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Ria shivered as she remembered the feel of his smooth olive skin, the heat of his touch, the warmth of his mouth. Not only had she had carnal relations outside wedlock, but after her initial surprise, she had enjoyed it.
There. She had admitted it. She sighed deeply. Somehow that made it seem worse.
It meant she was scandalous, shameless, wanton, and wicked. And relieved she had reached the end of the alphabet.
The service seemed endless. The theme of the day was the dangers of lust and how unbridled desires could lead to sin. To Ria, every word uttered by the vicar was a dart aimed directly at her. Pointed. Sharp. Searing.
“And those who sin shall dwell in the eternal fires of hell.”
Wherever Hades’ hand had touched her, a trail of fire had been left behind. She didn’t want to contradict the vicar, but as she remembered the sparks his touch had ignited, well, it really had felt like heaven.
“Beware the temptations of Lucifer.”
She thought of how it had felt when he had nibbled her just above the knee. Her knee jerked in reflex.
“Pure thoughts shall be your salvation.”
She suppressed a groan when her wayward imagination recalled how he had touched her between her legs. Hades had seemed to know just where to caress her. How much pressure to use. How to touch her with small, light circles. He had—Ria squirmed slightly on her seat.
“The innocent will reap their reward in heaven.”
She was surely damned.
But was she sorry?
At the end of the service, the ladies of the parish flocked around the vicar, thanking him for his splendidly illuminating sermon. Mr. Brown, pleased to have their attention, added a few more pithy comments about the perils of sin. The feathers in their bonnets fluttered as they bobbed their heads in agreement.
Blushing slightly and finding it hard to meet his gaze, Ria gave the vicar a brief nod over the ladies’ heads, then quickly left the shelter of the church porch and headed for the little cemetery behind the church.
She clutched her black pelisse closed, shivering at the chilly winter wind that brought with it a hint of wood smoke from the fires in the nearby village cottages. To keep warm, she walked briskly, the gravel crunching with each step she took. Once out of sight of the congregation, she pushed back the black crepe widow’s veil covering her bonnet, delighting in the winter sun’s rays on her face, weak though they were.
The path winding downhill through a gap in the hedge of rhododendrons and into the cemetery was familiar to her. Since she was sixteen, Ria had visited her parents’ grave every Sunday after the church service. In the past few months, visiting her husband’s graveside had been added to her ritual. The latte
r seemed somewhat pointless, but it was expected, and Ria always did the expected.
Well, at least until recently.
As was her custom, once in the cemetery, she kept her gaze to the front and avoided looking directly at the graves as she never knew what, or whom, she might see. She stopped at a plot where bare oak branches cast skeletal shadows over the headstone. As always when she stood by her parents’ grave, sadness blanketed her. Shivering, she pulled her pelisse tight and snuggled into it.
She missed them both, missed being able to talk to them—particularly to her father, who had been like her and had understood what she saw and how she felt.
Today, looking at their headstone, thoughts tumbled over each other in her mind. If they hadn’t died in the carriage accident, what would her life have been like? She wouldn’t now be Mrs. St. James—there would have been no need. And she wouldn’t have attended the masquerade and would not feel so torn.
But then if she had not, if she had not married and inherited the estate, what would have become of the ladies who lived there? Ria frowned. Geoffrey would have inherited, and he would have cast her husband’s aunts and cousins off. Even if St. James had left them an income, Geoffrey would have found some way to avoid handing it over.
With no money, too old to be governesses or companions, they would have been destitute and could even have ended up in a workhouse. Ria shuddered at the thought of the kindly ladies who had become her family in one of those prison-like places.
Bending over, she brushed off the dry and brittle oak leaves that had fallen on her parents’ grave. If they hadn’t died, it was likely she’d be married to someone else by now and possibly have children.
As Ria stood up, she wondered what kind of man she would have married. Unbidden, an image of the Earl of Arden crossed her mind, and she laughed humorlessly at the whimsical tricks her brain liked to play.
Her shoulders drooped. She wished her parents could have had the chance to know her as an adult, and she hoped they would not have been disappointed in the person she’d become.
Next she stopped beside her husband’s grave. As had been his habit of late on a Sunday morning, Monty sat on the stone seat under the oak. He smiled and rose as she approached.
“My dear, good morning. You are…” Monty’s voice trailed away as he looked past her. Later Ria would wonder at the look on his face. Part surprise, part satisfaction. Before she could respond, he was gone.
Hearing the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path, she turned. Her eyes widened, and hastily she pulled down the veil of her black silk crepe bonnet.
