know?” she countered. “I am the only woman you have seen since then, and maybe you’re simply relieved, or maybe after the willows you’re not thinking straight.”
“For crying out loud, Thea, don’t tell me what I think! I know what I want.” He whirled around, his arms waving. “And your pamphlet, your reputation, the lot. If you’re married to me, it won’t matter. Nothing in the outside world will matter.”
She shook her head. All this talking and nothing made sense.
“You can’t understand,” she said. “You cannot know how it feels to be unable to trust the very ground on which you walk. I must put the world right, for how can I ever feel secure again, when I do not even have a safe place to stand?”
“You would be a countess. A blasted countess! Your parents would welcome you with open arms. All would be forgiven.”
Quite right. They would forgive her for her scandal, though it was a malicious lie. They would forgive her for becoming Rafe’s mistress, though that was not true. How magnanimous they would be, to forgive her the sins she had never committed, and overlook the mistakes she had never made.
And she would—what? She would be expected to be grateful for that?
But yes, if she married him, her past would be washed away and they would welcome her home.
That is, they would welcome him. When that door opened, that blue door with the brass mermaid knocker, she would enter with a ring on her hand and the Earl of Luxborough at her side.
And she would never know.
For the rest of her life, she would never know if her parents truly cared about her or truly believed her story. She would never know if Rafe truly wanted her, or if he was marrying her out of duty or kindness, or because of his relief over the revelation about Katharine and the passing novelty of Thea in his life.
For the rest of her life, she would have everything. Everything. And she would never know if it was truly hers.
As soon as she disappointed him or annoyed him or angered him, would he tire of her, send her to London, put her on the other side of the house and ignore her? If people told him stories about her, would he believe her or them?
Why, it was only yesterday that he’d discovered the truth about the past and learned to see the world differently. He was in no state to make decisions about his future, when he was still discovering his past.
If he truly wanted to marry her now, he would still want to marry her in a month. Wouldn’t he? Perhaps after she left he would return to his plants and forget she had ever been here. Perhaps he would remember her sometimes, and be grateful for his escape.
Or perhaps he would think of her, and want her, and come after her.
“True,” she agreed softly. “They would open the door to us, to the Earl of Luxborough and his wife.”
Rafe had stopped pacing. “I don’t understand what you want. Do you want to live in London?”
“I need to put the world right and know where I stand,” she said. “I need my parents to believe me. I need everyone to listen and know the truth.”
“Oh for crying out loud! Grow up!” Once more, his big body crashed haphazardly into a chair. “Stop being a child. You have to let go.”
Again she remembered watching the release of the hot air balloon, the childhood memory Rafe had stirred. Her fear when the ropes were cut. Now she was an adult. She should not be frightened to have no anchor holding her to the ground. But here was what he did not understand: She did not even have any ground.
“You cannot understand,” she said again.
“I understand you are a grown woman who cares too much what people think and are still trying to get your parents’ approval.”
And there it was. The annoyance—disgust even—in his voice and face was plain. Already he was sick of her. Already she had disappointed him. She had needed to wait barely ten minutes for the evidence. He did not truly want her, any more than her own family did.
“Thank you for your kindness, but I do not think marriage is necessary,” she forced herself to say. “If you will lend me your carriage, I shall leave for London immediately.”
His eyes flickered. He lifted his head, drew up his legs, leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. Joy skipped inside her. He would come after her.
But then he fell back into the chair. “Do you expect me to chase you? You want me to play your games again?”
“This isn’t a game!”
“Because if you go, you’re gone. I won’t come after you.”
Now she had an answer to that too. If he truly wanted to marry her, he would not say that. More lovely words that meant nothing. Yet another place whipped out from under her. She had been right not to put any trust in that.
“Of course you won’t,” she snapped. “You must stay here, hiding from the world, like a ghost haunting your own house.”
“Another fanciful, childish notion.”
“Call me childish then, if that is how you feel.”
His rough laugh sounded haunted too. “You have no idea what I’m feeling right now.”
Thea longed to go to him, but she would only hurt herself, so instead she ran to her room. This time, she packed, properly and neatly. This time, nothing stopped Gilbert from receiving her message and preparing the earl’s carriage. Together they carried out her trunks, one filled with the items she had bought to resell, and the other filled with Helen’s clothes and the cat’s mask.
This t
ime, there was nothing to stop her from leaving, no bad weather or sudden news or wild revelations.
And no Rafe, running after her, begging her not to go.
As the carriage trundled down the driveway, she twisted to catch her final view of Brinkley End. Nobody was watching her, and no one waved goodbye, and too late she remembered the bishop and Sally and Martha, but they were not there, and neither was Rafe, and nothing even seemed to care that she was gone.
Chapter 24
Twenty-two hours since Thea had gone. Rafe tapped at the window, and looked past his own ghostly reflection to picture the road to London. He wondered where she had spent the night, and if she had thought of him in her bed. Or maybe she was driving through without stopping, given her haste to reach her filthy, beloved London and her fickle, beloved family, and her futile, beloved pamphlet.
It was better that she was gone. If she didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want her here. He didn’t want any of them. Why should he try to be part of the world, when the world clearly did not want him?
He was perfectly content here alone.
Except Rafe wasn’t quite alone, it appeared. For he turned away from the window to see he had been joined by Queen Elizabeth. He wiped his hand over his eyes, but the apparition was still there.
Splendid. Not only had he lost the woman he loved, he’d lost his grip on reality too.
“What do you think?” the dead Tudor queen asked in Nicholas’s voice.
“I always thought you’d be prettier.”
“Rafe. Are you taking one of Martha’s drugs?”
Rafe blinked at Nicholas over his enormous white ruff. “You’re dressed as Queen Bess and you’re asking if I’m intoxicated?”
“I’m choosing my costume for the party. I need your help.”
“What party?”
“The Prince Regent is holding a costume party. Had you forgotten?”
Rafe fell into his chair. “If only I could.”
If only he could forget all of it, and all the ways he had been wrong.
“Your moping becomes tiresome, Rafe. If you didn’t want Thea to go, you ought to have proposed.”
“I did. She turned me down.”
“Ah. You failed to mention that.” Nicholas sat beside him and arranged his wide skirts. “So you have a broken heart.”
“I do not.”
“You’re in love with her.”
Rafe breathed in, the air slicing his throat like razor blades. “She turned me down.”
And this lovely house, ready for people to fill it. For an afternoon, Rafe had thought he would make that happen. But he was not the man for that after all. The rooms should be closed up, covers spread over the furniture and paintings, until Rafe died to make way for a new, better earl.
“This plan of hers, with the pamphlet,” Nicholas said. “I confess I have my doubts about whether it will work.”
“Of course it won’t bloody well work. But she won’t listen to me.”
“Oughtn’t you at least check on her, make sure she has what she needs?”
“I’ve already seen to it. I’ve written to London to give her the money from Mother’s trust. I’ll find another way to start that business.”
“What if Thea’s needs are not financial?” Nicholas persisted.
“She knows where I live.”
Rafe bounced out of his chair and went back to the window. Same view as always. He couldn’t even see the driveway from here.
Eventually, Nicholas stood, in a rustle of silk. “This gown is dreadfully uncomfortable. I must find something else. Will you help me?”
“No. I shall sit here and mope until this house falls down.”
“An excellent plan.”
“Have you a better one?”
“Come with me to London. I’m curious to see how the prodigal Marquess of Hardbury turned out. Aren’t you?”
“No. And I’m not going to any blasted costume party.”
“Of course you’re not,” the bishop said.
* * *
Thea’s trip to London was exactly as miserable and lonely as she had imagined it would be, however resolutely she sought to distract herself from the grim thoughts. Even when her wayward mind did not stray back to Brinkley End, her body reminded her of its change. It was not only the spots of tenderness, but something deep and intangible. A strange feeling that she could not name or identify and did not want to lose. Perhaps one’s body did not easily recover from the experience of being completely engulfed in another human being.
At least in London, she had so much to keep her busy that thinking was no longer a concern. Convincing a landlady of her respectability was troublesome, but she finally rented rooms in Soho and set about selling the items she had bought on Rafe’s account. With Gilbert’s help, she earned enough to settle her bills with Mr. Witherspoon and the publisher, and the rest went to pay for her lodging for the rest of the month. She had just enough coins to keep her fed until Helen returned from Brighton.
And on the second day after she arrived in London, she and Gilbert took a hackney cab to a warehouse in Spitalfields, where her pamphlets and prints had been delivered to await distribution the following day.
And oh, but her pamphlets were beautiful!
Well, the stacks of crates that held her pamphlets were beautiful.
As she stood in the dusty yard outside the warehouse, admiring the wooden crates, Thea felt a genuine smile warm her chest and shape her face, for the first time since she had left Brinkley End.
She had done this.
To be fair, Arabella had organized it, and Mr. Witherspoon had done the actual work, and Gilbert had done the heavy lifting, and she had paid for it by reselling items bought with Rafe’s money. But this had happened because of her. Because she had made it happen.
Soon, men would arrive to carry the crates inside, and in the night, Mr. Witherspoon’s army of delivery boys would gather. By this time tomorrow, every genteel and aristocratic household in London would have a copy of her pamphlet. Patrons of every coffeehouse would see it, and in a few days, everyone who opened a newspaper would read the advertisements. Everyone passing a print seller or bookseller would glimpse the cartoon resembling Percy. If only Rafe were here to see it. Perhaps then he would understand.
“That’s a mighty big pile of paper, miss,” Gilbert said from beside her. “London won’t know what hit ’em.”
Thea straightened, feeling confident and proud. “I’ve had my time in exile. And now, now is when it ends.”
“Quite right, my dear Miss Knight,” someone said from the open gate.
Thea whirled, as Lord Ventnor entered, with Percy Russell at his side and half a dozen of his rough-looking men in his wake. Thea let her eyes fall onto Ventnor’s ebony, silver-topped stick, and wondered how it could be, when Rafe had broken it.
Lord Ventnor smiled a chilly smile. “This is indeed where it ends.”
Thea turned in a circle to keep facing Ventnor and Percy, as they entered the yard and stopped. Straightening her shoulders, she stared them down, her back to the crates as if she were protecting her treasure from a dragon. Gilbert edged closer to her side as Ventnor’s men fanned out. One took his post behind Ventnor and Percy. Thea twisted to see the other men loitering near the crates.
“You, man, be gone,” Ventnor said to Gilbert. “I shall not harm her.”
Gilbert didn’t move.
Ventnor made a dismissive sound. “Luxborough is looking after you then, Miss Knight. How touching. Adds another meaning to the word ‘protector’.”
“He is not my protector and never was.”
“Cast you off, has he? Never mind. A pretty, lively thing like you, you’ll find another man to take you on soon enough.”
Percy snickered. “I might be interested in a new mistress. How much?”
Without thinking, Thea slapped his smirking face. Hard. It felt so satisfying that she tried to do it again, but this time Percy caught her hand. So she leaned in
and kneed him in the bollocks.
Her skirts hampered her, unfortunately, but she mustered enough force to make him yelp and release her and back away. Her palm stung, and her knee was affronted at having to carry out such a repulsive task, but other than that, she felt quite good.
“You little tart!” Percy squeaked.
“You vile snot,” Thea returned.
Ventnor inserted his ebony stick between them. “Now, now, children.”
Percy’s face turned red. “But Father! She hit me!”
“Do grow up, boy. It was exactly what you deserved after speaking to her like that.” Ventnor tapped the silver end of his stick in the dust at his son’s feet. “You disgust me at times, Percy. Let us not forget that it was your malicious, childish attack on Miss Knight that got us here in the first place.”
Thea stared at Ventnor, stunned to have such an unexpected defender. “Then you know, my lord. You know that Percy and Francis Upton told lies about me.”
“I know now. A cunning little pamphlet you penned, my dear.” He opened one hand, palm upward, and the man behind him placed a booklet onto it. “I read it, you know. It’s not too bad, for a lady author.”
“How did you get a copy of that?” Thea realized she had not asked him the most obvious question. “Why are you here?”
“Not much happens in London that I don’t hear about, as everyone knows I pay well for information. Someone at the publisher let me know they were printing a cartoon resembling my son, and I investigated. And here we are.”
“Then you know my story is true and must be told.”
Ventnor waved the pamphlet like a fan. “A conundrum. Percy has behaved very badly, but he is my son, and I must protect my family. What happens to one member affects everyone. You would not believe the things I must do for the sake of my family.”