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“I could.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Billings!” the voice called again.
She smiled. “Tomorrow night.”
He returned her smile, his happiness obvious, and bowed before turning back inside.
Deana walked with a spring to her step as well. Not wanting her mother or Aunt Lydia to harass her, she decided she would not tell them yet about Mr. Billings. Her mother had recovered well once they were assured they would not be thrown out of their house for some time. They had even recovered a few pieces of the furniture that had been taken from them by the collectors.
“Who is this saint that has saved us?” Adeline had asked her when Deana had informed them that they had a hundred pounds to their name.
True to his word, Lord Rockwell had opened and deposited the sum into a bank account—she had never had an account at a bank before—two days after her return from Chateau Follet.
“We must offer our most heartfelt thanks,” Lydia had added.
“He insists on anonymity,” Deana had replied.
“But you know who he is. Surely, you can tell us!”
“I have expressed our gratitude, though I think he would not wish for us to solicit him again.”
As she had hoped, the statement had disappointed but distracted her mother for the time being.
The first month upon her return to London had been torturous for Deana. Not only did she miss Rockwell, but also she worried for a fortnight if her menses should not come. She had been willing to take the risk, but she could have reduced her chances of conceiving while at Chateau Follet. She could have encouraged the Baron to attend to Lady Isabella more. A child would have been devastating. Though she would have liked to think that he would have at least provided her the pecuniary means to support her and a child, she would have ruined her chances at marriage to anyone else. Thankfully, her menses did come.
The task of putting Rockwell from her mind was her next concern. She craved his company, she craved his touch. Bereft of his attentions, she felt tense and irritable. No amount of self-pleasure, of which there were many in the loneliness of night, satiated her longing. Only time could ease the pain of his absence.
As she walked further into the night, a sudden gust of wind took her ill-tied bonnet off. She turned around, but someone had retrieved it from the ground.
“Still tempting peril, Miss Herwood?”
She froze as she drank in the sight of Lord Rockwell. He held out her bonnet for her. Her heart throbbed painfully within her. She had not prepared herself for such a meeting.
“I once remarked that you are possessed of sense and wisdom,” Rockwell continued. “But walking alone at night is pure foolhardiness. Did I not advise you against it?”
Her rancor allowed her to find her wits, and she took the bonnet from him.
“Lord Rockwell,” she greeted, noting that he looked every bit as handsome, even in the dark, as when she had last seen him. Of course, only three months, not three years, had passed. How coincidental that their paths should have crossed in this neighborhood and on this street of all places.
“I will see you home, Miss Herwood.”
She knew it was of no use to protest and followed him to where his curricle awaited. After assisting her onto the vehicle, he seated himself and took the reins. They sat in awkward silence as the horses began their canter.
“How fare your mother and aunt?” he asked, reminding her of a similar conversation that had eventually led them to the Chateau Follet.
“Well. And you and your sister?” she replied.
“Lucy is ecstatic. I approve of her young soldier.”
Deana looked at him with surprise. “Indeed?”
“He is a man of integrity.”
“I thought you deemed him unsuitable?”
“He is not ideal, but matters of the heart are rarely rational.”
