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Henrietta soon perceived she’d been incredibly naïve when she’d imagined Lord Deben would be the one who’d have to face the aftermath of their public quarrel. Because he was a man, he didn’t need to face up to anything. He had the power to order his carriage and slink off to one of his estates. Or go to the races. Or snap his fingers to some eager, experienced woman, who would be only too glad to satisfy his needs in a way she could not. A woman who would, when he was done with her, leave him absolutely free. If not Mrs Yardley, then another.
* * *
It became increasingly difficult to pretend she didn’t care about the spiteful asides being whispered behind gloved hands wherever she went—loudly enough to ensure she overheard every one. Even her aunt conceded that there was no need to accept every invitation that came from what Mildred had taken to referring to as ‘the top-lofty set’. And so Henrietta began, discreetly, to remove herself from the sphere in which Lord Deben would naturally move, when eventually he did return.
Apart from anything else, she did not know how she would cope with seeing him, knowing he’d spent the intervening time with some other woman, touching her the way he’d touched Hentrietta. Kissing her. Driving her wild with desire. And then taking his own pleasure in her body. To the full.
For what else could he be doing?
Every night, in her lonely bed, she lay there, wondering. She could think of nothing else, when she had nothing else to distract her. Every time she almost drifted off to sleep, the weight of the blankets on top of her became the echo of his body, pressing her into that sofa. Her skin reminded her of the paths his hands had traced. She grew heated and restless, and didn’t know what to do with herself. In vain did she throw off the covers. He haunted her. And she had nobody to blame but herself. He’d warned her that if he kissed her she would never be the same again. That he would make her a woman, aware of her body.
He’d also said she would look at men and wonder if their lips could rouse her to the heights he’d boasted he could show her.
It was no consolation to discover he’d been wrong about that. That the only man whose lips she would ever want on her were his.
Sometimes, when she had a few moments to herself during the day, she would take out the three monogrammed handkerchiefs she’d never quite been able to bring herself to return to him, close her eyes and press them to her lips. It wasn’t the same. They were cool and dead, and, having spent weeks tucked at the bottom of her underwear drawer, they no longer bore even the remotest trace of his uniquely masculine scent.
But, because she did not want anyone to suspect how badly Lord Deben had hurt her, she took far more care over her appearance than she ever had before. She applied rice powder to the shadows under her eyes, made sure her gowns were taken in so that her loss of weight did not become apparent and even went so far as applying a little rouge to disguise her pallor.
It had been bad enough to have had her aunt accusing her of moping, after the Richard fiasco. At least then she’d been able to believe everything would have been better if she could return to Much Wakering. Now she knew it would be useless to go anywhere else. Wherever she went, it would be without him, so she would still feel as though she was slowly dying. Besides, he’d rather taken the gloss off the life she’d lived in Much Wakering. She’d always thought of herself as indispensable to her family’s happiness. She’d assumed her brothers loved her as much as she loved them. It had taken the cynical Lord Deben to point out that they’d all been taking her for granted for years.
No, if she was going to be miserable, she might as well be in London, with at least the benefit of theatre trips and art exhibitions to act as a distraction. Besides, her aunt and uncle were planning a lavish wedding for Mildred and Mr Crimmer. She did not want to spoil their happiness by waving her own misery in their faces like a banner.
* * *
Then one day, about a week after Mrs Yardley put paid to the rumours she was Lord Deben’s latest mistress, Julia Twining and Lady Susan Pettiffer came to call on her.
She received them gladly, since they had been about the only people who had never treated her any differently, while she’d been entangled with Lord Deben, or afterwards.
