Page 60 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

It would solve a great many problems. Possibly even her own. But she wouldn’t say such things to Mr. Boothroyd. What would be the point? He’d resolved to think ill of her. She certainly didn’t blame him.

“You may come if you like,” she said.

She didn’t wait to see if he followed her.

Helena strode down the drive, her boots crunching on the wet gravel and her skirts whipping violently about her in the wind. The rain had relented, she was thankful to see. Especially as she was wearing neither bonnet nor gloves. She’d left the Abbey in a rush, too distressed by her conversation with Mr. Boothroyd to stop and find her cloak and other outdoor accessories.

She would find a way out of this. There had to be a way.

Though she couldn’t for the life of her think what that way might be.

She and Jenny had racked their brains for months. Only when Jenny had found Justin’s advertisement had there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel.

“See here?” Jenny had said, pointing at the newspaper. “He’s a soldier, like your brother. And quiet too, with a remote property in the country. Better still, Helena, look at this. He’s not concerned with a woman’s fortune. And he doesn’t say anything at all about her looks. Rather promising, don’t you think?”

Helena had been lying listless on her bed after a visit from Dr. Collins, curled on her side, staring at the silk-papered wall of her bedroom.

“Won’t you look at it?” Jenny had asked. “We’ve always said your uncle could do nothing if you were married. A stranger isn’t ideal, I know. But we’re running out of time. And Fleet Street isn’t so far. I can pop round to the office of this Mr. T. Finchley Esquire and find out all the particulars. It may all be a hum, but surely it’s worth investigating.”

Helena had made no response. She’d felt so defeated. She’d scarcely had the will to move.

Jenny had sat beside her on the bed, smoothing her hair from her forehead. “Don’t give up,” she’d said softly. “Please don’t give up.”

Helena hadn’t given up. Hope had flickered in her breast at the thought of her escape, a small, struggling flame fed by her own meeting with Mr. Finchley and then, later, by Justin’s letters.

Dear Miss Reynolds, he had begun each one. Except for the last letter. The one confirming her journey to Devon to meet him. That had been addressed to My Dear Miss Reynolds.

My Dear.

An extraordinary intimacy from her future husband.

Or so it had seemed at the time.

Would that she had known then how handsome Justin would be. How tall and powerful and charismatic. Would that she had known how passionately he would kiss her at the Stanhope Hotel, his large hands cradling her face with a gentleness that made her heart ache to recall it.

I could fall in love with him.

The realization settled in her chest, warm and bright. It was not as alarming as she would have imagined it would be. Quite the opposite. For Justin Thornhill wasn’t only a handsome man capable of bestowing kisses that made her melt into a mass of treacle. He was a good man. Unutterably kind and steadfast, and fiercely protective of everyone in his care.

She’d learned that about him during their time apart. It had been an unspoken thread in every conversation she’d had with Neville, Mr. Boothroyd, and Mrs. Whitlock. Justin took care of people. He protected them.

Despite his growls and grumbles and his often-grim countenance, despite the ignominy of his birth, Justin Thornhill was as true a gentleman as any she’d ever met. Too good for her by half.

Fall in love with him? She could think of nothing more ill advised. Not when she’d lied to him in such stupendous fashion. Not when she’d tricked him into a marriage he didn’t want.

No. It was far better to steel herself against him. That way, when he rejected her—when he sent her away—her heart wouldn’t shatter into smithereens.

She continued toward the stables, her head bent against the rising wind. The drive curved in a gradually winding slope, leading down past the cliffs. The cold air nipped at her face as she traversed its edge. She inhaled a bracing lungful, breathing in the wild, salty smell of the sea. It was only a few more steps to the stable. It would be warmer there and—

“What the devil are you doing out here?”

She looked up with a start.

Justin was standing several yards off, clad in a mud-spattered greatcoat, a portmanteau slung over one shoulder. His black hair was wet, his hat held carelessly in one gloved hand.

Any thought of hardening her heart vanished into the ether.

“Justin.” She ran to meet him in a flurry of silken skirts, reaching him in only a few hasty strides and flinging her arms around his neck. It was not an easy feat. He was so much taller than she was. He must have leaned down to her or bent his head. She was too overcome to know which. “You came back.”