There was no romance to be found here. What was she expecting, great declarations of love?The taunt echoed through her, and she shook her head at her own internal mockery; she hadn’t been expecting any declarations of overwhelming desire. But were someone to ask her to wed them, she hoped it would have been with at least some element of affection.
She looked towards the doorway, considering running away and leaving all this. After all, she had a fiancé, dear Dr. Copeland, who she had completely betrayed today. Guilt rumbled through Maeve—she was abandoning him. Their relationship had been one of friendship and respect, with no manipulation involved at all. That was not why Silverton wanted her. His desire was ancient, raw, almost biblical. It wasn’t about her, but something she could provide for him—an heir.
It almost made her pick up her skirts and run away, and yet, she stayed because she had seen his vulnerability. She would never have agreed to this madcap scheme had he not been ill, had he not been so desperate as to propose to a stranger. The need radiated out of him. And that was why she had said yes to this. Or at least, that was what she was telling herself.
It was ironic that he was so ill because there was such a vivacity to the viscount. A depth and intensity in his gaze that made Maeve feel aware of the very toes in her stockings and the freckles on her hands. Had she really said yes to such a man?
One look at Silverton, just five feet from her, told her that it was real. He had proposed. To her. Were someone to tell Maeve that this was what would have greeted her when she entered Silver Hall, she would have laughed at the idea.
It was silly, it was daft. But it was going to happen. They were going to gather his belongings, and then set off towards her father’s home before making the journey to London. It was only the afternoon, but by midnight her whole life would be forever altered.
The viscount—or Silverton as she should now call him—was packing his belongings, moving with a pace that told her urgency mattered to him. Sheets of paper were being piled into a valise, whilst Maeve was supposed to be writing to her employer to explain her upcoming absence. But his presence was making it hard to concentrate. In appearance he looked as wild and untamed as ever, but his movements were the precise opposite. He was exacting, even with something as mundane as paperwork. The contrast of these two traits left Maeve feeling conflicted with a sensation that was entirely alien to her. Was he the debonair sophisticate that his class and title indicated he should be? Or was he as he appeared, a gruff, fast, rather rough-looking man who unnerved her completely but whose need spoke to her?
He must have realised she was watching him because Silverton glanced over at her. “Have you finished your note?”
“Not yet.” Maeve lowered her head and focused on the page before her. She gripped the quill tightly and tried her best to order her scattered thoughts. So far, she had only addressed the top of the page, to the headmistress of Ashford School for Girls. Nothing more. Dipping the quill into the ink, she lowered the nib back to the sheet and tried again. She had given no reason for why she would be quitting. Perhaps because it was an illogical action to marry a man she barely knew, and explaining that was beyond her.
“Excuse me whilst I go and instruct my driver to prepare the carriage. It will be a journey of at least four hours,” Silverton said.
“I am used to travelling by public coach.”
“This will be much more comfortable and far quicker. I can promise you that.” Silverton slipped out of the study, leaving Maeve alone to gaze at the closed door and wonder what she had agreed to.
“Absurd,” she muttered under her breath.
Why had she agreed to this marriage? If pressed by the viscount, she would say it was because of her father and his debts and sympathy for Silverton’s own need. Yet the truth was deeper and more mysterious than that, rooted in Maeve’s own desire. It was pulling her along a path which she could hardly explain to herself. It was not pity, nor compassion, but something else entirely, which moved beyond the rational and stirred her entire body. It went all the way to her very soul, which cried out that she must agree to his plan.
It was unexplainable. She played out trying to tell her sister, and she wanted to laugh. So, she started to write her letter, determined to trust to her own strength of will.
Dear Miss Helen Copeland,
I regret I am unable to return to Ashford for this term. My father is deeply unwell, and I must remain by his side until he recovers. Please inform Dr. Copeland he must consider our understanding at an end. I apologise for the short notice. You know it is not in my character to act so, and if there was an alternative, I would make it. I will write again soon.
Yours sincerely,
Miss M. Walsh
Maeve foldedthe paper and slipped it into an envelope, her brief letter hardly doing justice to the long partnership she had had with kindly, studious Helen. Yet these were extraordinary circumstances, and Maeve comforted herself that she would not have behaved in this manner unless she had to. Hopefully once the matter was settled, she would be able to write to Helen and her brother Dr. Copeland and give them more details.
There was a knock at the door, and Silverton eased himself back into the study. His dark eyes sought her out questioningly as he moved nearer to her.
“Are you ready?” Silverton asked. He was not near enough to read or see the contents of her note but close enough for her to be aware of his steady breath and sense his solid, unrelenting form. For someone who apparently was ill, he was not displaying any of the normal signs of sickness.
Standing up, Maeve put the note into an envelope and passed it to him. “You will see it is left and sent out to Miss Copeland? I have put her address on the envelope.”
“Mrs. Bowen will see it arranged.”
“Thank you.”
“Come then, my lady.” Silverton offered his arm, linking the two of them and leading her from the study and down the hallway.
Silver Hall was quiet. They walked close together, and Maeve wondered what they would look like as a couple. How they would be perceived by others.
She paused on the threshold, looking up the stairs to where she assumed Silverton’s mother was staying.
“Did you wish to speak to your mother—did you want me to?”
“No.” Silverton was drawing on his own long coat as he spoke. When he glanced at her, he caught the look of surprise on Maeve’s face. “She is not herself.” He offered no further explanation.
