Page 62 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
Grief overcame her then—for all the lost things.
For Ethan, who was far over the ocean, and would think she’d forgotten him.
For her mother, who’d been disposed of as an inconvenience.
For Bessie and all the young women who’d sat on this earthen floor, feeling the same fear and despair.
And for Benedict, who’d never been hers, and never would be.
The single candle cast a paltry light but she focused upon it. While it burned, it represented hope.
She lay her head on her knees and let the tears come, a storm of regret and sorrow washing over her. She sobbed until there was nothing left, and the candle guttered, leaving her in the dark once more.
Chapter 22
It waslate afternoon by the time the mail coach stopped on the road by the turning to the abbey. Timmins, the gatekeeper, came hurrying out, helping the driver lift down Benedict's bags.
“Weren’t expecting you back so soon, Master Benedict.” Timmins unlocked one of the tall gates, pushing it wide.
“Cart’ll come for these." He gestured to the luggage. "Ye be wantin’ to walk up, do ee?”
Benedict nodded, giving his thanks.
Timmins was familiar with his love of fresh air, and it didn’t look as if it would rain, though autumn had definitely set in. Even since leaving the morning before, the foliage along the lane was a deeper shade of yellow.
Turning up the collar of his greatcoat, Benedict set off briskly.
He might have telegrammed for the duke’s own carriage to collect him from Weymouth, but something in him had rebelled at the thought. He deserved the drudgery of making his way back under his own steam.
He’d gone haring off in a temper, knowing only that he couldn’t bear to be under the same roof as her; that, if he’d stayed, he’d cause a scene.
And he’d never been one for those.
He didn’t go looking for drama, nor for praise or recognition. He’d always been content to do his duty quietly. But he’d realized something in the long day and night past.
Some things were important enough to fight for—and Miss Rosamund Burnell was one of them.
He’d gotten as far as London on the South Western line, and was overnighting at Brown’s, ready for the onward journey to Oxford, before he’d admitted to himself that he was being a royal arse!
It was true she’d acted deceitfully—though more by omission than the blatant telling of lies—but how desperate she must have been to act as she did.
Miss Burnell hadn’t struck him as a fortune hunter. Nor did she give the impression of desiring to move in lofty circles—unlike that dreadful French woman his uncle had brought to the house.
Rosamund’s mother was another matter, but perhaps all mothers were ambitious for their daughters.
It didn’t mean Rosamund was formed of the same clay.
He’d been far too ready to believe ill of her—accusing her of wanting to take him for a lover on the side, while becoming wife to his uncle.
The irony was that Lord Studborne would never be tempted into marriage by the lure of wealth—having more than enough funds of his own to keep the estate and abbey in good order. Benedict could only surmise that for his uncle to propose, he must think himself in love.
That had been the biggest wound to Benedict’s pride.
It had been hurtful to imagine Miss Burnell exerting her charms on another man. As if he were the only one deserving of her attention!
And what had he ever done, or said, to show her the depth of his feeling? Nothing, except accuse her of being a floozy.
Chestnuts, oaks and beeches gave way to the avenue of limes and he lengthened his stride as the drive climbed steadily upward.
