“Then go back.”
“I can’t. He’ll hate me.”
“Amelia, please.”
The fake name was like salt on a wound, and she gritted her teeth. “I said no.”
Dorian’s shoulders slumped, but his jaw hardened. “At least let me escort you. Are you going to the station?”
Pearl nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Let’s go then.” He jumped on his horse and stretched out an arm.
Shivering and clenching the satchel like a shield, she took his hand and was hauled up behind him.
“Where are you heading?” he asked.
“London, I think.” The only place she could go was Miss Cherrywood’s house.
“Hold on tight,” he said, kicking the horse’s side.
Wasn’t what she’d always done?
~ * ~
AT HIS THIRD GLASS of brandy, Christopher gave up. Not even the liquor was helping him tonight. The burning ache in his chest wouldn’t go away, no matter how much brandy he sipped. Apparently, he couldn’t even get drunk and hope to forget the most disastrous night of his life. He’d declared his love to a woman for the first time, and she’d rejected him without a proper explanation.
Hell, she had plenty of reasons to refuse him, but he’d hoped she might’ve liked him back. The fact that he’d been deluding himself was what hurt the most. He didn’t consider himself an expert in women’s feelings, but dammit, he’d been sure she felt . . . something for him, something that wasn’t just sex.
He shoved the bottle of brandy away. Useless thing.
The door of his room was flung open, and quick footsteps pounded. He was on his feet before he could draw a breath, fists up in a fighting stance.
With his boots dirty with mud, Dorian strode across the room. “Amelia has left,” he said in an accusatory tone.
The words opened a new void in Christopher’s chest. “What?”
“I escorted her myself to the station. She was crying, but had a bag with her things and was determined to go to London.”
“You did what?” Christopher’s hands move on their own as a flare of anger surged. They wrapped around Dorian’s collar and tugged at it.
A muscle in Dorian’s neck pulsated. He didn’t remove the hands though. “Whatever happened between you two, she was distraught. In tears. I found her walking alone in the dark along the road. I tried to convince her to go back, failed, and offered to escort her to the station.” He shrugged free. “If you hurry, you might catch her.”
Christopher remained silent, absorbing what Dorian was saying, but his brain seemed particularly slow. Maybe the bloody brandy had an effect after all.
Amelia. Gone.
He ran a hand over his face with his cold fingers. His stomach churned with nausea.
“Chris.” Dorian gripped his shoulder. “We have to go. She’s leaving. Do you want her back?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.
“Then we have to go. You’ll lose her unless you talk to her now.”
It was as if a bolt of lightning rushed through him. Losing her. But he’d already lost her. “She doesn’t want me.”
Dorian shook his head. “She loves you. She told me so.”
Had the floor disappeared? Christopher had to grab the desk to remain standing. “That’s not . . . she can’t.” Shock went through him, wakening his slumbering limbs and giving his heart a kick. She loved him. Him.
“Listen, I ask you for the last time. Do you want to talk to her?”
“Yes.”
“Then do something! You can’t let her go like that.”
With jerky movements, he donned his coat and put on a pair of boots. “Call Harvey, tell him to prepare—”
“Your horse. Already done.” Dorian adjusted his jacket. “We’re ready to go.”
