Page 80 of A Kiss to Stop a Wedding
The woman’s hands clenched into fists and she took a step forward until she was only inches from Flora, her face red and blotched from crying.
‘You know nothing!’ she hissed. ‘He promised me I’d be mistress here. Swore he would marry me. Now I’m to be sent off to one of his other houses in the north!’
‘I am very sorry for you—’
‘I don’t want your pity!’ she spat. ‘I just want you gone!’
To Flora’s surprise, the housekeeper threw up her apron, covering her face. Flora watched her using it to wipe her eyes and she sighed, sympathy overriding every other feeling. She reached out and touched the woman’s arm.
‘Believe me,’ she said quietly, ‘I would not be here if I had any other choice.’
And with that she walked on to the drawing room with never a backward glance.
The first thing Flora saw when she entered the drawing room was the shield on its stand. It reminded her of the forthcoming ceremony tomorrow, which wouldbind her to a man she did not love. Neither did Quentin love her, she knew that: those gaudy images on the shield were the reason he was marrying her. Flora shuddered. He wanted her for her ancestry, her bloodline. If she could not give him an heir, he would have no further use for her.Would he then try to dispose of her? She thought it very likely.
Flora chose to sit with her back to the shield, telling herself she was being far too despondent. They were not living in the dark ages; many women were trapped in loveless marriages and they survived. Many lived reasonably happy lives. She knew she would be envied by many. Her husband was rich, titled and she would have so many advantages. That was what she must think of now, the good she could do in her new, elevated position.
The thought lifted her spirits and she was able to join in the conversation with her aunt and Mrs Gask until the tea tray was brought in, almost immediately followed by the gentlemen. Flora raised her eyes to watch her fiancé, trying to bring back even a little of the liking or affection she had once felt for the man. He was looking cool and immaculate in his dark evening dress, but she felt nothing but loathing for him now. He had treated her abominably and she could not forget it.
Her right hand covered the diamond ring on her marriage finger. She longed to snatch it off and throwit into Quentin’s cold, handsome face, but at that moment her eyes went to her uncle, following his host into the room. He was perspiring a little in the heat and his shirt points had begun to wilt. He was looking tired, too, and she realised how much this recent worry over her marriage had aged him.
The little spurt of rebellion in her soul faded. The chains binding her into this marriage were as strong as ever, however bleak and dark the future.
* * *
It was late when Lord Dallamire’s travelling carriage eventually reached the gates of Whilton Hall. A series of small mishaps had delayed their journey, and the Earl pulled out his pocket watch and held it close to the window, where the full moon provided enough light for him to see the face.
‘Nearly ten o’clock. My apologies, Matt, we are much later than anticipated.’
‘Couldn’t be helped, Conham. You weren’t to know there’d be an overturned carriage blocking the road, or about that collapsed bridge taking us miles out of our way.’
The coach pulled up in front of the house and they jumped out. Light shone from the windows of the house, but the big wooden doors in the gatehouse arch were firmly closed.
‘Positively medieval,’ drawled Conham as they walked across the bridge.
‘Aye.’ Matt gave a short laugh. ‘Whilton was born several hundred years too late!’
They reached the doors and he rapped on the wood, his fist making no more than a dull thud on the thick planks.
‘I think this might work better.’ Conham reached out and pulled on the rope hanging against the shadowed wall. A bell pealed, somewhere on the other side of the door.
‘Damme, I should have seen that,’ Matt exclaimed.
Conham grinned. ‘That’s why I was a major and you a lowly captain, my friend.’
A thin strip of light appeared in the narrow gap between the doors and a voice demanded to know who was there.
‘Lord Dallamire and Mr Talacre, to see the Viscount. Open the door,’ Matt replied.
‘Beg your pardon, my lord, but Lord Whilton has given instructions that no one is to come in tonight.’
‘I know it’s late, man, but I am the Earl of Dallamire,’ said Conham at his most commanding. ‘His Lordship will see us.’
‘No, he won’t, not tonight. Come back in the morning.’
Matt took out his purse and shook it, making the coins jingle. ‘I will make it worth your while.’
There was a pause, and for a moment his hopes rose, then,
