Page 6 of The Damsel
It was obvious Hartmoor was mad for her. So, what was stopping him from putting them both out of their misery and marrying her himself?
“The last time we spoke, you made yourself quite clear where Daphne is concerned,” he managed. “I did not miss your warning. You wanted her for yourself and did not appreciate my interference. Why the sudden change of mind?”
“It does not matter why. What matters is that I am leaving and I want her taken care of. Her reputation is in tatters due to the scandal her brother caused. Her attachment to me has only made matters worse. You can make her respectable again, and I know you won’t abuse or neglect her.”
“Of course not … I love her. I have since I was a boy, and nothing that has happened can change that.”
It had been shocking to find out that Daphne’s brother had been getting away with raping the debutantes of thetonfor years with no one the wiser. Many in their social circles would shun her now that he’d been put on trial, convicted, and executed for his crimes. That she had engaged in an illicit affair with the earl only thickened the dark cloud of scandal hanging over her head.
But, none of those things had been enough to put him off. His love for Daphne had gone deeper than any scandal or gossip, and he wanted nothing more than to be the one to save her from a life of loneliness and scorn.
And so, he had agreed to try his damnedest to make Daphne his once she’d had time to mourn the loss of both the earl and her brother —who had been executed just this morning after a lengthy trial. The wait had been easy enough—he’d been waiting for what seemed like his entire life to have her. He’d practiced what he would say, had his valet polish the ring for the umpteenth time to ensure it looked its best when he presented it to her. He’d even worn his best navy blue coat, wanting to cut a dashing figure for what would prove the most momentous day of his life.
In the end, he had not been able to go through with it.
Arriving at Fairchild House prepared to drop to one knee and plead his case, Robert had been ushered into the drawing room to find her standing before the hearth. She'd turned to face him, giving him his first glimpse of her lovely face in weeks. She’d been so much like the girl he’d always loved … yet everything about her had changed. In that moment, Robert had seen for the first time what he’d refused to understand before.
He had lost her.
He could not pinpoint exactly when, but somewhere between letting her leave Suffolk and finding her again, he had given up his chance at happiness with her. Deep in the prisms of her dark blue eyes, Robert had seen her misery over Hartmoor, as well as her longing.
Yes, he’d wanted to be the gallant knight riding in to save her from a life of loneliness. And, he might have won her hand had he done what the earl suggested and proposed marriage. Now that Hartmoor had set her aside, she might decide to settle for a comfortable life with him.
But, Daphne was too good for that. She was too beautiful, fiery, and smart to settle for anything less than the passionate love she deserved. The sort of love she’d had with Lord Adam Callahan.
So, instead of proposing to her, he had suggested she try one last time to convince Hartmoor to take her with him to Scotland. He told her he still loved her, and would be willing to marry her if it was what she wanted. But, he’d been very clear that he understood she was in love with the earl, not him, and he wanted her to be happy.
That had led to this—standing on the side of the road, watching as Hartmoor drove away with the love of his life.
The earl had been right about him. He was a spineless, weak, mama’s boy, unable to do anything other than watch with stinging eyes as Daphne ran off with one of England's most notorious rakehells. To make matters worse, he’d even suggested that they stop off in Gretna Green on their way home. Within hours she would become the Countess of Hartmoor, putting her out of his reach for good.
“Fucking wonderful,” he muttered, trudging back to his barouche.
His black bays stomped and snorted with impatience, undoubtedly tired of standing about and watching him brood. But, where was he to go? He had his suite of rooms in London, the rent paid up for several more weeks. His valet remained there, along with many of his things. Going back there was the last thing he wanted to do, for once he arrived he would have to face his man and explain that he’d come home without a fiancée. The pitying gaze of Felix as he took the ring to store it in the safe among his other valuables would only make him feel worse.
He supposed he could have dinner at his club, but he would surely be recognized by old school friends or some such. Knowing he would not be fit company, he ruled that out, along with the half dozen invitations resting on his desk.
Climbing up into his equipage and taking hold of the ribbons, he turned back toward London. He gave the horses their head, his mind wandering as they dragged him back toward Town. He was unsure what he would do once he got there, but could not very well stand about woolgathering on the side of the road. Or, maybe he could.
Maybe he could have stood there until he dropped dead.
It would kill Mother.
The thought always sprung forth the instant he considered that anything dangerous might befall him. He should not walk in the rain despite liking the way it felt on his skin, because he might grow ill and die, and it would kill his mother. He ought not drive his phaeton too fast, because he might crash it and break his neck, and of course it would kill his mother.
He should not put a pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger, succumbing to this swift, sudden, and painful loneliness opening in the depths of his soul … because it would kill his mother.
So, he drove at a reasonable pace and kept an eye out for rain clouds and uneven spots in the road, the careful son as always. Not that she would know the difference. When he had insisted on coming to London to pursue Daphne, she had remained in Suffolk with his father.
After a while, he came to a fork in the road. Pulling up on the ribbons, he wondered where the other path might lead. London and his empty West End flat loomed straight ahead. Wrinkling his nose, he veered right, deciding to avoid Town for at least a few hours more. Even if this road led him nowhere interesting, a nice, long ride would help him clear his head.
About half an hour later, he came upon a public house. It was not one he’d ever frequented, but from the outside it appeared much like any other he’d ever seen. Its edifice was plain but sturdy, its courtyard crawling with horses and conveyances coming and going. Smoke huffing from the chimney promised a warm fire, and if Robert was not mistaken, the inside would offer spirits in which to drown his sorrows.
Perfect.
He pulled into the yard, slowing his barouche behind a coach stopping in to rest its horses. From the looks of the driver—whose boots were caked with mud, and whose cape held a heavy layer of dust—it had stopped in the midst of a long journey.
“Afternoon, me lord!” a stable boy in filthy trousers and a threadbare coat called out as he approached. “I’ll ’ave your beasts groomed and fed in a blink!”
