Amara Royce

by Never Too Late

“I will not be his mistress,” she said aloud, as if to convince herself. “I have my business to consider. And I have my self-respect.” She repeated the little speech over and over until she almost believed it. Then she went to find Lord Devin. Drawn like a moth to flame, she thought, and we know what happens to the moth.

  In his office, seated behind a large, walnut desk with an ornately carved front panel, Lord Devin was so much more formal, distant. The butler’s presence could also be a mitigating factor, she acknowledged. She wasn’t sure what she expected—certainly not that he would rush to her and sweep her into his arms with a declaration of undying love—but she hadn’t expected the generic cordiality he might use to greet any acquaintance.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Duchamp.” He said, lifting his eyes from the sheet on which he was writing. His expression seemed warm, if professional. She wasn’t sure how to deal with him.

  “Good morning, Lord Devin. I came to thank you for your hospitality. I will be returning to my shop now to assess the damages.”

  “Wait a few moments. After I finish here, I will accompany you.”

  “There’s no need. You obviously have much to do. Please don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

  At that, he looked at her sharply and slowly shook his head.

  “Johnson, take care of these. I will review the rest later.” His butler agreed and took his leave quietly, pulling the door almost closed behind him.

  Devin walked around the desk toward her but stilled as she retreated, maintaining the distance between them. He frowned.

  “I insist that I escort you, Honoria. The shop may yet be unsecured ; you should not go alone. It is no trouble. And,” he added more gently, “it will give us some time to talk.”

  Time to talk. That was exactly what she wanted to avoid.

  He’d left her bed at the first streaks of dawn and slunk back to his room, confused and weighed down by heavy guilt. He didn’t want to want her. He didn’t want to like her. But he did. He’d thought foolishly that his irrational pining after her would subside once he had her, but it didn’t. This morning, he’d wanted more than anything to stay wrapped in her arms, to watch consciousness slip into her skin, to protect her, to plan a future with her. To be her anchor in the storm that began for her yesterday and would undoubtedly get much worse before it broke. But he could do none of these things. So he’d left her bed while she slept—like the underhanded sneak he was.

  He desperately wanted to protect her, but how could he do so if he didn’t know everything about her? She’d been so strong at the shop, so self-possessed, and yet last night she’d allowed him to glimpse her vulnerability, allowed him to care for her. It was an awesome responsibility. One thing he knew: the decision was already made; he would protect her just as he would everyone he . . .

  His thoughts caught him by surprise.

  Love? Could that really be what he felt for her?

  The swell of emotion in his chest surely went beyond altruism. But it wasn’t love. The overwhelming pleasure and desire to please that he’d experienced with her again and again in the night went beyond physical need. But that signaled affection, not love. He’d guarded his heart so carefully, so completely. Yet she’d stumbled past his defenses, as if by accident. Whatever he felt for her, he must fold her into the same absolute haven he ensured for his mother and his siblings. His life had been lived for them, and now he had to adjust the equation.

  But what if she finds out about Withersby?

  It wasn’t a long coach ride to the shop, but it began as an oppressively silent one. He wasn’t sure what was going on in Honoria’s mind, but his disordered mind couldn’t focus.

  “Nora, I don’t want to pry,” he began.

  “That kind of prelude is never good.”

  “I have some questions . . . about your husband.”

  “That’s not a subject I wish to discuss.”

  “Perhaps after last night, you owe me a little leeway on this matter.”

  A chill suffused her. She did owe him a great deal. At least she could afford some modicum of honesty.

  “All right. I will try.”

  “There is, I think, the obvious question.”

  “Right, why my marriage was never . . .”

  “Yes, why your marriage was never. So?”

  “As I told you, my father died when I was eighteen. A month after his burial, I went on a trip to the north. To call it a holiday would be inappropriate; still in mourning, I wasn’t going for enjoyment. The doctor said it would be good for my nerves.” Speaking haltingly and feeling suffocated, she took off her gloves. “I met Mr. Duchamp. Then things happened so fast. He wooed me. Within a week, we eloped to Gretna Green in Scotland.” As she wove the tale, her insides twisted and heart revolted. She felt she might be sick.

  “Then, practically before the ink of our signatures was dry, he died in a freak horse-riding accident. As if to add to the horrible absurdity, our wedding certificate with the witnesses’ signatures caught fire. It was an absurd travesty. And there you have it.”

  When she first returned from Scotland, she’d had to repeat her story so many times it became rote. She wished for that mechanical repetition again but couldn’t achieve it. Every word stabbed at her. Years ago, people had accepted her story mainly because she was able to show the news article announcing Mr. Duchamp’s death and naming her as his wife. Even the banker and solicitor disposing of her uncle’s will had been kind and surprisingly unquestioning.

  “You haven’t answered my question. How is it that the marriage was never consummated? One night, nay, a few minutes would have sufficed.”

  “Don’t be crude. There wasn’t really an opportunity.” She floundered. “We knew each other so little. The accident was the morning after the ceremony.”

  “I am truly sorry for your loss. And I know I am the worst sort of cad to push this question . . . but I would think the wedding night offered ample opportunity for consummation.”

  Her mouth dried up and her throat tightened. She stared out the window to avoid his gaze.

  “As I said, we didn’t really know each other. We’d agreed that we should delay the physical aspects of the marriage until a time mutually agreed upon.”

  “Fair enough. I am truly sorry for prying.”

  She nodded acceptance.

  For several moments, the only sounds came from the street. The tones outside shifted markedly from Grosvenor Square to Portland. The mostly silent and genteel gave way to the boisterous calls of vendors to one another as they began the task of opening up shop.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever had proper time to grieve for all these loved ones you’ve lost.” His voice cutting through the growing din outside was low but unmistakable. His sweet sincerity was her undoing. He trusted her completely. She couldn’t let him.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted as she faced him. “There is more to this story, and I know you will be furious and horrified and want nothing to do with me. So it’s best I tell you before we get to the shop. Then you can simply drop me off and go on your way.”

  She straightened in her seat, tucking her skirt against her legs and wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

  “My uncle was the head of the family. He died in 1829, and I was his only heir . . . well, heir to what was left after he lost everything that was entailed. He hated me. He always said it was a shame I’d been born. Really, I think he hated, or at least disdained, all women. I know he abhorred my mother.” She could only ever picture her uncle scowling. “So it was no surprise that he bequeathed the bulk of his estate to the church, and it was likewise no surprise that what little he bequeathed to me came with stipulations. To receive the meager inheritance, I had to marry, and I had to do it by my twenty-first birthday. Do you understand why he would set those rules?”

  “I can only assume that it would be because, upon marrying, a woman’s property becomes her husband’s.”

  “Exactly. I was never supposed to hav
e control over any of his estate, a condition not out of the ordinary. Yet my father was so indulgent and so blind. He disregarded my uncle’s will, assuming that he would pass the store on to me as my livelihood. But when he died so abruptly, the medical bills and burial arrangements were exorbitant. He left me the store, but it was running in the red and in need of renovation. And the costs of his death took the bulk of the existing funds. Under those circumstances, I would have lost the store within a year. I needed to claim the inheritance from my uncle. So I closed the store temporarily, took what little I had saved, and went on a quest to find a satisfactory husband. I made my way toward Scotland, since I knew marriages could be done quickly and easily. I wasn’t thinking clearly, I know. It’s ridiculous. But my uncle hadn’t specified what type of man I should marry so I was confident that I could convince someone—pay someone for a marriage of convenience.”

  She paused for breath, struggling to hold at bay the memory of her suffocating anxiety. She’d pored over the accounts, looking for ways to keep the shop running. It was all so unfair. If only I’d been born a man! And then she’d hated that thought as well.

  “All common sense fled. I was in a dead panic and knew only that I had to acquire a husband. I did meet a Mr. Duchamp at some coaching inn along the way to Gretna. And he did die in a freak horse-riding accident. That is sadly true. But he never courted me, not even for a moment. We had dinner together twice, with a table of other tourists, in the public dining room of the inn. What I could surmise was that he had no connections, no wife, no family. He was a wanderer, who prefers the life of a nomad. We, in fact, did broach the subject of a marriage of convenience, but it was only in jest—a joke that, in exchange for marrying me and securing my inheritance, I would fund his travels.”

  If she hadn’t been so keenly aware of Devin during her confession, even without looking at him directly, she would have missed the moment when he infinitesimally moved away from her. The smallest shift, really, one that could simply be accounted for by the nature of coach travel. Yet she knew better. And he hadn’t even heard the worst yet.

  “I could have convinced him to make the joke real. I know I could have. We were headed in the same direction anyway. The problem,” she continued, “is that the fool died within sight of Gretna Green.” She caught herself and changed her tone. “It is sinful for me to speak so of the dead. A misstep by his horse ruined it all. He fell off his mount, down a small rocky hill. By the time he reached the bottom, the poor man’s neck was broken. Locals rushed to his side and called the doctor, but he was dead within a matter of minutes.”

  She’d truly felt beyond salvation then, not so much because there would be no marriage but because of her uncharitable anger toward Mr. Duchamp for dying when she’d been so close to safety. She couldn’t say that aloud now.

  “So how did you become Mrs. Duchamp?”

  “Everyone could see that I was distraught. A couple kindly took me to their home to comfort me, and they quickly assumed our purpose in coming. I—” She broke off, unable to face her own immorality. It was so much worse to put what she’d done in words. “I told them that part of our impetus for marrying so quickly, without bothering for banns at home, was that I was with child, and we wanted to legitimize the babe sooner rather than later. With no one to mourn his death, no one would care to contest an imaginary marriage. I had everything to gain, and nothing to risk. And suddenly it seemed so easy. I could still get my uncle’s inheritance, and I could do it on my terms.”

  “You mean to tell me . . .”

  She couldn’t look at him but nodded, blinking back tears of humiliation and guilt.

  “I lied. We were never married. I have never actually been Mrs. Duchamp. I didn’t even know him. There was a marriage certificate but no actual marriage and therefore no consummation. Considering my modest position and my meager inheritance, no one saw any need to contest the certificate or investigate my claims.”

  Silence.

  The carriage hit a bump, jostling them. She couldn’t help but notice that, when her foot was jolted toward his, he jerked away as if scalded.

  “Why did you not tell me before?”

  “When exactly would have been a good time to say, ‘Oh, by the by, I’m a virgin and a liar pretending to be a widow for the past twenty years’? During dinner with thirty guests? In front of the mob at the Crystal Palace?”

  “You had plenty of opportunities. For truths like that, you make the time.”

  “Said by someone who presumably never, ever lies? Someone who has no secrets of his own?”

  “We are not talking about me right now,” he snapped. “You have been living a lie and, in the middle of the most intimate thing two people can do together, you did not think I deserved to know?”

  “No, I didn’t think you needed to know.”

  That shut him up. He knew now how she regarded him. And now, he thought bitterly, he had exactly the kind of information Mr. Withersby and his client could easily use to destroy her livelihood. It didn’t take much for a woman’s respectability to be tainted irrevocably. She might not be seen as a “fallen” woman, but such lies would cast the shadow of immorality on her entire person and on Evans Books. No one would believe a woman of low character wouldn’t end up a “fallen” woman.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Evans Principle—Umpteen: Trust your instincts, especially when they tell you to run. There is no shame in logically calculated retreat.

  Icy silence reigned during the remainder of the trip.

  As she approached the shop from the street, she saw that Minnie, ever dutiful, was already inside, picking books up off the floor. It was a tremendous relief to see her earnest, reliable figure; her presence gave Nora a much-needed sense of routine and discipline.

  When she walked through the door, Minnie dropped the books in her arms and rushed over. Already covered in grime, the girl seemed hesitant to touch her.

  “Oh, Mrs. Duchamp, thank heavens you’re safe. This is terrible. When I couldn’t find you upstairs, I feared the worst. Where were you?”

  “I’m touched by your concern, Minnie. When I found the shop burglarized yesterday, it was determined that I should spend the night in safer quarters.” Safer quarters—a lie if ever there was one. “It was so good of you to come, Minnie. But perhaps you should take the day off. I can handle all this.”

  “Neither of you should have to muddle through this filth,” Devin interjected. “I have made arrangements for cleaners to handle everything.” As usual, he spoke as if his word was law. Even after her horrible revelation in the coach, he intended to salvage the store for her.

  “That is too kind of you, my lord.” She stumbled on the “my lord,” and they both flinched. He wasn’t hers, and they both knew it, especially now that she’d revealed the truth. “I cannot accept such extravagant help. It is my shop, my responsibility. I will attend to it. Minnie and Erich will help.” Minnie nodded vigorously.

  “Mrs. Duchamp, the damage and refuse are too much for the three of you to repair. I have people on staff to handle this and do it well. You can repay me in books, if that assuages your conscience.”

  She felt as if he’d struck her. Assuages your conscience. The past twenty-four hours were too much to face all at once. The door chime saved her from having to think further.

  “Honoria! Minnie sent word, but I never dreamed it would be this terrible!” Marissa rushed in like a whirlwind and embraced her. “Are you well? You look awful!”

  She mustered a weak smile and said, “I will be fine, Marissa. I’m sure the damage looks worse than it is.”

  “That’s you all over, making molehills out of your mountains! Well, sweetie, you can count on us for whatever you need. If you want us to don our aprons and dig in, just say the word.”

  Keenly aware of their audience, she replied, “You are always so kind, Marissa. I may have mentioned making the acquaintance of the Devin family.” Throughout the perfunctory introductions, which she trie
d to complete as succinctly as she could, Marissa gave her unmistakable inquiries with her eyes.

  “Why, yes, you’d mentioned that you attended a lovely dinner with Lady Devin. How nice of Lord Devin to come to your assistance.”

  Not now, Marissa! She tried to deter Marissa’s questions with her own facial expressions and finally with a distinct single shake of her head. Her efforts only encouraged Marissa’s interference. Could this moment get any more awkward?

  “It’s so convenient that you are here to come to our Honoria’s rescue. What perfect timing.”

  “Marissa, dear, I don’t want you to suffer this mess. It’s more disgusting than you can possibly dream.”

  “I’m sure it defies description. The smell alone is overwhelming, I’m sorry to say. I’ll come back tomorrow in Mr. Clarke’s galoshes.” Marissa was making her way slowly toward the door but then stopped abruptly. “Oh, no! The printing press! Was it damaged?”

  “Likely beyond repair, unfortunately.” She looked pointedly at Marissa. Not now! “And I can’t afford to replace it yet. I shall have to review unfinished orders and contact those clients immediately.”

  “Would you like the girls to come over on Thursday as planned? I’m sure they would like to help you as much as I do. We have much to discuss.”

  “You are all too kind, and I do know I can call upon you for anything. But I have no idea what to do about this week.”

  “If I may,” Lord Devin interjected, “I still believe this building is unsecured. Mrs. Duchamp, my mother bade me to remind you that you are welcome to stay at Devin House as long as you feel is necessary. You are likewise welcome to receive your friends there.”

  Devin House? Marissa’s raised brows asked. Her stomach dropped as her friend said aloud, “I had no idea you had such powerful friends, Honoria. What a blessing.” Enveloping her in an extravagant hug, Marissa spoke low so only she could hear. “You have much to explain. Do what you must to minimize delay.”