She had thought him kind because he had brought them here to meet the earl. Now she saw that it had all been a joke to him. He had wanted to cause his stepbrother consternation. All the times he had smiled or winked or warmth had glinted in his eyes, he had merely been laughing at her. She remembered the way she had responded this evening to the mere brush of his lips upon the back of her hand, the shiver of desire that had shot through her. She had thought that the glint in his eyes meant that he had felt it too—when all it really signified was that he was amused at her naïve reaction.
Mary winced as she recalled the anger and resentment in Royce’s voice when he rejected the earl’s suggestion that he marry one of the Bascombes. It had been painful hearing the earl say that she and her sisters would not be accepted by London society, but it had not surprised her. The earl’s reception had been anything but warm, and she suspected that he had invited the aunts to dinner simply to drive home to her and her sisters how little they belonged here. He had intended to show them up as country bumpkins, without proper clothes, manners, or sophistication.#p#分页标题#e#
But she had thought that Sir Royce would defend them. That he would point out that they were clever or self-sufficient or pretty—something besides social pariahs. Instead, he had rejected with great indignation the idea of marrying one of them.
She had been an utter fool. All she could hope for was that Royce had not realized how much she was drawn to him. Mary tried to remember if she had appeared to flirt with him. Had she looked at him like some moonstruck young girl? She knew she had responded to his kiss, but surely any woman would have done that. It had been far too exciting not to respond.
But maybe other women—sophisticated women, those raised to be ladies—would not have kissed him back. Perhaps that was why he had called her half-civilized. Her thoughts went round and round on this track for some time, and the more she thought about it, the worse she felt. She could not bear to think of facing Royce. Perhaps he would not come to the house tomorrow, and she could leave without seeing him.
She ignored the pang that idea caused and tried to focus on leaving. She would have to explain it to her sisters, of course, and she dreaded that. It would hurt them to learn what she had overheard. But she could hardly expect them to go just because she told them to. It made no sense to leave just when they had finally achieved their goal. No, she would have to admit that the earl and his relatives did not find them good enough. Then her sisters would not wish to remain any more than she did.
The problem, of course, was where they would go. They had no money and knew no one. They could not return home; they hadn’t enough money even to pay their fare. They would have to find a place to live and some sort of employment to keep themselves fed. It was a daunting prospect, especially in an unfamiliar city and country. Still, she told herself, there was nothing else she could do. They could not stay here, knowing how the earl—and the others—felt about them.
Her eyes filled with tears, but sternly she blinked them away. She would not cry. She refused to let Sir Royce make her cry. She wished with all her heart that she had never gone downstairs tonight.
When Mary awoke the next morning, she found herself alone. Rose must have already dressed and gone downstairs. It was quite late, she realized. She had slept poorly, waking from vague, half-remembered dreams that left her unsettled, even afraid. Accustomed as she was to the quiet of their small country town, every unfamiliar city noise—from the sound of a late hackney rolling down the street to the rumble of vendors’ carts and their cries early in the morning—had brought her awake.
Mary pulled herself out of bed and dressed sluggishly. She wondered whether there would be any breakfast left or whether she would have to leave the house on an empty stomach. It would make for a more satisfying, dramatic exit if she did not prosaically go downstairs to eat breakfast—the heroines in Lily’s books would not even think of food. However, Mary was aware that she was far too dull and pragmatic to be a heroine. She hoped that at least the earl would not be there at such a late hour.
When she slipped into the dining room a few minutes later, she was relieved to see that the earl was, in fact, not at the table. Unfortunately, his brother Fitz was. She hesitated in the doorway, tempted to turn and flee, but Fitz rose gracefully to his feet and the chance was gone.
“Cousin Mary.” He smiled, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling in a charming way. “Just the person I was hoping to see.”
“Indeed?” Mary walked to the table. Fitz nimbly rounded the corner to pull out her chair, and by the time she had sat down and placed a napkin in her lap, a footman was pouring her tea.