Her words stung like a whiplash, flaying him with his own guilty conscience. Sebastian downed his Madeira in one swallow, grimacing at the sweetness. “Aunt,” he began, but she cut him off.
“I heard about your exploits with women in Italy, Avermore, but I tried not to believe it. I believed you to be a better man than the scandal sheets had painted you. I couldn’t bear to think the boy I had raised to have a proper consideration and regard for women could develop such a wild reputation, but today, I have been shown it is the scandal sheets which are correct, and I am the one who has been mistaken in regard to your character.”
There was no way to explain Italy. “I’m not the same man I was. I’ve changed in the past three years—”
“Are you in love with the girl? Do you intend to marry her?”
The abrupt questions came out of nowhere, catching him by surprise. He stared at Mathilda, appalled. “God, no.”
That blunt, emphatic answer made both of them wince.
Mathilda sank into a petit point chair as if her worst fears were now confirmed. “When Miss Merrick came here at Marlowe’s request, I agreed to chaperoning her without a second thought, for despite your exploits with courtesans and married ladies, it never occurred to me that you would attempt a dalliance with an unmarried woman of respectable family in your own house under your own roof.”
“I’m not dallying with the girl!”
“Indeed? What would you call it? You don’t love her, you don’t intend to marry her, yet I find her sitting on your lap. What were you doing? Discussing the next turn of your plot?”
Sebastian rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh. He knew he would have to attempt an explanation, but he was not sure there was one. “Mathilda, this is not merely a dalliance. For the first time in years, I’m writing again, and it’s because of her. She has a way of inspiring me.”
“Yes, I saw with my own eyes how inspired you were.”
He made a sound of impatience. “It’s not like that. It started out as a game, but—”
He stopped, but it was too late.
Mathilda was staring at him in horror. “A game? A young woman’s virtue is not a game, Avermore! Have you compromised her?”
It occurred to him that protecting Daisy’s virtue now was rather like locking the stable after the horses had been stolen, but there was nothing for it. “Of course not,” he said, looking his beloved aunt straight in the eye as he gave her the lie. Too late, he remembered he’d never been able to lie to Mathilda.
Her disdainful expression deepened into contempt. “So you have. You have turned a respectable young woman into a strumpet.”
That damnable guilt nudged him again, and he looked away, pressing his lips together.
“At least we can be grateful I am the only person who saw the pair of you this afternoon. Do the servants know? Never mind, servants always know, but I can manage them. If anyone else had seen you, the fat would be in the fire.” She set aside her glass and rose, suddenly resolute, as if matters were now decided to her satisfaction. “If the girl proves to be with child as a result of this liaison, Avermore, you’ll have to provide for it, and for her. If that happens, God knows what Marlowe will do. He’ll probably want your head. Miss Merrick is a friend of his wife.” She started for the door. “I will send her home to her sister at once, though what explanation I’ll offer—”
“No!” Everything in Sebastian rebelled against that notion. “She isn’t going home. She isn’t going anywhere.”
Mathilda stopped and turned to him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
The very idea of writing without her, of not having her near, sent panic coursing through his veins. “She can’t go. Not yet. I have to finish the book.”
“The book?” Mathilda was staring at him in disbelief.
“This book is good, Aunt,” he said, desperate. “Damn good, the best thing I’ve written in a decade. I can’t explain it, but she’s the reason for that. She’s given me back my purpose in life. I need her here. I must finish this book, and I can’t finish it without her.”
“Damn your book, sir!” his aunt interrupted, appalled. “That young woman has been under my supervision. I agreed to act as her chaperone, and when I did, I took on the sacred obligation to watch over her. It sickens me that I have so failed in my duty, that I have been so blinded by my affection for you that I have allowed a respectable young woman to be transformed into a strumpet under my very nose.”
“She is not a strumpet!” he shouted, enraged by the description.
“She is what you have made her.”
Sebastian clamped down on the rage, panic and guilt that were warring within him. “She is not leaving,” he said through clenched teeth. He faced his aunt, ruthless in his determination. “I am the master of this house, and that girl isn’t going anywhere. If the situation offends your delicate sensibilities, madam, you may move yourself to the summerhouse.”
Mathilda was looking at him as if he were the lowest sort of cur imaginable, but he could not give Daisy up. Not yet, not now, not when he needed her so much.
Turning on his heel, he walked out of Mathilda’s sitting room, slamming the door behind him.
God, no.
Sebastian’s words echoed in her head like the beat of a kettledrum, the appalled sound of his voice tearing her heart apart. Daisy stared up at the balcony’s open French windows, the conversation she’d overheard still echoing through her mind, and she realized she would always remember this particular view. The intricate ironwork of the balcony rail, the pale, straw color of the chiffon draperies, the dark red geraniums in their terra-cotta pots.
God, no.
In the wake of those words, the enchantment of last night came rushing back as if to mock her, and she realized she’d known the moment she’d told him she loved him that he didn’t love her in return. She’d known it, felt it, and denied it. But there was no denying it now, and she wished she had been the last one down to dinner instead of the first, that she hadn’t decided to take a stroll in the gardens while she waited, that curiosity hadn’t impelled her to linger beneath the open window where she’d overheard her name mentioned. But wishes were pointless now.
Pain hit her squarely in the chest, then spread outward in waves that made her feel sick. She was a strumpet, she realized as Mathilda’s words about a child echoed through her head, making her feel even more nauseous than before. She might be carrying a baby.
She thought of Mrs. Morris whispering to Mrs. Inkberry about strumpets who slept with men. Now she understood why. Lucy, Lucy, she thought with a hint of hysteria, why didn’t you tell me cabbage patches were a lie?
Daisy pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling the sobs that rose up inside her, sobs of panic and fear. What would she do? If there was a baby, how would she ever face Lucy? Mrs. Morris? All her friends at Little Russell Street? She would be dispatched to the country for confinement, hidden away in shame.
She had probably ruined her life.
And for what? For a man who did not love her, who didn’t want to marry her, who wanted only to finish his book. That was what mattered to him, not her. Never had she felt like a bigger fool.
Hand pressed to her mouth to stifle her sobs, she jumped to her feet. She raced along the side of the house and reentered the library, her only thought to be gone from here as soon as possible. She couldn’t face him or his aunt. She couldn’t. It would be too humiliating.
Inside the library, she scanned bookshelves in desperation, knowing there was a current Bradshaw along there somewhere. But her wits were so scattered, she couldn’t remember quite where it was, and in her panic, it took her some minutes to find it.
With hands that shook, she opened it, and blinking back tears, she tried to read the railway schedule. There were two trains a week from Bovey Tracey to Exeter, she noted, but the next one wasn’t for two days. There were, however, plenty of trains from Torquay, including one tomorrow, if she could arrive there in time to make
it.
Daisy dropped the Bradshaw, and tugged the bell pull. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbed at her eyes, and strove to regain her composure as she waited for a servant to appear.
A few moments later, one of the footmen entered the library, and Daisy shoved her handkerchief back in her pocket. “Have Miss Allyson pack my things at once, and fetch a carriage to take me to Torquay,” she ordered, and even as the words came from her lips, she was remembering Mathilda’s words about the servants always knowing. She felt her face turning scarlet.
Strumpet.
In desperation, she snatched up the letter from her sister that had come in the afternoon post and waved it in the air, adding, “I have received news which impels me to return to London immediately. Haste is vital.”
With that, she turned toward the window. Behind her, she heard the footman depart, and she drew deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves.
It seemed like hours to Daisy before her trunk was brought downstairs, but in reality, it was only seventeen minutes. She knew this because she stood in the foyer, watching the enormous grandfather clock tick away each and every minute.
Dread seemed to make the time crawl by. Dread that at any moment, Lady Mathilda or, even worse, Sebastian, would appear. When her things had been loaded and the footman informed her that the carriage was ready to depart, Daisy felt an overwhelming relief. She would escape, it seemed, slipping away quietly without any fuss.
Her relief, however, was short-lived. She hadn’t even stepped through the front door when an unmistakably male, very irate voice sounded behind her.
“Where are you going?”
Daisy halted, that feeling of dread returning to settle in her stomach like a stone. She nodded to the footman, and he went out, closing the front door behind him. She could hear Sebastian’s footsteps coming toward her across the marble floor of the foyer, and she forced herself to turn around. “I’m leaving.”
He halted, glancing over her tear-stained face. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” Daisy almost wanted to laugh. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s such a fine afternoon, in fact, I decided to take a stroll in the gardens. The south gardens.”
He appreciated the vital point at once. “You overheard.”
“Yes.” The dinner gong sounded, and she felt a jolt of panic. “I have to go.”
“No.” He shook his head, denying it to her, seeming even to deny it to himself.
“I cannot stay here,” Daisy whispered. “Lady Mathilda thinks I am a strumpet!”
“But you’re not!”
“No?” she countered at once. “What am I, then? I’m not your wife, and as you so emphatically stated to your aunt, you have no intention of making me so. And even if you offered, I would refuse you, for I know you do not love me. Don’t deny it,” she added as he opened his mouth to interrupt. “I overheard your conversation, yes, but I knew the truth even before that. I saw it in your face last night. I tried not to believe it, but—” She broke off and gave a little laugh. “But reality is forced upon me. Since you do not love me and do not intend to marry me, we all know what I am. I’m your mistress. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more.” She could hear her voice shaking. “God help me now.”
“You’ve no need to worry.” He closed the distance between them. Cupping her face, he looked straight into her eyes. “I’ll take care of you.”
Ah, yes. Shades of Mr. Pettigrew. “How?” she asked, hearing scorn enter her voice. “By giving me a tidy little income,” she quoted her former employer, “and a house in a discreet neighborhood?”
He didn’t answer, but she saw his lips tighten, and she feared that was exactly what his plan had been. Men, she realized with sudden, uncharacteristic cynicism, were very much alike, regardless of their age or station in life.
She refused the offer before he could confirm it. “No, thank you. It’s very romantic of you,” she couldn’t help adding with heavy sarcasm, “wanting to take care of me and everything, but I fear I must decline your generosity.” She pushed his wrists down and started to turn away, but he grabbed her by the arms.
“Don’t go. Daisy, we have to talk about this. Make arrangements.”
“I want nothing of your arrangements.” She twisted in his hold, trying to free herself. “Let go of me.”
He shook his head, and his hold did not slacken. “You can’t leave me.”
“I know the book’s what’s important, but you’ll have to finish it without me.”
“I can’t! Daisy, I can’t do this without you. If you overheard my conversation with Mathilda, you know how much I need you.” He gave her a little shake. “I can’t let you go. I can’t give you up.”
“Need me?” she echoed, and desperate, she once again struggled in his grip, feeling her panic returning when he still didn’t release her. “Can’t do this without me?” she cried, frantic, twisting in his hold like a trapped animal. “Can’t let me go, can’t give me up? Listen to yourself. You make me sound like some sort of addiction!”
He went utterly still. “What did you say?” he asked in a whisper.
“You talk about me the same way my father always talked about his brandy,” she went on, heedless of the sudden frozen stiffness of his face. “Medicine, he called it. Is that what I am, Sebastian? Your medicine?”
His hand shoved her away as if she burned, but his gray eyes were cold, like frozen lakes, and a shiver ran down her spine. “Go then,” he said, taking a step back. “Go. Get the hell away from me.”
Free at last, Daisy whirled around and left the house, feeling nothing but an overwhelming sense of relief. She raced down the front steps and climbed into the carriage that waited for her in the graveled drive. But when the footman closed the carriage door behind her, she made the mistake of glancing up through the window, and her relief died away into utter misery as she saw Sebastian standing in the doorway. Their eyes met for only a moment, and then he stepped back. When he shut the door, her heart fractured into pieces. Her first love affair, it seemed, was now over.
Daisy secured a third-class ticket on the night train from Torquay to London, but as the train rushed through the countryside of Devonshire, Somerset, and Berkshire, she did not sleep. Instead, she stared out the darkened window and tried to think and decide what to do next.
What will you do now?
She’d asked Sebastian that question once, she remembered. And, as if it were an answer, his words came back to her.
There are other things in life, things that are more important than love. I’ve been in love, and it doesn’t last. And when it’s over, it’s hell for a while. And then one discovers that life goes on.
Her life had to go on. Without him. She didn’t have a manuscript to give Marlowe, so there would be no five hundred pounds, and she’d have to find another post. Typist, she expected, since that was the position for which she seemed most qualified. And she’d have to explain this latest debacle to Lucy. She leaned her head against the window, pressing her cheek to the cool glass with a sigh and wishing, not for the first time, that she was a more accomplished liar. The idea of facing her perfect older sister with the news that she had lost not only another job but her virtue as well was not something she could look forward to with enthusiasm. And she’d have to tell her; Daisy couldn’t lie for toffee, and besides, there was the possibility of a child to consider.
A baby. Daisy’s hand slid to her abdomen. What if there was a baby? Having a child out of wedlock was the worst shame a woman could suffer, and yet, curiously enough, Daisy couldn’t summon her earlier panic and dismay. Lucy, she knew, would stand by her. She might lecture, she might berate, but Lucy would not abandon her. She wasn’t alone, and that was a comforting thought.
Still, there was the fact that she would not be able to work if she was pregnant. No one would hire her. She could finish her novel, she supposed, try to sell it to a publisher. She’d have to go back to writing her books in longhand, since she hadn’t taken the C
randall with her when she’d left Avermore. She couldn’t. A mistress accepted expensive gifts. A respectable woman did not. Perhaps it was a bit late in the day to remember her morals, but nonetheless, she had left Sebastian’s gift behind.
Daisy’s heart clenched with pain, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Best not to think of Sebastian. Later, when she could stand it, she might think about him, but not now.
She didn’t know she had fallen asleep until the train whistle woke her. She jerked upright, noting it was just coming on for dawn, and they were on the outskirts of London. Within an hour, she was at Victoria Station, arranging delivery of her trunk to the lodging house and hailing a taxi. Within two hours, she was in Holborn, standing at the door of Number 32 Little Russell Street.
Daisy paused on the sidewalk, studying the tidy brick building and its dark green shutters with affection. She’d missed the lodging house and all her friends. She’d even missed her sister, and that surprised her more than anything. Daisy took a deep breath and opened the front door.
It was breakfast time, she realized, hearing feminine voices, Lucy’s among them, drifting to the foyer from the dining room. She set down her dispatch case by the coat tree, then crossed the foyer, went down a corridor, and entered the dining room.
Exclamations of surprise and delight greeted her as she paused in the doorway, but her sister’s voice seemed to rise above them all.
“Daisy? What are you doing here?”
She tried to smile. “I’ve lost my post,” she confessed. “Again.”
Chapter 19
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance.
Lord Byron
Daisy’s words began echoing in Sebastian’s ears the moment she was out the door, and no matter how he tried, he could not silence them.
You make me sound like some sort of addiction.
She was an addiction. He knew it well enough. He recognized the symptoms. His need for her was a craving every bit as powerful as his craving for cocaine had been. But all addictions eventually required withdrawal, and in the days that followed Daisy’s departure, he discovered that his withdrawal from her was just as painful.
With Seduction in Mind Page 24