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Chapter Thirteen
“See me out to the stables?” Jasper asked Lady Selina in a low voice. She glanced toward her uncle’s retreating back, then at Mr. Wickes, who glanced away.
“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll go and check on Violet’s foal,” she added, for the benefit of Mr. Wickes, who smiled at her. “Mr. Wickes, would you attend, please?”
“Yes, My Lady,” Wickes said.
Wickes trailed after them as they walked out toward the stables. The yard was busy, full of Uncle Latimer’s grooms and stable hands.
Their shoes crunched in the gravel of the drive as they walked toward the stables.
“I can’t help but notice that you’re being rather reserved,” he said. “Toward me, in particular.”
“I thought we spoke of this last night, Your Grace.”
“Speak plainly, I beg you.”
“I cannot, Your Grace,” she whispered, glancing at him, then looking away. “My parents raised me for a different world, one which I’ve found doesn’t exist.”
“I love how your mind works,” he said. “I wouldn’t change you, My Lady. I’m trying to figure out how to change things, without making a mess of them.” He had only just given himself extra time.
She sniffled, and he stopped, staring at him. A tear fell down her cheek. “I have to leave,” she said. “I cannot be here.”
“Please, My Lady, forgive me,” he said as they reached the stables. “I’ve called it off.”
“The wedding, but not the engagement. I myself did not realize the danger that I was in, however,” she said, “It’s happened, and I cannot leave myself open to any more hurt. Now, if you’d please, Your Grace, I must go. Anyone could be watching us.”
He turned, finding Mr. Wickes, standing there. Their eyes met. Mr. Wickes raised an eyebrow. Jasper looked away from the butler. He’d said too much. But then, what was there to lose?
Lady Selina turned away, leaving him there as she walked back to the house. He needed her to come to meet him. He needed to prove to her that he loved her, would do anything for her.
* * *
Selina sat in her room, staring at the letter that she had written to her brother. She felt sick, her stomach turning nauseously. She closed her eyes, leaning her head into her hand.
She was resolved to send the letter. It was the only thing to be done. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said, turning.
Mr. Wickes peered inside. “A letter has arrived, My Lady.”
She stood up, crossing the room to accept it. “Thank you, Mr. Wickes.”
He paused a moment, seeming to want to tell her something. “My Lady,” he said.
“What you might have overheard, Mr. Wickes,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
“Very good, My Lady. I wouldn’t want there to have been a misunderstanding.”
“That’s all it was,” she assured him.
He left. When she looked down at the letter, she found that it had been hastily scrawled on a sheet of paper, then folded. She didn’t know the handwriting.
When she opened it, she found it was from the Duke.
“How daring,” she murmured as she read it.
Please, My Lady—accept my sincerest apologies for hurting you. I must meet you. Where we met last. I’ll wait there for you to show up.
