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I love him and I had let myself dream I could marry him. Ashe and love and children. Ashe for as long as we lived.
So, temptation murmured, do not tell him the truth. How would he be harmed by the secret?
But shouldn’t a marriage be based on honesty and truth? Phyllida argued back as she fiddled with the ties on her skirt and trousers, reluctant to emerge until she had come to some conclusion. If she did not love him, she suspected it would be much easier—never mention her past. But she did love him and so she felt compelled to tell him. If he reacted badly—and what man wouldn’t?—she would have lost him for ever.
But I should not be marrying him in any case, she reminded herself with bitter realism. Marriage is a dream, happiness with Ashe is a dream. Those children will never be born. Phyllida leaned back against the wall, her hand pressed to her mouth to stifle the sobs that seemed to come from nowhere.
Oh, Ashe, my love. She should never have spoken of children, never have let him be so certain she would marry him. Now, even though he did not love her, she would hurt him, not just his pride, when she broke this off.
‘Are you all right?’ Ashe did not sound impatient.
‘Yes.’ She found her voice and managed to strike a light note. ‘I must admit to feeling a trifle bemused,’ Phyllida admitted. Ashe chuckled. He had made her dizzy with his lovemaking. Perhaps that was why it was so difficult to think clearly and logically, to resolve to end this here and now. They were going to make love again, she knew that. It was as inevitable as sunrise.
‘Ashe, what is the time?’ She made herself come out from behind the screen. It was hard to meet his eyes, although she felt warm and safe with him. Her guilty conscience, she supposed.
‘Three. Time to go home. Here is your jacket.’ He held it out to her, then stopped and touched one finger to the top of her left breast. ‘What is that? A birthmark? I meant to ask when you took off your jacket, but I became… distracted.’
‘Yes.’ Phyllida squinted down to where his finger traced the coffee-brown mark the size of a strawberry. ‘Luckily it is towards the side so, if I am careful, the bodice of a gown covers it.’
‘But why would you want to hide it?’ Ashe helped her into the jacket. ‘It is a perfect heart. Charming.’
‘It is a blemish.’
‘Nonsense. It looks fascinating on your white skin, tantalising. Promise me you will not cover it up any more.’ He bent and kissed it, then pulled her sides of the jacket together and began to do up the tiny buttons.
‘Very well.’ It would not be a problem, not with her evening and half-dress gowns and if Ashe liked it she was too flattered to resist. She would only need to remove some of the trim or turn under the edge of the bodice. There were a few days left before she had to end this. In day gowns, with their higher necklines, it would never show in any case.
‘Ashe, stop that or we will never get back!’ He laughed and ceased tickling between the button holes.
‘Come along then. Before you tempt me unbearably.’
Phyllida was sitting sewing with Sara the next afternoon when Gregory called. Lady Eldonstone had insisted that she sit down and rest after a morning supervising the despatch of crates to the auction house and it had seemed a good time to alter the neckline of some of her evening gowns so that the heart-shaped birthmark could be seen.
The lack of logic in doing something that could only inflame Ashe’s enthusiasm for lovemaking, and entangle her even more in the deception she was caught in, did not escape her. It was as though she was two people: one sensible, honest Phyllida who should be cold-bloodedly planning the break with Ashe for his own good, the other a dizzy girl in love who could not think beyond the next moment in his arms.
Sara rang for refreshments and Gregory sat down, all long legs, tight pantaloons and gleaming Hessians. ‘You are the picture of a perfect London gentleman,’ Phyllida teased him. ‘So neat and tidy and respectable-looking. And such a smart new crop!’
He grinned at her good-naturedly. ‘Harriet likes it. Which brings me to why I am here. You and I have been invited to a family dinner party tomorrow evening, I’m afraid.’
‘Afraid? But I thought you got on very well with Harriet’s family.’
‘I do, but a long-lost uncle has appeared back in town. He’s Mrs Millington’s brother and a bit of a black sheep, apparently. He’s been safely off in Jamaica working as a land agent or some such thing and I suspect they all hoped he’d stay there. Anyway, we’ve been invited to dilute the family tensions a bit, I suspect. There’s a couple of cousins and a great-aunt coming as well.’
‘It will be very awkward if he decides to stay, won’t it? Or perhaps he has reformed,’ Sara remarked. ‘Would you care to pour yourself a glass of sherry or Madeira, Lord Fransham?’
‘Thanks, I will. Millington was all for showing him the door, apparently, but Mrs M. wants to give him another chance, hence
the dinner party.’ Gregory went to the decanters while Sara poured tea.
‘I will have to ask Lady Eldonstone if it would be convenient. She may have plans for the evening,’ Phyllida said. It sounded an awkward situation, but if she could help the Millingtons, she would. Everything was back on course for the wedding and she felt nothing but gratitude to them for their tolerance.
‘We aren’t doing anything tomorrow night,’ Sara said. ‘I know because Papa is going to a lecture at the Royal Society and Mama said this morning that it would be good to have an evening at home recovering from all our gadding about.’
Phyllida asked her hostess’s leave and, when her brother had gone, went back to removing the lace from the neckline of her dark-green dinner gown. That would do nicely for the Millingtons’ dinner. It was a little formal, perhaps, but formality was sometimes a help in sticky social situations.
Ashe was rather less obliging about her plans than the marchioness. ‘I had hoped to spend the evening with you in Jermyn Street,’ he murmured in her ear later.
‘I wish we were,’ Phyllida whispered back under cover of a singularly dreary piano sonata. Lady Eldonstone had insisted on attending a musicale that evening. ‘I will miss you.’
