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‘Not far now.’ Aunt Sophoria was positively bouncing up and down with excitement. ‘What a shame about the weather, but it can’t be helped, I suppose. Look at that view, though! Whitby’s always so beautiful whatever the season.’
Ianthe gave a weak smile. Personally she found the weather quite fitting. The grey clouds and lowering drizzle suited her mood far better than the sunshine her aunt seemed to expect. Her boundless enthusiasm, though well intentioned, was starting to grate heavily on her nerves. Judging by Aunt Sophoria’s beaming expression, anyone would think that she was the bride. Giddy was how a bride was supposed to feel. Not sick to her stomach worrying that the groom had changed his mind.
She chewed her bottom lip, trying and failing to push her misgivings aside. After all, if Robert had wanted to call off the wedding then he’d surely have done so already, not waited until the actual morning, though the lack of communication—any communication—from him in the past week had been enough to tear her already ragged nerves to shreds.
His last letter, if it could be called anything so formal, had been eight days before, a brief note detailing the arrangements for the day. He’d mentioned train times and a rendezvous point, but there had been nothing personal, not the slightest hint of emotion, nothing to suggest that he was arranging anything other than a business meeting.
Clearly he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her not to expect romance. As wedding days went, it was about as unromantic as it could get. Not that it ought to have bothered her. It was a business arrangement after all, but he might have done something to reassure her. He hadn’t even sent flowers. Even if she had no right to feel neglected, she still had feelings! What was she supposed to think of such ungallant behaviour?
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sp; There was only one possible conclusion she could come to—that he’d changed his mind and was too honourable to go back on his word, hoping that she’d call off the wedding instead. As much as she’d spent the past three months trying not to think about their kiss—a moment of madness doubtless brought on by the traumatic events at the castle—she knew that her wanton behaviour must have shocked him. It had definitely shocked her. There had been nothing respectable about it. She didn’t know which one of them had initiated the embrace...just that they seemed to have moved together at the same time, as if drawn by some irresistible force.
Strange, but after Albert and Sir Charles, she’d assumed that another man’s touch would repel her, but the effect had been quite the opposite. One moment, she’d been bidding Robert goodbye, the next she’d practically thrown herself at him—in broad daylight, in the street to boot!
It was almost too shameful to remember and now clearly Robert thought so, too. His absence spoke volumes, demonstrating that he’d realised the truth about her at last—that she was a wanton, a schemer, everything Albert’s mother had said... In which case she really ought to give him a chance to back out. If he was only going ahead out of honour, then she’d rather he didn’t. No matter how much she needed his protection, she had no desire to marry a man who didn’t want her. She didn’t expect love, but she had more self-respect than that.
She plucked at her cloak, rearranging the fabric to distract herself. At least she was dressed like a bride, in a cream-coloured gown with a round neckline, short summery sleeves and a narrow belt decorated with a sprig of orange blossom. To Percy’s credit, he’d offered to buy her a new dress, but she’d refused, preferring that he pay off his debts whilst she modified one of her aunt’s less flamboyant gowns instead. She’d been secretly pleased with the results, using the excuse of needing a veil to trim away most of the excess lace, leaving just a little to decorate the hem and wrists.
‘No more moping around the house for you.’ Aunt Sophoria gave her a playful nudge in the ribs. ‘It’s high time your fiancé showed his face again. He’s been busy with business, I suppose, but what kind of an engagement is it when the man doesn’t visit?’
A business arrangement, Ianthe thought silently, not that she disagreed with her aunt’s assessment. She could hardly remember what Robert looked like. She’d expected to see him at least once before the wedding, but according to his letters he’d been travelling, first to London, then Liverpool and Glasgow, then busy negotiating with Mr Harper. That had been almost all he’d written about. She’d learned nothing of importance from his letters, nothing about the man she intended to marry—no more than he’d learnt from her staid, largely weather-based replies.
Not that she had anything else to tell him. Except for a few shopping excursions with Kitty, she’d barely left her aunt’s house over the past three months, waiting in a state of heightened nervous tension for something—she wasn’t sure what—to happen, but expecting it none the less. The day after he’d left she’d spent practically glued to her aunt’s side, afraid of a visit from Sir Charles, though he hadn’t come that day or the next.
After a week, relief had turned to a new kind of anxiety, unnerving enough that she’d finally asked Percy where the Baronet was, though he’d been uncharacteristically reticent on the subject. She’d sent him word of her engagement almost straight away, but he hadn’t shown his face for another two days, finally showing up with a large black-and-purple bruise over his left eye—another subject he’d refused point-blank to discuss.
When she’d finally summoned up the nerve to ask about Sir Charles, his response had been near venomous.
‘But where is he?’ she’d persisted in asking anyway, needing to know.
‘He said he was going back to London for a while, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘What do you mean a while?’
‘I don’t know!’ Percy’s ill temper had hardly diminished since the ball. ‘And you’ve no right to ask. You’ve hurt him enough.’
‘I’ve hurt him?’ She felt stung by the injustice of it.
‘Yes. He said he expected more of you. So did I for that matter. You’ve made my life difficult enough as it is.’
‘What do you mean?’
But Percy had only shaken his head and pouted. ‘Nothing, but he blames me for this whole mess, too, you know. I as good as told him you were willing. You might have thought about that!’
‘You had no right to tell him any such thing.’
‘In any case, he doesn’t approve of your choice either. You know if it were anyone else he might have stayed to fight for you, but Mr Felstone has quite a disreputable reputation. Typical of you to prefer a jumped-up merchant to a baronet! It’s no wonder Charles is angry. I’d be offended, too.’
‘Good. If he’s offended, then I’m glad!’
‘In any case, he says he’s not ready to see you again yet.’
The words had chilled her to the bone. ‘Yet?’
Percy had refused to discuss the subject any more, returning to London without so much as a by-your-leave and leaving her to wonder and worry on her own, anxiously reliving the events at the castle, both Sir Charles’s attack and what he’d said about her parents. Thinking back over her childhood, she’d found nothing to suggest that her mother had been unhappy, let alone pining for another man, and yet he’d spoken with such conviction.
The words had haunted her, waking her up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, along with memories of the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d dragged at her skirts as he’d forced his tongue inside her mouth. She’d wanted to tell her aunt, but then she’d had a feeling that the old woman wouldn’t take such news lightly, and now that she knew what the Baronet was capable of, that he was violent as well as obsessed...
