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The moment his back was turned, Laurel made her way as quickly as she could to the entrance. So early in the evening it did not take long to retrieve her cloak, or to send for the carriage.
* * *
Laurel was home within half an hour of walking away from Giles.
‘A migraine,’ she told Binham who, fortunately, was still up. ‘My head is splitting. I will go straight to bed if you can just help me out of this gown.’
When the maid had left Laurel locked the bedchamber door and retreated to her bed. She had to think because she did not believe she could manage to speak calmly to Giles, not yet.
Always assuming, she thought miserably, he wants to talk to me, calm or not. Always assuming he comes home. I trusted him.
* * *
It felt as though he had received a heavy blow to the back of the skull. He was still conscious, on his feet, moving and hearing words, but even when he put them together into sentences that made sense, the meaning was impossible.
Beatriz in London? Beatriz talking to Laurel, telling her he was intending to elope with her?
And yet there she was, her beautiful face turned to him as he came closer, a desperate, foolish, hope in her eyes.
‘Giles! She was lying to me, lying. Was she not? She is your mistress, sim?’
‘Não,’ he said forcefully. ‘No. She—Laurel—is my wife.’ He sat down next to her, picked up a discarded wine glass and tried to keep his expression bland and open, as though this was simply a casual conversation. ‘What are you doing here, Beatriz? Why have you been saying those things to my wife? You know perfectly well that there is nothing between us and never was, beyond a little flirtation. Nothing. Nada,’ he repeated when she just stared at him blankly.
‘But in Lisbon you made love to me with your eyes. You were so kind, you help me, you hear how impossible is this marriage that they want to make with me and this...this sapo.’
Toad, Giles translated with that part of his brain that was not screaming, Run!
‘I understood why you must leave, why you cannot speak to me. At home I am too much guarded and besides, Papa has so much influence. You could have been arrested or worse. But I am here now. Papa has a post of the most important with the diplomatic mission. Here in England we can run away—go to this Gretna Green I have read of and there we can be married.’
‘But I am married.’ He found he wanted to shake her. How could she not understand? ‘And you are betrothed and your father would never accept our marriage. And besides—I am sorry, Beatriz, but I do not want to marry you. I never did.’
She fixed those lovely eyes on him, her lower lip, sweetly curved, that looked as though it must taste of cherries, trembling. ‘But I do not understand. You love me.’
‘No, I do not. I never said such a thing. I never kissed you or wrote to you or did anything other than flirt with you and let you weep all over me.’ It was like wading through deep water trying to make her understand. ‘I know you are upset about the man they want you to marry, but this is no answer. Imagine the diplomatic row if you do anything rash—think how angry your father would be. It could harm relations between our countries. Beatriz, you cannot think only of yourself. I am married and you, in a way, are representing your country. You must stop this.’ He felt like a brute, but she was not going to accept that her foolish fantasy of escape was not reality unless he forced her to.
‘You do not love me.’ Her voice was low, shaking, as she turned away. ‘You betray me.’
‘Damn it, Beatriz. Grow up.’
But she had turned her shoulder to him and, in the midst of a royal reception, there was absolutely nothing he could do. He would have to leave her, although it felt like abandoning her. If they attracted notice with her on the brink of tears, the talk would be appalling and her father would be furious with her all over again. And there was Laurel to consider.
Laurel. My wife. He stood up, scanned what he could see of the room. It was crowded now, noisy and hot. He began to quarter the room systematically searching. Laurel would be—what? Upset hardly seemed to be adequate, confronted with what appeared to be damning evidence of her new husband’s philandering with an innocent young lady. Distressed, angry, deceived. Betrayed. Hurt. That was what mattered. Laurel would be hurt to discover that she could not trust him and he found that the thought cut like a knife.
Giles made his way to the entrance, discovered that Lady Revesby had collected her cloak and summoned her carriage not twenty minutes before. Was that all it was—a few minutes? It had seemed like an hour in there with Beatriz.
He was within minutes of home so he walked, thin evening pumps painful on the uneven flagstones as he strode along, his evening cloak swirling around him.
A woman stepped out of an alleyway in front of him. ‘Looking for a good time, sweetheart?’
She recoiled when he snarled at her, his pulse thudding as he relaxed his hand on the hilt of the thin knife he carried in the lining of his coat. Not a footpad. That would have put the crown on the evening, arriving home battered from a fight.
The front door swung open as he ran up the steps. ‘Her ladyship has retired, my lord. The decanters are—’
‘Thank you. You can lock up now.’ He made himself walk calmly up the stairs. If the footman had not noticed anything wrong with Laurel then there was hope that no one else had either, although it was really impossible to keep things from the staff.
There was a thread of light under Laurel’s door. He scratched on a panel and tried the handle. Locked. He tapped. ‘Laurel, it is Giles.’ No answer.
He could fetch a master key. He could pound on the door and demand to be let in. He could even put a shoulder to it. All of those would make him feel better for a moment and would make Laurel feel worse. Giles went to bed.
