Chapter Eight
Two evenings later Sephora sat and wrote another letter to the Earl of Douglas because she thought if she even left it for one more moment she would decide not to and by then it would be too late.
She asked Francis St Cartmail to meet her at Lackington’s in Finsbury Square, in the back room behind the spiral staircase. That part of the Temple of the Muses was always deserted, housing most of the old and dusty treatises that were seldom lent out. Nobody would disturb them.
She set down a time and a place. The day after tomorrow at two o’clock in the afternoon. With all that had happened, she knew Mama would insist on a nap and she could use those hours to quietly escape. She had two books that needed returning and the library was one of the places she visited on a regular basis. No one would ask questions.
Of late, she had seen her mother watching her with a sort of veiled pity, the look one might give a wounded animal or a simple child. Once or twice Mama had even enquired whether she was happy with her betrothed, the questions phrased in a way that did not require any answer as she always added some anecdote of the material gains such a marriage would entail. New gowns. A beautiful house. A place in the ton that was almost unequalled. A title. Sephora, the new Duchess of Winbury.
In the past she had largely ignored these sorts of comments and got on with life. But now she found she couldn’t. Richard was also pressing her for a wedding date and he wanted it to be a lot sooner than she had hoped for now that his father had passed away.
Without a great array of close girlfriends and with her sister away on a short holiday with their aunt, Sephora felt isolated and alone. Her life had stalled somehow into a shadowy place, the gloom of death, the sadness of grief, the inability of Richard to extricate himself from an ever-deepening hole of grief. The colour of black consumed her.
She was constantly fidgeting and was always scared—of saying something, of not saying anything, of waiting until a good time to break off untenable promises. She had got so worried by it all that she had come out into welts of hives, all over her arms and her back, the red and swollen itchiness making her irritable and impatient.
And right there and then, in the quiet of a late evening, Sephora felt exactly as she had when she had fallen from the bridge into the river all those weeks ago, breathless and cold, her world receding into darkness.
Suffocating.
This is what it felt like to die inside and yet still live. The realisation was so dreadful she could not even cry out.
* * *
She sat that way until the dawn when the first pink light of morning came and she knew, with every single part of her being, that she would die here if she stayed silent even for another hour.
It had been so long since she felt alive, so long since she had laughed or loved or lived. Properly. When she had seen Francis St Cartmail walk into the Stevenage town house the small flicker of something she’d thought dead inside her had been surprising. Vitality. Vigour. Desire. Pushing against all that was numb and frozen and telling her she could wait no longer. Picking up her letter, she ripped the sheet into a hundred pieces and hid them under other paper in her drawer. A letter would not do it. She would go and see him herself.
When her maid finally came to her room as the hall clock struck nine in the morning, she instructed the girl to find her navy day dress and her cloak and hat. Then with her hair put up and her cheeks rubbed into colour, Sephora simply walked down the stairs and out of the house before anyone at all would miss her.
* * *
Francis was coming from his library as the butler opened the door and he wondered who on earth would be calling in on the household at such an hour.
Lady Sephora Connaught stood there in a fine blue dress and cloak, a small purse in hand and her cheeks so pale, he thought she might simply fall over before he could reach her.
‘Lord Douglas,’ she said and then stopped, taking a breath and beginning again. ‘I need to speak with you privately, my lord, if you would be kind enough to allow me the time.’
‘You are alone?’ He took her arm and looked around. No one else was in sight. The sleeve of her cloak had fallen back and a large welt of redness was easily visible.
‘Has somebody hurt you?’ His heart began to thump as quickly as hers did, for he could feel the rapid beat of blood under his fingers.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your arm? Who did this to you?’ When he pulled the sleeve up further there were more welts, barely a piece of skin unmarked.
She began to cry even as he looked at her, huge tears simply pooling in her pale eyes and falling down her cheeks.
‘They...are...h-hives. I get...them when I am...scared.’
Swallowing down fury, Francis took her through to his library and shut the door. Just at that moment he cared nothing for propriety or the rule of manners. All he wanted to do was to take Sephora into his arms and hold her safe, but he made himself stand still. Why had she come here so early and so alone and why the hell was she so scared?
He made certain she sat in the most comfortable wing chair by the fire. It was cool this morning, the June temperatures diving after a warm spell. Bringing her a drink, he waited till she took a sip and then coughed.
‘Wh-what is it?’
‘Whisky. It fortifies the spirit.’
Carefully she took another sip and swallowed it. Her mouth puckered in distaste, but still she took a third.
‘I need as much of...this as I can g-get, then.’
The fourth, fifth and sixth swallows had him leaning forward and taking the glass from her.
‘It’s usually not imbibed with such rapidity, especially if you aren’t used to it, and it’s a damn strong brew.’
She sat back at that, leaning her head against the leather and closing her eyes, the silence between them as perplexing as her appearance here. After a few moments though her glance caught his own and she smiled.
‘You are very beautiful, Lord Douglas, but then I suppose many women tell you that. I am a woman, after all, and I am telling you that.’ She hiccupped and her hand covered her mouth.
Hell. She was tiddly and fast becoming properly drunk. The whisky had been a poor idea.
‘I cannot marry Richard Allerly, the Duke of Winbury. I have come here to say this. To you.’
She was well in her cups and he should not play the game that she had somehow started. He should bundle her up right here and now, ply her with strong coffee and have her taken home before things got completely out of hand. But he couldn’t. The gentleman in him twisted across desire and lust. ‘Why do you not wish to marry him?’
‘Because...’ She looked at him then with her pale eyes, a hint of light grey at their edges. ‘Because...only with you do I feel...safe.’
Safe? When all he could think of doing was kissing her to feel again what he had in the water, the warmth of her and the sweetness? Safe—a sharp and innocent barb that both broke his heart and firmed his resolve. He wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but she couldn’t know that yet and he wouldn’t tell her.
Stepping back, he took the blanket from the sofa behind him, then wrapped it around her and brought her from the chair.
‘Come, Sephora. I will take you home.’
* * *
He knew they had been observed leaving his town house, though he hoped the blanket might have obscured her identity from those who watched.
The ride back was quiet and quick, Sephora merely slumped against the seat opposite him, lost in thought. The Aldford town house had a small drive, an unusual but most useful amenity. He was glad to be free of the public gaze and yet the worst was probably to come.
A servant hurried down the stairs and opened the door and Francis helped Sephora out as she leaned on his arm, blinking her eyes as if she had trouble with her vision.
Her mother met them before they had gone three steps, the anger in her undeniable and immense and behind her the single figure of the Duke of Winbury hovered, his face as red as the welts on Sephora’s arms.
‘You!’ There was no greeting and no explanation as he came forward, knocking Francis backward, and short of taking Sephora with him he simply let her go as he tumbled, leaving him no true time to protect himself, the hard edge of the marble steps connecting with his left temple and stunning him momentarily.
Then Winbury was kicking at his shoulder and his arm and his head. The day darkened, but he managed to get up, his own servant now between his assailant and him. Sephora’s father, the Earl of Aldford, grabbed at the newly titled duke and slammed him up hard against a nearby wall.
‘Stop.’ Sephora’s voice, from the bottom of the steps, panicked and desperate. ‘Don’t hurt him.’
Francis did not know whom she meant not to be hurt, but the blood from the gash at his temple was gushing down his face and he understood at that moment there was nothing to be gained by trying to explain. Not here. Not now. Not in the heat of argument and in the sharp pull of pain.
Lady Aldford was shouting, too, telling him to leave and never come back, Anne-Marie’s name in the mix of her wrath. ‘You have already ruined the life of my sister’s daughter and I shall never allow you to despoil another.’
He felt oddly disconnected, the throb in his temple worsening and his breath shortened. When his man took his arm he allowed him to lead him back to the waiting carriage, sitting on the seat with relief as the world spun in dizzying circles.