Page 55 of A Kiss to Stop a Wedding
Her uncle scoffed. ‘I am sure the Viscount was not serious. It is far more likely that he was shaken by your sudden talk of crying off. No, no, trust me, Flora, the Viscount is a sound man. He has been more than generous over the marriage settlement and he will make you a good husband. And for most of the year you would be settled at Whilton Hall, very close to us and to all your friends.’
He patted her clumsily on the shoulder.
‘Take a turn around the garden, my dear. Consider all the advantages of being a viscountess. A married woman has far more freedom, you know, and in time, you will have a family to occupy you. And there is the Viscount’s fortune. I can assure you, my dear, having drawn up the marriage settlements I know you are going to be a very wealthy woman! There is your place in Society to consider, too: a place you richly deserve! You would be a fool to throw it all away at this late hour.’
Flora’s head was spinning, but she knew she needed to make a decision. And quickly, she thought, remembering the Viscount’s final threat.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I would like to walk in the garden now.’
As she left the room her aunt’s voice followed her, shrill and trembling with anxiety.
‘Please, Flora. Think very carefully about this! If the Viscount did denounce your mother, it would reflectbadly on us all. We would be obliged to leave Whilton and this house—our home for the past sixteen years.’
Flora closed the door as the words gave way to sobs. Not stopping to fetch a wrap, she made her way to the garden door. As she reached the gun room door, Scamp barked and scratched on the panels. He had been her companion on so many solitary walks it came naturally to her to let him out and together they made their way to the gardens.
Outside, clouds were building for a thunderstorm and the air was still and heavy, adding to the oppression on Flora’s spirits. At first she strode around the gardens, raging against those she had believed loved her. Every one of them had proved false. Her parents had abandoned her and the Farnleighs had been complicit in the lies told to a ten-year-old girl.
Gradually her pace slowed and the fierce anger inside abated. How could she blame her aunt and uncle when they had only ever wanted her happiness? She remembered how kind they had always been. The Italian greyhound puppy they had given her to help assuage the grief of losing her parents, the trouble they had taken with her education, interviewing countless governesses to find one who combined kindness with good teaching skills. Her uncle’s patience when he taught her to drive his gig.
Even when Lord Whilton had approached them, asking permission to pay his addresses, they had nottried to exert their influence. He was allowed to call, to court her. True, she had refused him the first time, but when he had asked her again she had accepted. It had been her decision and hers alone. Would her answer have been any different, had she known the truth?
She remembered she had thought the Viscount very agreeable when they had first met. He was tall and good-looking, with his golden-blond hair and blue eyes. He had been charming, too, in those early months. A little lacking in humour, perhaps, and he was not as fond of dancing as Flora, but in every other way she had thought him most acceptable.
Was it the arrival of Matt Talacre that had changed all that? Matt’s rugged features could not be called classically handsome and his lean body was too muscular, the broad chest hinting at strength rather than elegance, yet he had an animal grace when he moved. She remembered dancing with him. It had been more than a pleasure. She had been transported, as if they were the only couple on the dance floor.
Flora had reached the sheltered rose garden and sank down on a stone bench. If Quentin’s godfather had not died last year, she would have been married by now. She would have known nothing of her past. She would never have met—
No! Flora quickly pushed that last thought away. Any feelings she had for Matt Talacre must be firmly crushed. He must be as dead to her now as herparents. Aunt and Uncle were a different matter, however. She did not doubt they loved her. Nor did she doubt that they now regretted not telling her the truth about Mama.
‘But what else could they have done?’ she said aloud. ‘How do you tell a young girl that her parents have deserted her?’
Hearing the distress in her voice, Scamp jumped up beside her and nosed at her clasped hands. Absently she fondled his ears while she closed her eyes, thinking back.
She clearly remembered when they had told her she was an orphan. It was the only time she had seen tears in her uncle’s eyes and Aunt Farnleigh had held her close while she cried, their tears mingling. Despair welled up in Flora. Her eyes stung.
She had lost her parents, but her aunt had lost a beloved brother. They had done their best. None of this was their fault, nor hers, but it was her actions now that would decide their future happiness. With a sob she pulled the spaniel on to her lap, buried her face in his soft coat and wept.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The sky was heavy and overcast when the Farnleighs’ landau left Birchwood House for the short journey to Whilton Hall. Inside the carriage Flora sat alone, dressed in her white muslin evening gown with a muslin fichu embroidered with white work around her neck and fastened at the front. Her hair was piled up and dressed with white rosebuds. A glance in the mirror as she left her room had reflected her countenance, pale but resolute.
The threatened storm had not broken by the time she reached the Hall, and she ordered the driver to stop at the stables, preferring to walk. To delay her arrival just a little longer.
As she alighted, she saw the groundskeeper, Jepps, limping across the bridge. She was a little surprised when he avoided her eyes and did not respond to her greeting. Whenever they had met in the gardens he always greeted her civilly, and they had often exchanged a few words about the plants.
Perhaps he was uncomfortable outside his usual milieu—or perhaps he had told the Viscount of her first encounter with Matt Talacre in the gardens. She doubted that, because Quentin was not in the habit of speaking with his servants, other than to issue orders. Not that it mattered now, she thought as she made her way across the courtyard and prepared herself to meet the Viscount.
The door to the entrance hall was already open and she stepped inside, handing her cloak to the waiting footman. It was as she followed him across the hall that she noticed Mrs Goole standing to one side, watching her. The housekeeper turned and walked off almost immediately, but the look in her eyes stayed with Flora and added another unsettling thought to those already in her head.
The Viscount was waiting for her in the drawing room. Candles were already burning to dispel the gloom of the leaden sky outside, but the dark portraits and black, heavy furniture oppressed Flora. Even the gaudy heraldic crests on the elaborately carved overmantel seemed to taunt her now.
‘Welcome, my dear.’ Quentin came forward. He held out one hand, the diamond ring resting in his palm. ‘May I?’
She watched impassively as he slipped the ring back on to her finger, then he kissed her hands, one after the other, before leading her to a chair. It had been placedbeside the carved oak armchair that he favoured and was a similar style, only less ornate.
A seat for a consort beside her lord.
The Viscount poured two glasses of wine and carried them across the room.
