Chapter 7
Nicholas woke to pale morning sunlight streaming through the windows of his bedchamber, and for the first time in five years, he felt truly at peace.
The events of yesterday afternoon in the pavilion seemed almost like a dream—Arabella in his arms, her whispered confessions of love, the way she had melted against him as if she had never wanted to be anywhere else.
He stretched languidly, his body still humming with remembered pleasure, and allowed himself a smile.
Today, he would ask her properly. Today, they would plan their future together.
Whatever had driven her away before, whatever secrets she harboured, they would face them as one. She had promised him that much.
The clock on the mantel chimed eight, and Nicholas frowned. Usually, the sounds of the household stirring would have reached him by now. He must have slept deeply.
He dressed quickly, eager to see Arabella again, to reassure himself that yesterday had not been some fevered dream born of longing and desperation.
On the way downstairs, he encountered Sarah in the corridor, her arms full of linens.
“Good morning, Sarah,” he greeted her. “I trust your mistress slept well?”
Sarah’s face went very pale, and she clutched the linens tighter to her chest. “Oh, Mr Morley, sir, I... that is...”
“What is it?” Something cold began to unfurl in Nicholas’s chest. “Where is Lady Lushington?”
“She... she’s very ill. Taken to her bed, she has, with instructions for complete rest and darkness.”
Nicholas frowned, the whispered words he’d overheard drifting back to him.
“And how long is she expected to be indisposed?”
“A…a couple of days, sir. She’ll be right as rain after that, I daresay.”
“I cannot see her?”
The flare of horror in Sarah’s eyes told him everything. “No, sir! She can’t see anyone, like I told you?—”
“Because she’s not in her bedchamber, is she, Sarah?” Nicholas lowered his face to hers. Of course, this wasn’t the maid’s fault, for she was protecting her mistress. He tried to suppress his devastation. “She’s left this house, hasn’t she?”
Sarah said nothing, lowering her eyes while her cheeks flamed.
“Your mistress has gone somewhere to meet someone, hasn’t she?”
Sarah swallowed. “
“I can’t tell you, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Her platitudes washed over him for now his mind was reeling, connecting fragments of that overheard conversation, pieces of a puzzle that suddenly formed a horrifying picture.
I must leave as soon as possible.
Before anyone discovers what I’ve done.
So… she had played him. Again. Used their shared passion to distract him while she prepared to run. Run where? To her mysterious lover? A man who would shield her from the consequences of whatever crime it was that she had committed?
“Sir?” Sarah’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Sir, are you well?”
Nicholas laughed, a harsh sound that made the maid flinch, for it was true that the wall was now supporting him and he truly felt he was about to be ill. “Well? Am I well?”
How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let her make a fool of him twice? Yesterday afternoon, her passionate declarations, her tears, had all been an elaborate performance to keep him from asking too many questions, to ensure his compliance while she made her final preparations.
“Sir, please, you don’t understand?—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Nicholas said, his voice deadly quiet. “Your mistress is very accomplished at deception. I should have remembered that.”
He turned on his heel and strode towards the breakfast room, leaving Sarah staring after him with obvious distress. But all he could think about was the expression on Arabella’s face yesterday as she had whispered of love and forever… with such perfect, calculated sincerity.
The breakfast room was empty save for Lady Fenton, who looked up from her morning correspondence with a bright smile that quickly faded when she saw his expression.
“Mr Morley? Whatever is the matter? You look quite?—”
“When did Lady Lushington leave?” he asked without preamble.
Lady Fenton blinked in confusion. “Leave? I beg your pardon, but?—”
“She’s gone, Lady Fenton. Departed at dawn, I believe. I wondered if you might know anything about her... urgent business.”
“Gone?” Her face reflected genuine shock. “But that’s impossible. Antoinette was planning another outing today, and just yesterday Lady Lushington seemed... that is, after you both returned from the pavilion, she appeared quite...”
“Quite what?” Nicholas’s voice was sharp.
“Happy,” Lady Fenton finished quietly. “She appeared quite happy.”
The word twisted in Nicholas’s chest like a knife. Happy. Yes, she had probably been delighted with how easily she had managed him. How thoroughly she had ensured his cooperation.
“Did she give no indication of where she was going?” he pressed.
“None whatsoever. In fact...” Lady Fenton hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “In fact, I had the distinct impression that she was rather looking forward to today. She seemed... hopeful about something.”
Hopeful. Yes, she would be hopeful about reuniting with her lover, who would provide her with whatever money or documentation to whitewash her lies and perfidy or other wickedness of which she was guilty.
A terrible cold seeped through Nicholas as the last vestige of his love for Arabella—bolstered by their exquisite tryst yesterday—crumbled to ash.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, his voice stilted with the effort of remaining polite as he backed towards the door, “I am suddenly not particularly hungry this morning.”
He left Lady Fenton staring after him in bewilderment and made his way to the gardens, where he hoped the winter air might clear his head and help him think rationally about what to do next.
But rationality seemed beyond him. All he could think about was the way Arabella had felt in his arms yesterday, the way she had whispered his name as if he were the most beloved man in the world, the way she had looked at him with such perfect, lying tenderness.
But today she was gone.
Gone… forever?
No, the whispered conversation he had overheard suggested she intended to return.
No doubt, after buttering him up yesterday, she’d be confident that she could sweet-talk her way back into his good graces with more pretty lies and passionate kisses.
She was wrong.
By the time Lady Lushington returned from her sordid assignation, Nicholas Morley would be long gone. This time, he would not wait around to have his heart shattered again. This time, he would save himself the trouble.
Some lessons, apparently, had to be learned twice before they truly took hold.
And the lesson of Arabella Beecham—or Lushington, or whatever name she chose to call herself—was one he should have had the good sense to remember: Get close at your peril .