“Lockie?” Amelia appeared on the shop’s front step, putting her arm across Valeria as if to protect her from him. “What are you doing in London? Lionel said you were in the country for the foreseeable.”
Do they all know how terrible I have been? How… foolish, to let this dark angel slip through my fingers?
He straightened his posture, schooling his face into a look of casual indifference. “I had something urgent to collect. I will be returning to the country once I have it.”
Amelia squeezed past Valeria, putting herself in the way. “Well, do not let us hinder you.”
Evidently, Lionel had been gossiping to his wife. It was obvious that Amelia thought Duncan was there to retrieve Valeria and, for a moment, he had half a mind to do just that.
But then he looked at her—that beautiful, perfect woman—and saw something he had hoped he would never see on that remarkable face: the soft sadness of heartbreak, not quite fresh, but not yet healed.
“I am afraid you are in the way,” Duncan said, keeping his voice flat.
Valeria frowned. “You are collecting something fromhere?”
Her tone matched his in its chill, but her eyes betrayed her, widening with a wounded surprise. No doubt, she thought he was collecting a gown for some other woman, beginning a new game for his own amusement, not realizing that his games had ended with her. He would never play again.
“Indeed,” he replied.
Holding her head high, Valeria flashed a tight smile and stepped down onto the street, moving out of his way. “We have what we need. Do not let us stop you.”
“Thank you,” he replied stiffly, as Amelia and Isolde filed out, hurrying to Valeria’s side.
Duncan approached the door, but as his hand curved around the handle, ready to push inside, he could not help but look back at his dark angel.
Their eyes met, a thousand unspoken things flying back and forth between them; her gaze gleaming with something like regret while her mouth remained in a grim line; his gaze trying to tell her that he would love her if he was capable of it, if he was a better man, while his expression stayed implacable. Cold.
It was at that moment that Duncan noticed something else that adorned her bonnet, in amongst the roses: a sleek, black feather. The same raven feather that he had slid into the vase of lavender at Skeffington House, when he had first arrived to insist that he owed her a debt.
She seemed to realize at the same instant, her hand reaching up to touch it, to hide it. But he had already seen it, and his mask of indifference almost broke.
“Good day to you,” he said brusquely, pressing on into the shop, to collect a gown of exquisite beauty that would never be worn. A garment that would join his mother’s rare gowns in that lonely wardrobe: a museum of fashion, gathering dust.
Valeria could not breathe, her hand clawing at her chest as she marched up the street, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the shop as possible.
Why today? Why did you have to be there today?
She had been at Skeffington for a fortnight, making arrangements through letters and her friends and correspondence with Roger, who had returned to his seaside manor. She had intended to stay there until the last moment possible, before leaving for the wedding, but Isolde and Amelia had insisted that shehadto be there to collect her wedding gown in person.
“We will be in London for two days at most,” Isolde had urged. “You cannot send anyone to fetch it, Valery. Itmustbe you. That is part of the excitement of a wedding!”
Yet, all the way to London, Valeria had not been able to shake the feeling that it was a terrible idea. Now, she knew why.
I was just starting to get comfortable with the prospect of being Roger’s wife. I wassoclose to being at peace with it.That was not entirely true. She had spent the past two weeks talking herself into it over and over and over again, and would likely spend the next week doing the same; her mind in constant conflict with her foolish heart.
But he had just taken away the one advantage she had possessed; that she did not have to see him and, so, would not have all her good work unraveled before her very eyes. It was easier to convince herself that she could be content with Roger, without having to gaze at the man who insisted otherwise without saying a word.
I love him…The realization struck her like a falling tree that she had had the misfortune of standing beneath.No… oh, no, no, no… I love him.
Of course, she had been aware of the feelings growing within her heart, every time she had visited him, every time she had been close to him, every time she had dreamed of him; every time he had held her, danced with her, and very nearly kissed her, but she had refused to name the feelings. Seeing him again, that affection, that intense bond that refused to be severed, had named itself.
“Valery?” Isolde put an arm around her. “Are you well? You look pale.”
Amelia took hold of her hand. “Just walk, Valery. Let us keep walking until you feel better.”
I do not think there is anywhere far enough to make me feel better, not even Skeffington,Valeria wanted to say. Instead, she let her friends support her, while Beatrice trailed behind, holding the boxes that contained Valeria’s wedding attire. The wretched bait that had lured her back to London, forcing her into Duncan’s path at the worst possible moment, for her resolve was already made of sand and, right now, it was crumbling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
