the door, he acknowledged that there were other things motivating him. He liked Thea—more than liked. He cared about her. About the woman who had kept that badly carved little bird all these years. About the woman whose eyes spoke sometimes of a pain he could only guess at. And who could wipe him off a chessboard. He smiled as he picked up a candle from the hall table and lit it from a taper. It was the only candle there so Almeria and Thea must be in already. He blew out the taper.
Yes, the more he thought about the idea of marrying Thea, the more right it seemed. Once he could get past the idea of facing Almeria’s smug gloat. No point cutting off your nose to spite your face. There would probably be a certain air of well-fed-cat-picking-its-teeth-with-yellow-feathers about Braybrook too. Not even that had the power to bother him.
Not beside the anticipated delight of Thea as his wife, his bride, his lover … Desire kicked sharply as he trod up the stairs. If they were married, instead of passing her room with every muscle, nerve and sinew straining at the leash, he would be opening the door and stripping quietly, before sliding into bed with her … to hold her, love her gently … His blood burned and he realised to his horror that he had actually stopped at the door.
He took a shuddering breath. Tomorrow morning he was going to propose to Thea Winslow. It might be the only way to retain his sanity.
Chapter Seven
Thea stared blindly at her teacup. A piece of toast, reduced to crumbs on her bread-and-butter plate, bore mute testament to her lack of appetite. A sleepless night had left her with a crashing headache, and a churning stomach. The Heathcote assembly had turned into a nightmare with everyone speculating on the possible truth behind Nigel Lallerton’s death.
Perhaps she had been mad to admit that Sir Giles had called, but once Lady Chasewater had made the suggestion, there had seemed little point hiding anything. Aching pity stirred inside her. How hard this must be for the woman … she had adored Nigel …
‘Miss?’
The footman, James, stood just inside the door of the breakfast parlour, holding a silver salver. ‘Yes, James?’
‘A note for you, miss. It’s just been delivered.’
She set her teacup down carefully, with only the slightest of rattles. ‘A … a note?’ No. It couldn’t be. Foolish to think it might be another note like the one the other day … what purpose could such notes possibly serve now? All the damage had been well and truly done.
‘Thank you, James.’
He brought her the note and she took it, seeing instantly that it was addressed to her in the same scrawl as the last one. A chill slid through her. ‘That will be all, James.’ Her own voice, calm, oddly distant.
‘Yes, miss.’
She put the note by her plate, refusing to look at it until the door closed. Shivering now, she picked up her cup of tea and sipped, savouring it. There was more tea in the pot, and she poured herself another cup, adding milk with careful precision.
The note sat there. Unavoidable. She didn’t have to read it. There was a fire in the grate. She could drop it in there unread. That would be the sensible thing to do. Swiftly she rose, picked up the note and hurried over to the fireplace.
She stared at the dancing flames. Drop it in. That’s all you have to do. Only she couldn’t. After yesterday, and last night … what if the note contained a threat? A demand. Something that ought to be dealt with. She shivered—what if—?
With shaking fingers she broke the seal—first she would read it, just in case. Then she would burn it … Fumbling with cold, she unfolded the letter.
Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved, Slut?
The room spun around her in sickening swoops as she crushed the note. Dear God … bile rising in her throat, she bent down and placed the crumpled note on the fire. It hung there for a moment and then the edges blackened, slowly at first, and then in a consuming rush as the flames fed hungrily. It was gone in less than a minute, paper and ink reduced to ashes.
Only, it wasn’t gone. Not really. Because she had been fool enough to read it. She could not consign knowledge to the flames and the words remained, branded on her soul—but what could they possibly mean? The phrasing—Did they tell you …? What else should they have told her? Unless … unless they had lied.
She dragged in a breath, shutting her eyes as she fought for control.
The door opened.
‘Thea?’
She straightened at once and her breath caught. Richard had come in, dressed for riding, dark eyes fixed on her. Dear God … if he had read this note! Her glance flickered to the fire, half-expecting to see the accusation writhing in the flames.
‘Good … good morning, Richard.’
He frowned at her as he came into the parlour. ‘Did you sleep at all? You should still be abed. Are you all right?’
She forced a smile into place. ‘I was … just a little cold,’ she lied. Change the subject, quickly. ‘Have you been riding?’
He sat down at the table. ‘Yes. Thea—about last night—’
‘You must be hungry then.’ She rushed on. ‘Shall I ring for coffee? Were you up very early?’ Heavens! She was babbling like an idiot in her attempt to sound vaguely normal.
‘Thank you, but Myles knows I’m in. He’ll bring me some coffee, and I breakfasted before riding.’ He looked across at her. ‘Thea, don’t pretend with me. About last night—we need to talk. Privately.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart gave a funny little leap. She squashed it back into place and ordered her thoughts. Very carefully she said, ‘Is that wise, Richard?’
His gaze narrowed, and she flushed, remembering a comment of Diana’s about how peculiar it was to see Richard in town at all, let alone attending so many parties. Diana seemed perfectly certain that there would be an announcement at any moment—and that wagers had been laid that, finally, Lady Arnsworth would succeed in her dearest ambition.
‘After all, you can’t wish to … raise expectations, and … and then—’
His brows lifted. ‘Expectations?’
She could not quite identify the undercurrent in his voice.
‘Am I raising your expectations, Thea?’
He didn’t sound concerned, but then he was always in control of his thoughts and feelings.
‘Not mine!’ she clarified. ‘Society’s expectations.’
What Richard said about society had a certain eloquence to it.
‘You’re my friend, Thea,’ he told her. ‘And I don’t give a damn about anyone else’s expectations,’ he added, still with that odd, intent look. ‘Yours would be a different matter.’
A friend. Her heart, foolish organ, glowed. Should she tell him about this note? Not because she wanted him to do something about it, but simply to tell someone. So that she did not feel quite so alone.
No. She couldn’t. She could hear the conversation now.
Another note? What did this one say?
Oh, nothing much. Just … it was just nasty.
Nasty, how?
No, she couldn’t tell him what it had said. The other one had looked like general spitefulness. This one was more directly aimed. He would want an explanation. Yet another explanation she couldn’t give.
‘Thea? Thea! Are you all right?’