offering because I wish to marry you.’
The quacking of the ducks fell into the well of silence that had opened up between them.
‘I am very sorry, Richard, but I cannot possibly marry you.’
He held back all the things he wanted to say. All the far-from-rational things that were burning a hole deep inside him. Somehow, he realised, it had not really occurred to him that she might refuse.
‘Will you tell me why you cannot?’ He flicked a glance at her, but she was staring straight ahead, her face hidden again by the poke of her bonnet. ‘After all, we have always been good friends, you must know that I don’t give a damn about your fortune, and—’
‘Of course I know that!’ She turned to him in obvious surprise, and he saw the pain in her eyes. ‘It’s nothing to do with that. It’s just … just that I cannot … it never occurred to me that you could want to marry me!’
He waited, but she fell silent and looked ahead again.
‘I frightened you this morning, did I not, Thea?’ he asked quietly.
‘No!’ She faced him again, her face absolutely white. ‘The truth is, Richard—’ She stopped. He saw the convulsive movement of her throat before she turned away again. Her voice came again, utterly devoid of expression, ‘Yes. I was frightened. But it was not because of you! Only because I did not realise that it was you.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘I know that sounds foolish and I … I cannot explain, but I do thank you for your offer. No one who knows you could possibly imagine you would offer because of my fortune.’
‘Don’t delude yourself, love.’ The endearment hung between them, alive and shimmering. Love. He had called women that before, of course. One did in bed. It had been a meaningless endearment. But when had he ever really heard himself say it? When had it ever rung like a bell?
She looked up at him, soft lips curved in a trembling smile. ‘They do not know you then, do they?’ she said quietly. ‘I said anyone who knows you, Richard. Would your brother, or Lord Braybrook, make that mistake?’
No. Not even if he lied. They would know. And apparently Thea knew …
‘Are you sure, Thea?’ he asked gently. ‘Ungentlemanly of me to press, I know, but—’
‘Quite sure,’ she whispered, looking straight ahead again. ‘It … it is not possible … if it were … that is …’ Her breath came raggedly, as though she breathed glass. Her voice when it came was utterly steady and expressionless. ‘I have no intention of marrying. Ever.’
Had she loved the fellow so deeply? She had only been sixteen when they were betrothed; seventeen when Lallerton died, and he had always assumed the match had been arranged by Aberfield and Chasewater, but … perhaps it was time to resurrect his rational proposal.
‘Thea,’ he said carefully, ‘I quite understand how you must feel, but surely after seven years—’ He felt her stiffen beside him and altered tack slightly. ‘Have you considered that one may marry for friendship, as well as love? We have always been good friends. And this would solve your problem—I may not be a brilliant catch like Dunhaven in your father’s estimation, but I’m perfectly eligible.’ Only half-joking, he added, ‘You wouldn’t have to bother with toads like that any more, at least!’
Thea swallowed hard. She knew he would protect her. And it was tempting, so tempting … No! She didn’t dare. To marry Richard, she would have to tell him the truth. ‘I cannot, Richard,’ she whispered. ‘Please, will you take me back now?’
‘Of course.’
They walked back along the path in silence. In the silence of her mind she railed at fate that had brought her here to this moment and mocked her with his proposal.
As they arrived back at the inn, he said quietly, ‘Thea, just because you have refused my offer of marriage does not mean that we cannot continue friends, does it?’
She flinched, and, to her horror, tears sprang to her eyes. Forcing them back, she stared fixedly ahead, not trusting her voice. It would shake like her gloved hands, locked in front of her.
‘Thea?’
‘Friends—of course, Richard.’ Her voice did wobble. Despicably. Friends told each other the truth. Trusted each other. She hated that she was deceiving him so deeply.
You could tell him the truth.
No. She could not. Not to save her life could she tell him that. It would be worse than death to see the pitying contempt in his eyes. And what if he didn’t believe her? No one else ever had, save David. And perhaps David had believed her partly because he had disliked Nigel so much.
She shut her eyes. It would be better if David had not believed her either. If he had not, he would not be in such danger now. It would also be better if she did not have to see Richard again. Especially now. Now when she wasn’t even sure that she knew the whole truth. Did they tell you that the child was dead?
With Minchin up behind them during the drive back, any further private conversation was impossible. Thea did not know whether to be glad or sorry. Richard was very quiet, speaking only to point out landmarks, or comment on the state of the roads.
Only when they reached Grosvenor Square and he escorted her up the front steps of Arnsworth House did he refer again to what lay between them.
‘Lallerton was a very lucky man for you to have loved him so deeply.’
Not the slightest hint of bitterness. No anger. Just the kindest understanding of the lie that she and her family had cultivated to screen the truth. So easy simply to nod. To accept what he had said and agree. It stuck in her throat. Even if she dared not tell Richard the truth, she would not lie to him. Not in any way.
She turned to face him fully. ‘I did not love Nigel Lallerton. Ever. Not then. Not now.’
And she opened the front door and fled into the house.
Richard stared after her, stunned. She hadn’t loved Lallerton? Then why in Hades had she remained in seclusion for seven years? Why had she set herself so flatly against marriage?
There was something odd here. She had said simply that she hadn’t loved Lallerton. But her tone of voice had said a great deal more …
Her perfect day was over. Thea sat with a smile of polite interest plastered to her face as she listened to the violinist Lady Fairchild had engaged for the evening. She should be enjoying this, but as the violin sang and soared, her thoughts spun wildly between doubt and searing conviction. Richard had not attended and Lord Dunhaven’s presence beside her served only to increase her distraction.
Could they have lied about her child’s death? Yes. Easily. And why, oh, why had she been fool enough to tell Richard that she hadn’t loved Lallerton?
Had Lord Dunhaven moved his chair slightly? He was too close, especially in the overheated room. Her temples began to throb.
His lordship leaned closer, murmuring something about how much he enjoyed Mozart.
‘Haydn,’ she told him, and had the dubious pleasure of seeing him turn a dull brick-red. Dunhaven hated being contradicted—especially when he was wrong.
Would they have lied?
Over something like that? With the honour of the family involved? With David at risk? Oh, yes. They would have lied. In a moment.
The accusation of that morning’s note hung before her in letters of fire: Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved …?
The sonata ended and the audience applauded with well-bred enthusiasm.
Yes. She had been relieved. For a moment. A day. And then the grief had come. The grief she had not been allowed to show. And the guilt.
But what if her child had survived? How could