Chapter 17 #4
Virginia had escaped the house hours ago, taking a very long walk into the village and back.
Now, as she entered the drive, she saw the carriage parked in front of the manor and froze.
Dread began. She firmly—grimly—shoved it aside.
Three days had passed since their first caller and there had been a dozen callers since.
Apparently half of Hampshire knew that the infamous Captain O’Neill was living openly with his mistress and everyone had to come see for him or herself.
She thought she was playing the game well.
She kept her head high, her tone soft, she called him darling, touched and kissed his cheek, and the scandalmongers were satisfied.
Devlin was satisfied. Only she knew how hard it had all become.
She hated every moment. It was like being a fish in a fishbowl. Or worse, it was like being a naked woman in a fishbowl, gawked at by lechers with terrible intent. And Devlin did not seem to care. But then, she would never let him know that the game had become such a terrible indignity.
She paused, staring at the front of the stone house, hugging herself. She was simply not up to another performance; she was not up to a severe and judgmental inspection. She debated going back to the road and continuing her walk when she noticed the banner on the carriage.
She knew it well. Her father had had a book of coat of arms and she had been shown the Eastleigh emblems at an early age.
Her heart lurched. She did not know whether to be thrilled or dismayed.
But Eastleigh must have come to pay her ransom.
And maybe it was time to give up, maybe it was time to simply go home.
A part of her shrieked inwardly, refusing to be such a coward. Virginia ignored the silent tantrum, but as she hurried toward the house she wondered how easy—or how hard—it would be to walk away from Devlin O’Neill now.
“They are in the library, Miss Hughes,” Tompkins said, his eyes wide. And he was not smiling.
Virginia halted, confused. Devlin always entertained their callers in the parlor. And Tompkins always smiled. “Is something amiss?” she dared to ask.
His smile appeared, terribly strained. “Of course not. They are behind closed doors,” he added with significance.
Virginia had been about to walk away. She halted and looked right at the butler. “It is my uncle, the Earl of Eastleigh?” she asked.
“It is the countess,” he said.
Virginia blinked. How odd, she thought, instantly envisioning an old woman as fat and gray as her husband.
But maybe the countess had come to ransom her, as the earl seemed so feeble.
She started forward, began to open the door, and the moment she did so, she heard the soft, cultured and sensual tone of a woman who was neither old nor feeble.
The tone was of a young woman in distress.
Virginia froze.
“I don’t understand this, Devlin.”
The countess was calling him Devlin? Virginia peeked past the door, which was ajar by mere inches. She gasped.
A very beautiful blond woman, old enough to be William Hughes’s wife, not Eastleigh’s, stood facing Devlin, clearly aggrieved.
She was more than lovely; she had a lush, seductive figure and a face of terrible, haunting beauty.
Beyond dismayed, Virginia’s gaze shot to Devlin, but his face was a mask, impossible to read.
Her heart began to pound.
“Is it true?” the countess asked softly, touching his chest. No, God, no, Virginia thought, this cannot be.
“I’m afraid so, Elizabeth,” he said, and he walked away.
The woman cried out, a flush covering her cheeks, and she stared after him distraught, trembling, a woman with a breaking heart. “But I am your mistress,” she said. “And suddenly you replace me, like this?”
“I am sorry.” Devlin returned, handing her a brandy. “I never made you any promises, Elizabeth. I am afraid things have changed.”
Virginia clung to the door. Devlin’s mistress had been Eastleigh’s wife? It was too horrid to be believed and while she felt deeply for the countess, she was ill. She could never, ever compete with a woman like this.
Elizabeth held the brandy to her full, very bare bosom, her knuckles white. Her pallor was increasing. “I know you never made a single promise. Oh, God. I still fail to understand. I somehow thought that here in Britain I was all that you wished.”
“Perhaps you should sit down?” Devlin asked politely and so impersonally.
“I am in love with you, Devlin,” she cried.
“And I told you once, that would not be wise.”
“Oh, God.” Suddenly she looked ill enough to faint and she sat down with Devlin’s help. She clutched the drink but made no effort to sip it. “You don’t care. You don’t care at all, do you?”
His jaw flexed. “As I said, things have changed.”
“No, you were always heartless—I merely prayed that it was not true!” She somehow stood, eyes wide and moist. “Who is she? Is she an actress?” The countess was holding on to her dignity with what was clearly a great effort.
She set the untouched brandy down. “I mean, you are living here openly with her. You have jilted me for some harlot?” Tears finally filled her eyes.
“You do not wish to make a scene, Elizabeth,” Devlin said calmly.
“But I do!” she cried. “And I wish to meet this woman you have so callously replaced me with!”
“I am afraid that is not possible,” Devlin said. “I am sorry if I have hurt you. Perhaps you should leave, before you say something you will regret on the morrow.”
“I have been your mistress for six years, and just like this, it is over?”
Virginia gasped and in that moment, she somehow pushed the door wide open and fell into the room. She landed on the floor in a heap, not far from where the lovers stood.
Virginia looked up slowly.
Devlin’s brows were lifted while the countess stared, still agonized and shocked. He said, “Spying, Virginia?” And he helped her to her feet.
Virginia wanted to ask him why, why had he done this? Why was he doing this? How many innocent people would he hurt to avenge his father? But she was incapable of speech.
“That’s her?” the countess cried. “But she is a child!”
Virginia fought for a degree of composure. “I am eighteen,” Virginia said. Then she curtsied. “My lady.”
The countess covered her brow with her hand, turning away. Virginia looked at Devlin, wanting to berate him and wishing, desperately, that she had never met this woman, not knowing what she did now.
The Countess of Eastleigh had been his mistress for six years. Virginia remained stunned and heartsick. Devlin would never fall in love with her, not if he had never fallen in love with the countess.
A terrible silence had fallen. Devlin broke it, speaking quietly. “Virginia, the countess is leaving. Why don’t you go upstairs for a moment or two? I shall be up shortly.”
Before Virginia could respond, a refusal on the tip of her tongue, the countess turned. “Virginia? Her name is Virginia?” Her gaze became wildly accusing and it turned to Devlin. “That is not my niece, is it?”
“I am afraid so,” Devlin said, and he seemed braced for her reaction. The countess cried out.
Virginia could not stand it anymore. She ran to her and said, “Please, do sit down. You are suffering a terrible shock. And you need not worry, really, he doesn’t love me—or even care for me—at all.”
The countess blinked at her, tears falling now. She said, “You would be kind to me?”
Virginia nodded. “Because you are right, he is heartless, and no one deserves to be cast off in such a manner.” She glared at Devlin. He was actually grim, as if displeased or unhappy with the entire affair.
The countess wiped her eyes and stared. “We thought you drowned.”
“No. I was transferred to his ship and—”
Devlin seized her arm. “You need not bore the countess with the details,” he said in real warning.
She glared at him and struggled to shake him off. “You are a bastard. Let me go!”
He started and released her.
Virginia sent him another murderous look. Perhaps, finally, she hated him.
He spoke to the countess, but never removed his stare from Virginia. “Elizabeth, I am afraid I must ask you to leave.”
“Yes, it is time that I left.” But she stared intensely at Virginia now, so much so that Virginia forgot how furious she was with Devlin and apprehension began. And finally the countess glanced at Devlin. “Have you hurt her?”
His brows lifted. “Hardly.”
The countess turned to Virginia.
Virginia flushed. “I am fine—all circumstances considered.”
“I hesitate to wonder what that may mean. Virginia, you are far too young, in spirit if not age, for a man like Devlin. I fear for you, my dear.”
Virginia didn’t know what to say. “His bark is worse than his bite,” she said, hoping her tone was light. Then added, “Usually.”
The countess glanced back and forth between them again. “Don’t make the terrible mistake that I made. Do not allow yourself to fall in love with him. He will never love you back.” Her smile was twisted and sad and she walked out.
It’s too late, Virginia thought. She walked to the door, staring after the countess, admiring her for her dignity and pride. She was unbearably saddened.