“I attempted to tell you what had occurred,” she reiterated, “but you—”
“I granted you no chance," he interposed. "Upon reviewing our . . . ah . . . discussion, I was compelled to own to that. But the following morning, I specifically inquired what dreadful thing you’d alluded to, and you claimed it was Briscoe and Robert’s lamentable behavior.”
“Yes, I deliberately misled you; I admit to that. You had charged me with throwing myself at Francis’ head, and I was certain you wouldn’t believe I had been too shocked by his offer to decline it. So I judged it best to wait and inform you of the proposal after I had declined it. Which I intended to do at Viscount Peyton’s assembly.”
‘‘You intended to, but you did not.”
”I could not,” she protested. “Surely you recall what a”—she borrowed Cornelia’s word—“what a bedlam it was. Before I could gain Francis’ attention, Lady Hellier introduced the subject of the announcement.”
“Whereupon you deceived me again. With your statement that she was referring to an announcement of our family reunion.”
“What else was I to do?” she pleaded. “The noise in the ballroom was such that I couldn't possibly have explained the true situation. Not to you or Francis either one. I could only hope to end the conversation and resolve the matter later.”
“Later meaning this morning, I collect.”
He walked on across the room and halted just beside her, so close that their sleeves were nearly touching. Bonnie’s knees weakened, and she willed herself not to look away.
“Yes, while Lady Hellier was here. I was in Orchard Street. Advising Francis that there was to be no engagement.”
“And what was his reaction?”
“He was overjoyed,” Bonnie said dryly. “He readily confessed that Lady Hellier had forced him to offer for my hand.”
“Forced.” David snorted with derision. “Francis is far too weak. I daresay Judith will ultimately force him to wed someone else.”
“I daresay she will,” Bonnie agreed, “but in this instance, there was an mitigating factor. It was not Lady Pamela who arranged my accident, David. It was Lady Hellier.”
“Judith arranged for you to be attacked?” His eyes widened with horror.
“Yes, and after Francis puzzled it out, he feared for my safety. Lady Hellier engaged Briscoe’s brother . . .”
She repeated the story Francis had related, the earl’s face growing increasingly pale with every word she uttered, and when she had finished, he pulled her into his arms.
“Good God,” he murmured. “My poor girl. You insisted you were pushed in front of the coach; how could I have failed to believe you?”
He was holding her only loosely, holding her as an uncle would, but her heart began to pound nonetheless, began to race so madly she was certain he must hear it.
“I failed to believe you, and as a consequence, you might well have been attacked again.” He tilted his head back and gazed contritely down at her. “And I should never have forgiven myself if you had come to harm.”
"It . . .”
She had started to say it was all right, but her voice froze in her throat. His eyes had darkened, she saw, darkened to the blue-black she remembered from the night he had held her in the corridor. His arms tightened round her, and his breathing quickened, and she realized that this was the moment to speak. Now, now; but even as she parted her lips, he lowered his head and covered them with his own.
Bonnie had imagined being kissed, had imagined the touch of a man’s mouth on hers, but she had not anticipated the sensations that followed. Had not dreamed the sweet, throbbing ache that spread all through her, turning her to liquid, fairly dissolving her bones. She twined her fingers in David’s hair, parted her lips still further, moaned when she felt his tongue.
“Dear God,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted you so desperately. Surely you saw it. Saw from the start that I could scarcely keep my hands off you.”
He took her mouth again, his mouth hungry now, his hands moving urgently over her body; and Bonnie’s yearning swelled to meet his. He had unleashed a strange, wild excitement— something else she had never dreamed was there He moved his lips to her neck, and she writhed against him, weak with longing.
“You won’t be sorry,” she said raggedly. “I promise you
that. I love you, and I shall make you happy. You'll never be sorry you wed me.”
“Wed!” he choked. “Love!” He thrust her away so abruptly that Bonnie nearly lost her balance. “Good God, what have I done?”
He stumbled backward, tugging at his neckcloth, which had come half untied. “I ... I can only apologize most abjectly for my odious conduct. And express my deep regret if I ... I misled you. I did not intend to suggest that I thought to marry ...”
He crashed into the door and nearly lost his own balance. “You cannot stay, of course,” he muttered. “Not in the circumstances. I shall hire a chaise to drive you to Cheshire tomorrow. For the present, I must beg to be excused."
He spun around, flung the door open, raced into the hall, and Bonnie shortly heard the frantic tattoo of his footfalls on the staircase. How could Cornelia have so drastically misjudged his feelings? she wondered distantly. Have mistaken mere physical desire for love? The slam of the front door echoed back up the stairs, and she walked unsteadily out of David’s bedchamber and down the corridor to hers.
He was right in one respect, she reflected grimly: in the circumstances, she could not stay. Indeed, she could not stay even until tomorrow; after making such a horrid cake of herself, she could never face him again. She pulled her portmanteau from beneath the bed and laid it on the counterpane, opened it and went to the wardrobe.
She had once thought to pack up all her new clothes and flee to Aunt Grace, she recalled, eyeing the ball gowns and walking dresses and morning dresses in the wardrobe. But that had been long ago, on the day of Lady Pamela’s call, and now she wanted only to forget the Earl of Sedge wick. She withdrew the white muslin dress she had brought from Portman Square, then proceeded to the chest of drawers and removed her lingerie. After she had placed her clothes in the portmanteau, she crossed to the dressing table, snatched up her brush and comb and cosmetics, returned to the bed, and tossed them in the bag.
The portmanteau seemed rather emptier than it had when she left the Powells’, but as she frowned around the room, she recollected that one of her gowns had been ruined when she collided with David’s curricle. That memory triggered yet another, and she could not repress a bitter laugh. She recalled very well her opinion—when the earl had proposed their charade—that Fate could not be so unkind as to propel her into a second post as disastrous as the first. But Fate had once more outwitted her; Fate, like David himself, had perpetrated its finest prank. She had not even seen Almack’s . . .
Bonnie closed and fastened the portmanteau and carried it to the wardrobe. She donned her threadbare pelisse and ancient French bonnet, hung her reticule over one arm, picked up her bag, and crept into the corridor. She briefly feared she might encounter Nell, but she soon recollected that Cornelia had instructed the servants to remain in their quarters. She strode boldly along the hall and down the stairs, across the vestibule and through the front door. She stopped only when she reached the footpath, stopped and turned around and gazed back at the house.
Memories; so many memories. She swallowed the lump in her throat, blinked the tears from her eyes, and hurried on toward Oxford Street to hail a hackney coach.
14
“Are you in service in London, dear?”
Bonnie stifled a sigh. She had suspected from the outset that the elderly woman in the seat across was the talkative sort—the kind of person who would shortly attempt to initiate a conversation. Particularly inasmuch as they were the only passengers in the stage. Well, not the only passengers, she amended: the woman was accompanied by a man of similar age whom Bonnie assumed to be her husband. But it had soon become clear that he was prodigious hard
of hearing, and he had already burrowed into the squab and fallen asleep. They had left the yard of the Swan with Two Necks but a few minutes since, and Bonnie prayed the woman would leave the coach at one of the early stops.
“I was in service in the city,” she muttered aloud. “In a manner of speaking.”
“I see.” The woman nodded. “But you have now left your post to return to your family?”
“In a manner of speaking," Bonnie said again.
She had never written to Aunt Grace, she recollected, and she still wasn't certain her aunt would agree to take her in. But if Aunt Grace sent her away, surely she could find another position. Perhaps she should hire on with a theater
troupe, she thought bitterly. Having proved herself so very adept at the art of impersonation.
·‘And where might they be?” the woman asked. ‘‘Your family, I mean.”
“Cheshire,” Bonnie replied. “Though I was raised in Stafford.”
“Clyde and I are from Staffordshire ourselves! We’ve been visiting our married daughter in town, but we’re headed back to our home in Lichfield.”
Lichfield. Bonnie clenched her hands with dismay. Lichfield was many hours along the road—
“I am Mrs. Pennington,” the woman announced, “and this is my husband.” She inclined her head toward the man beside her, whose own head was drooping toward her shoulder.
“I am Miss Gordon,” Bonnie mumbled.
It was the first time she had stated or heard her real name in almost a month, and the unfamiliar sound of it prompted her to wonder how David planned to explain her sudden disappearance. As Francis had pointed out, Cornelia's arrival rendered it most unlikely that Bonnie would return to Barbados. Maybe the earl would simply own that his “niece” had been an invention.
David. Bonnie felt a stab of pain so intense that she was compelled to close her eyes. Perhaps she should have taken her clothes after all, she reflected, for it would require more than the absence of her finery to allow her to forget the Earl of Sedgewick. To forget his engaging grin and his sapphire eyes and the touch of his mouth on hers—
“If you will pardon me for saying so, dear"—Mrs. Pennington cleared her throat—“you look excessively unhappy. Which leads me to believe you quit London due to some trouble with a man.”
Bonnie wearily opened her eyes. They had reached the dark fringes of the city, but the light of the moon was sufficient to see that Mrs. Pennington was regarding her with avid curiosity. And maybe it would be wisest to satisfy that curiosity at once, Bonnie decided. If she admitted to “some trouble with a man,” perhaps Mrs. Pennington would leave her in peace for the remainder of their long journey.
“Yes, I did have a ... an unfortunate experience,” she murmured. ‘‘I had conceived the impression that a man intended to wed me, and I recently discovered that such was not the case.”
“Men!” Mrs. Pennington emitted a sniff of disgust. “Take Clyde here.”
His head had come to rest upon her, and she irritably shook her shoulder. Mr. Pennington moaned and swayed toward the opposite side of the coach, until his head thudded against the window.
“You wouldn’t know it to look at him now,” Mrs. Pennington continued, ‘‘but Clyde was a shameless rake in his youth. Well, he was a rake far into his middle years, I should have said. Disporting himself with every lightskirt for miles around . . .” She sniffed again. “I can tell you that were it not for our lovely children—we have two sons in addition to the daughter—I should wish I hadn’t wed at all.”
“Urnm,” Bonnie grunted.
‘‘Sometimes I even doubt that children are adequate compensation. They soon grow up and leave home, and one still has the man to contend with for many years to come. Yes, spinsterhood has distinct advantages, Miss Gordon. I urge you to keep that in mind.”
Bonnie was beginning to fear that, far from securing peace, she had inspired an interminable lecture on the deficiencies of men and marriage; and she cast about for another tack.
“I certainly shall keep that in mind,” she said politely. “For the present, however—as I am sure you understand—I am exceedingly overset. And most dreadfully tired. So if you will forgive me, I fancy I should try to rest.”
‘‘Of course I understand, dear. Lie down, and I shan’t say another word."
In point of fact, it was impossible to “lie down” on the narrow seat of the coach, but Bonnie judged it best to comply insofar as she could. She squirmed to the center of the seat.
turned sidewise, lowered her right cheek and shoulder to the upholstery, drew her knees halfway to her chin, and once more closed her eyes.
She was, in truth, most dreadfully tired, but her brain didn’t seem to comprehend the aching exhaustion of her body. Her mind was whirling with memories and images and regrets, none of them in any logical sequence. She was sorry she had had no chance to bid Cornelia and Nell good-by; she must write them when she arrived in Cheshire. Or wherever her final destination might prove to be. No, she wouldn’t write them; to do so would only fuel her memories of David, and she had quite enough of them as it was. David—the angel—peering down at her, David taking her in his arms, David waltzing her around the floor at Lady Lambeth's assembly, David discussing her wardrobe with Mrs. Pruitt, David conducting their endless lessons—
“I am sorry to disturb you. Miss Gordon.” Mrs. Pennington cleared her throat again. “But I feel you should know we are being pursued.”
“Pursued.” Bonnie opened her eyes and quelled another sigh; apparently the woman would stop at nothing to revive their conversation. “And just who do you think is pursuing us, Mrs. Pennington? A highwayman?”
“That is exactly what I think.” She was speaking in a whisper, as though the imaginary highwayman were already clawing at the door. “I heard a shout, and just after that, the coach speeded up.”
“I do not believe highwaymen pursue their prey.” Bonnie said with as much patience as she could muster. "I believe they normally wait along the route—”
"Stop!”
The word was distinct even above the clatter of the wheels, and Bonnie bolted upright.
“There is no reason to be afraid." The quaver in Mrs. Pennington’s voice belied her sooothing words. "He will take whatever valuables we have and be on his way. Highwaymen are gentlemen; they do not harm their victims . . .
Bonnie closed her ears to Mrs. Pennington’s nervous chatter and pressed her nose to the window. She was situated in the rear-facing seat, and within a few seconds, she spied a lone horseman approaching the back of the coach.
“Stop!” he yelled again.
The driver’s response was a defiant one: the stage once more gathered speed. But a heavy vehicle couldn’t possibly outdistance a man on horseback, and the highwayman galloped past the rear wheel, drew abreast of Bonnie, passed her, and raced beyond her limited circle of vision. Shortly after that, the coach came to a shuddering halt, and Bonnie sank back against the squab. She was momentarily inclined to remove her money from her reticule and stuff it down the bodice of her dress, but she soon abandoned this notion. Though highway robbers were, indeed, reputed to behave in a gentlemanly fashion, this one might be the exception. If he did not find what he was seeking in the obvious place, he might undertake a search. Surely it was preferable to surrender the last of her wordly goods to Fate without protest and emerge with at least some semblance of dignity intact.
“He is walking back," Mrs. Pennington hissed. The forward- facing seat now afforded a better view of the robber’s movements.
“Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Pennington. As you yourself pointed out, we’ve nothing to fear." Bonnie fancied she would sound considerably more convincing had her teeth not been chattering with terror. “We shall simply give him what he wants—”
“Is Bonnie Gordon in the coach?” a male voice demanded. “I wish to speak with Bonnie Gordon."
“Good God!” Bonnie gasped. “It is . . .”
She squirmed to the edge of the s
eat and peered out the window again, but her eyes could only confirm what her ears had told her. He was standing in a pool of moonlight, still dressed in his evening clothes, gazing up at the coach.
“It is David!”
“David?" Mrs. Pennington echoed. “Is he the man who caused you such grief?"
"Y-yes," Bonnie stammered. She was seemingly powerless to move, and her breath began to fog the glass.
“Well, he will not trouble you again." Mrs. Pennington said grimly. “Permit me to handle this. Miss Gordon.” She lowered her window and leaned out. “Be off with you, young man,” she ordered. "Go back to town and allow us to proceed.”
“Is Bonnie Gordon in the coach?” he repeated
“Yes, Miss Gordon is in the coach, but she wishes nothing further to do with you. Go along now and leave her alone.”
“Please. Bonnie,” he pleaded. "Please come out and talk to me."
“He had ample opportunity to talk to me in his bedchamber,” Bonnie muttered.
"Bedchamber!” Mrs. Pennington stared at her with horror. “He actually seduced you?” She thrust her head back out the window. “You beast!” she shrieked. “You have already ruined the poor girl; what more do you want?”
“I want to talk to her!" David’s voice rose to meet hers.
"Well, she does not want to talk to you," Mrs. Pennnington said frostily. "So you might as well advise the driver that we can continue.”
"Hell and the devil!" the earl roared. "Tell her I love her and I’ll marry her tonight if she’ll get out of the damned coach!"
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