Oh.Oh. Her fingers lost feeling all at once, and the paper fluttered to the tabletop, careless of small puddles, and she pressed her hand to heart where a wound had opened up. Ithurt. How could she breathe after this? How could she live?
“Mrs. Dart? Are you ill?”
Her other hand fluttered to her cheek. Cold. “I… I am…”
Another hand cupped her other cheek. Not her hand. This one gloved in black and warm through a layer of thin cotton. She dared to look up. He stood, leaning over the table, and yes, it washis hand resting on her cheek, his blue eyes gazing down at her with concern.
“I knew you looked too flushed. Thought it the cursed gown bringing color to your cheeks. And you’ve had too much to drink. Back to the house with you. Now.”
She shook her head, and though she wanted to lean into the comfort of his palm, it was false comfort, temporary, curt, professional. Not what she wished. So she brushed his hand away and clutched her hands in her lap, tried to master the panicked thumping of her heart.
“I’m fine,” she said in a stronger voice than she thought herself capable of.
He lowered back to his seat. “I don’t believe you.”
“I am.” She took a hearty sip of her drink. “’Tis merely that your plan is so unexpected. You’ve told me nothing of it.”
“Apologies. I wanted to be prepared with a list of possible names before sharing the plan with you.”
“Ever prepared. Wh-when do you intend to begin this course of action?”
“As soon as we return to Manchester.”
“Ah yes. Quite sensible.” The perfect answer to give him because it’s what he expected her to say. Also what she’d say if she weren’t in love with him. “But…” Her mouth proved almost too dry to speak. She shouldn’t speak. She knew the shape of the words jumping to leave her lips, and she should keep them locked tight away, but she loved him, and what he intended to do… He deserved better. The women deserved better. She’d received a handful of the type of proposal Lord Andrew planned. For any woman with a heart, it was a hurtful thing. “What about love, Lord Andrew? Will you truly enter into a passionless marriage? Or is there someone you…” She couldn’t say it, couldn’t finish the thought. The names on the soggy paperglowing on the tabletop between them mocked her. Had he traced any of them with a greater softness than the rest?
“I’ve no time for love. You know that. Love takes time. And it’s too unpredictable. What if I were to fall in love with a poor woman?” He shook his head. “No. Not part of the plan. Let others suffer with love. I choose only that which I can control.”
“Suffer indeed,” she mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She’d been right. She could not tell him. It would not do any good. Once set on a plan, Lord Andrew Bromley did not veer from it, not for any temptation. And love, it seemed, proved no temptation at all.
She drank her ale slowly and silently, listening to the details of Lord Andrew’s plan, and wondered how long her heart could survive after the man she loved married another woman. She’d kept her secret for fear she’d have to leave when he did not return her feelings. Secrecy had meant survival. Now survival might mean the very last thing she’d ever wanted to do—leave.
Three
Coach rides were insufferable. Drew could plot and plan for hours with Mrs. Dart, but she could not write those plans down. On the one hand, an utter waste. On the other, it did help to organize his thoughts. Not that it mattered this particular trip to London. Atlas stole all of Mrs. Dart’s time and attention. They’d played card games and read to one another, conversed and laughed. Atlas even sang her a song, and she’d sung one back. Then they’d sung onetogether.
And Drew had done his best not to cast up his accounts while attempting to sleep through it all. He’d never been sick because of the swaying of the coach before. He must have over imbibed last night. Mrs. Dart certainly had, not that she showed the signs of it. She looked pert and competent as usual in her gray traveling gown and brown pelisse. Gray and brown. Thank God.
Everything back to normal.
Except for Atlas.
“What are you doing here again?” Drew asked.
“Going to London, same as you.” Atlas grinned.
“I understand that part. But you could have taken your own coach.”
“It needs repairs. And I need someone to help me finish the dower house. That someone is likely in London. Thus, I’m sitting here. Going to London in order to bring back an artisan.”
“Yes.” A coming megrim beat against the inside of Drew’s skull. “But you are going to Londonwith me.”
“How do you work for such a grouch?” Atlas asked Mrs. Dart.
“It can be a trial at times. But I am more than capable of handling the man.”
