“Thank you, Flip,” Layton said, clasping his brother’s shoulders. “Thank you!”
And then he ran.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marion had cried only for the first half hour and only a few stubborn tears at that. She continually told herself that Layton and Caroline would be fine. She’d watched them interact all through the sermon that morning: smiling and affectionate. Layton had his family now; he had them to share his burdens and support him. She wasn’t needed any longer, so it was fitting that she was leaving.
“And I have missed Tafford,” she told herself for probably the hundredth time since she’d left the neighborhood of Collingham some three hours earlier. “It will be good to be home.”
But somehow she felt more like she was leaving home than returning. In all fairness, Cousin Miles had gone out of his way to make her feel welcome. He was kind and generous and already treated her like a close member of the family. But it would be different. Perhaps if she hadn’t grown so attached to Caroline, she wouldn’t be feeling so ridiculously lonely.
“Who are you trying to fool?” she demanded of herself. “Caroline isn’t the sole reason for these dismals. You are pining for him!”
Marion closed her eyes and tried to picture herself a tragic heroine in some gothic novel, wasting away for the love of some dashing gentleman. The image came far too easily. There she sat in a lumbering traveling coach, the windows so fogged she couldn’t see out, on her way to a life of loneliness without the man she loved. Tragic did not begin to describe the situation.
Adèle had quite broadly hinted that she would enjoy sponsoring Marion for a London Season, what with her dowry established and their friendship further firmed. The very idea made Marion want to weep. How could she consider throwing herself on the “Marriage Mart,” as it was termed, when her heart already belonged to another? To a gentleman who hadn’t even bid her farewell?
She wiped furiously at a tear with Layton’s handkerchief, which she had no intention of sending back to him, and told herself to be sensible. Layton had probably appreciated her efforts as a governess, perhaps even felt some gratitude for the ear she’d lent to his troubles. He simply hadn’t loved her the way she had loved him. And why should he?
Marion knew her worth quite well. She was rather plain, with hair far too red, and a tendency to make a blundering wreck of any attempts at social niceties. She was too inclined toward the fanciful and not nearly accomplished enough to gain a gentleman’s attention.
Layton was improving a little every day. Soon he’d be in a position to consider marrying again. He would be happier, Caroline would be cared for, and she, Marion, would be . . . devastated.
She moaned and dropped back against the leather upholstery of the Grenton traveling carriage. She was grateful not to be afforded a view of the passing scenery through the fogged windows. She couldn’t bear to see Nottinghamshire slip away. Marion closed her eyes, reliving that glorious moment so many weeks ago when Layton had opened up to her, shared his heaviest burden, and trusted her with his secrets. The memory was followed quickly by the recollection of a bone-melting kiss, the moment she’d been so certain he’d loved her.
Marion forced her mind to stop there, to not float to the next memory: one that still hurt and ached in her chest. She felt as though she’d lost every ounce of happiness she’d possessed in that one morning when he’d so completely and painfully rejected her.
She became conscious of the carriage coming to an abrupt stop. Marion sat up straight and pressed her face to the glass window at her side. She could make out nothing but the hind half of Cousin Miles’s horse dancing around at the unexpected stop. Muffled voices raised in a hurried conversation made their way inside the carriage, but she could make nothing out.
Highwaymen? she wondered briefly. As a child, she’d often imagined herself beset by a desperate highwayman, only to be saved by a dashing hero. Sitting in the cold, lonely carriage, the idea wasn’t so enjoyable.
Someone outside moved toward the carriage. She couldn’t see through the window to make out much more than a broad silhouette. Suddenly panicking, Marion pressed herself against the opposite side of the carriage and watched the door with alarm.
The door rattled. Marion held her breath. Slowly, it opened. Where was Cousin Miles? She could scream if she needed to. But who would hear? The stranger stepped inside, and Marion nearly fainted.
“Layton!” she managed to whisper as he pulled the door shut behind him. She’d never seen him look more determined. Something in his eyes made her heart turn over in her chest.