Page 52

“I didn’t know,” her stepmother whispered.

“I thought to find a widower or someone who didn’t want children or already had offspring of his own. I hoped that such a man would fall in love with me . . . a love match.” She almost laughed at how stupid it sounded out loud.

“There’s nothing to say that a truly noble man won’t happen along, someone less in thrall to his baser nature.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Henrietta said flatly.

“I am glad that Darby moved so quickly to announce his 142 Eloisa

James

intentions. This way, you had very little time to become attached to the notion.”

“Yes, of course.” It was amazing how quickly she had built up the idea of marrying Darby. Truly, she knew almost nothing about him except for his penchant for lace. What if she grew disgusted by a man who likely had a house filled with fringes and gold lace? And he was a fortune hunter, which is a dubious basis for marriage at the best of times.

“You’ll be better off this way. You found out his true nature very quickly.”

“Yes.”

“You see,” Millicent went on, having a desperate wish to prove her point and simply make that look go away from Henrietta’s face, “Darby must be quite a—a lustful man, my dear. Because he kissed you in such a way—and in a public spot!”

“Indeed,” Henrietta said dully.

“He would have been a most uncomfortable husband.”

Millicent was on sure ground now. “He—he might even have wished to engage your company more than once a week, my dear. And that would be truly tiresome, as the years passed. You’ll simply have to take my word for it.”

Henrietta rose and kissed her stepmother on the cheek. “I think I shall go take a long hot bath. And I promise, we’ll have no more talk of Mr. Darby.”

Millicent discovered that looking at Henrietta through teary eyes turned her stepdaughter’s hair to pure gold. “I’m just so sorry to tell you unpleasant news. It breaks my heart that you cannot marry and have children.” Tears welled up again. “You’re so beautiful, and you would have exquisite children, and . . .”

Henrietta leaned over her and wiped the tears away. “It’s all for the best, Millie,” she said, using her childhood name for her stepmother. “I would never suit Mr. Darby in the long run. He’s far too elegant, and I’m too bluntly spoken. I Fool for Love

143

would probably become annoyed with him, and we would fight bitterly.”

“I hope it won’t be uncomfortable for you to see him again.”

At that, Henrietta smiled, and the smile only wavered a little. “Why should it be? We hardly know each other, after all.”

She walked out of the drawing room with her head held high. She walked into her room, thinking that this was the time to cry, if ever. But her common sense stopped her from flinging herself on the bed in a fit of tears. She hardly knew the man. Why on earth would she cry over him?

What she primarily felt, she realized, was embarrassment that she had no idea she was ineligible for marriage. It was humiliating to think about how she pressed her body to Darby’s. No wonder he thought that she was ripe for debauching, if that was the proper terminology. Although thinking of the experience made her wonder about Millicent’s understanding of intimacy. It seemed to her that Darby could make marital intimacy not quite so objectionable. Surely he, if anyone, would make it pleasurable. But he couldn’t find that pleasure with her. She sat down in front of her dressing table. It was such a pity that she had inherited her mama’s hair and face. If she were plain, even ugly, then Mr. Darby would have taken no notice of her at all. That very fact showed up how shallow he was, a man only interested in her honey hair, to borrow his own words. Well, and perhaps a few other body parts, she thought, remembering how his hands had strayed about. The worst thing was not losing Mr. Darby, if she were honest with herself. The thing that made her heart feel like a piece of iron in her chest was that no man would wish to marry her, not even a widower. No man would ever fall in love with her. The only love letter she would ever receive had been written by herself. All those dreams she’d had, of finding a man who didn’t want children, were nothing more than dust.

144 Eloisa

James

She swallowed and willed herself not to cry. The letter she wrote to herself was folded on her dressing table. She touched it with the tip of her finger. Now she knew Darby much better than when she wrote the letter. If he wrote a love letter, it would be far more earthy, and yet more humorous. More fierce and tender, at the same time.

She almost reached toward her writing materials. But writing another letter would only prolong a fantasy of her own making for a few minutes. No amount of letters could make a man agree to marry her. It was time to give up her childhood idea that a knight in shining armor would rescue her. That wasn’t going to happen.

One tear slid down Henrietta’s cheek. She dashed it away and rang the bell for her maid.

In the bath she practiced an old ritual: counting her blessings. She was perfectly happy before Darby wandered into the village, and she would be again. She had dear friends, and she was needed, and she felt . . .

She felt another tear slide off the end of her nose, and then another.