Chapter Six #2
Her embarrassment faded as the afternoon turned to evening.
The nap had certainly improved her mood for she’d had very little sleep the night before.
Her bed had been strange and uncomfortable, as inn beds often were.
The conversation at the dinner table had replayed in her head, growing worse each time.
She should not have snapped. A simple thank you for the ring would have been enough.
Afterwards, she should have shut her mouth and let him say whatever he wished.
He probably thought she was angling for a real proposal, after he’d made it clear they were only friends.
She’d kept twisting the ring on her finger and wondering if she might rest easier if she removed it. It was not tight. There was no real reason to take it off, other than that she’d never worn jewellery to bed.
If it had been a real engagement ring, she might have left it on, afraid to be parted from it. What would the duke do if she pulled it off her finger and left it on a table somewhere?
Not that she was likely to do so. The memory of him slipping it on her finger was permanently etched on her brain.
Even though it was nothing more than a part of the game they were playing, it was sweet that he’d thought of it.
Other men might not have taken such time to put her at ease, assuring her that she felt like someone’s beloved instead of an unwanted spinster.
Today, she’d been so close to him that she’d smelled him in her dreams. Her feet had been touching his, though she’d not been awake to enjoy it. It was probably just as well. If she’d been conscious, she’d have found some way to spoil it.
Silly strumpet, letting a man under your skirts.
They were less than a day’s journey away from home. She could practically see the old man, leaning on his cane and ever ready with a spiteful criticism.
But they were not there yet.
She summoned a smile for the duke as he led her up the stairs to their sitting room and its attached bedrooms, trying to relax.
She excused herself as quickly as she could, leaving the duke with Percy and going to her room to refresh herself and hide away until dinner, attempting to gain control of her disordered thoughts.
Thomas was right that it was becoming easier for her to talk to him, though it was not for the reasons he thought.
When he insisted on playing at Tom Smith, who could blame her for being charmed?
In three years, she’d met no one who could live up to the fantasy she’d created of the perfect lover.
But Mr Smith would do nicely. He looked the part as well.
He was courting her, or had courted her in some strange, false past that she did not remember.
He had given her a ring and watched over her as she slept.
Why wouldn’t she love him, at least a little?
The answer to that was obvious. The minute they had her grandfather’s blessing, Tom Smith would begin to fade away.
He might linger for a day or two, so his departure would not seem too abrupt.
But in less than a week, there would be nothing left of him but the obituary that Percy had already composed.
The duke would probably see this as a fitting end. But then he saw this trip as some grand adventure with all the dramatic twists and turns of a popular novel. In his mind, he was the hero and she was but an incidental player.
When he talked of Tom Smith, she wondered how much of the plot really involved her rescue. Once Mr Smith had exited the scene, there would be no more story to tell.
For her, it would be the end of a volume and the beginning of the next.
One without Tom Smith or Thomas Carew. Even if she saw the duke again, he’d made it clear what he thought of her.
If she was not satisfied with his friendship, it would be better not to see him at all.
She’d told him of a cottage with a rose garden, but it was even less real than her dream lover.
She did not want a peaceful solitude. She wanted a husband who loved her.
There was still a very real possibility that they would fail in their plan and she would suffer the life that she’d been threatened with for years.
Tomorrow, she would be delivered to her grandfather like Guinevere hauled to judgement on display for jeering crowds.
Or perhaps Anne Boleyn on the way to the block.
Although that was not quite right, was it? They had used a sword on Anne, not an axe. Perhaps a block had not been needed to steady her for the blow.
But the scorn was right, she was sure. She might not be guilty in the same way as Anne and Guinevere. It required a minimum of two interested men to become an adulterer. And the gentlemen of London had not noticed her for the last three years, nor were they paying any attention to her retreat.
But if they heard her story, she was sure they’d mock her. When she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the people shouting. And they all sounded strangely like her grandfather.
Idiot. Fool. Incompetent. Wool-gathering spinster. Do you think any man would actually want you? And to choose Bonham, of all people. You, a duchess?
She glanced in the mirror over the washbasin. The girl reflected there seemed to shrink as she watched. She was no tormented queen in need of rescue. She was nobody in particular and that was not going to change, even if she got the money she was owed.
She turned away and pulled the fichu from the neck of her gown and tossed it aside, so she might look a little nicer at dinner. Its removal did not turn a travelling gown into a dinner dress, any more than dreaming would turn her into a duchess. The sooner she accepted the fact, the better.