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The horse knew its way home. Matthew encouraged it to canter, then when he was sure he could stay atop, he galloped. They passed the copse where he’d made love to Dara, then the gatehouse and along the sweeping drive of the house. Before he reached the inner walls, where the gardens began, he climbed off the horse and released him to find the stables on his own. Matthew, using the cover of trees and hedges, made his way around to the back of the house.
He found the door, a small opening hidden behind a bush, and slotted the key in the hole. The hinges creaked. However, nobody came running, and as he crept further into the house, he realised nobody probably would. The place was barely inhabited.
Years ago, his mother had described the layout of the house in one of her rare reminiscences. Matthew recalled some of the details. He used the back stairwell to reach the upper floor. The dim corridor was lined with dusty portraits of Colemans, Henry’s ancestors, and their sombre eyes tracked him. He tried one room—the furniture was covered in sheets. The next was the same.
The third door was locked. He scratched on the wood.
“Dara?”
Listening, he waited.
“Dara, it’s me.”
* * *
She’d fallen asleep, more out of despair than exhaustion. By the end of the day, her fate would be decided. Her bags would be packed, a carriage brought around to the front steps of the hall, and a letter probably entrusted to a groom, and not her. The letter to her father, written by her unforgiving husband, would contain witless remarks about her behaviour, her lack of obedience and failure to satisfy her husband, all traits her father favoured in a young lady of nobility.
Even if Lord Coleman didn’t expose her affair, a divorce on the grounds of annulment would make it harder for her father to find a second match. Women who had not produced a child within weeks of marriage were likely never to marry again. If Dara weren’t so miserable, she might laugh at the notion she was frigid and incapable.
Far from it, she was quite a catch if any man might know the truth.
Henry would not receive any blame. Nobody would believe it was he who had failed her.
As for Matthew, she tried desperately not to think of her lover. However, the tears fell, and continued to do so in her sleep.
A strange scratching sound woke her. It was still daylight. Was Henry returned from his hunting? She lifted her head off the damp pillow and kicked back the covers.
“Dara?”
She held her breath, wondering if she was still dreaming.
“Dara, it’s me.”
She scampered over to the door. “Matthew!”
Even through the wood, she heard his sigh of relief. “The key?”
“I don’t know. I think the butler has it.”
“Damn.”
She leaned against the door. So close to him, yet still too far. She traced her finger along the wood grain. “I never told him about you.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Paul found me. He traced me through the haberdashers.”
“He did? I’d not thought he cared.”
“He does. It seems your trip to town was fortuitous after all.”
She smiled and wiped away a tear at the same time. “Lord Coleman, Henry, means to send me home, to my parents, with my tail between my legs and no doubt some horrible pack of lies about how I’ve denied him.”
“Has he... come to you?”
She spread her fingers out, feeling the cool wood, wishing it was his warm hand, and imagining he was on the other side doing the same. “No. He came, stood at the foot of the bed, and then stormed out. I thought, if I could get him to... do it, then he could not claim I was not willing, and it would make any accusations harder to prove to the courts. He would need to petition them if he wants to remarry. And, I thought also to protect the child, to give it Henry’s name, if there is one already in my belly.”
