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Chapter 31
She should give him something capable of producing curiosity and love in his heart, such as an affectionate present, telling him that it was specifically designed for his use.
The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana
Alice gathered her manuscripts and her clothing.
She marshaled her emotions and locked them deep inside her heart.
She would have long months at sea to examine this pain. To dissect it. And to speak its language.
The only item she left behind was a worn edition of her favorite novel.
She’d read it to Nick while he was unconscious. He had no memory of her reading to him.
As it turned out, he’d been right.
Her Darcy did not exist. And she’d been foolish to think she would find him someday.
What need had she for girlish dreams? She’d known who she was the day she’d arrived at Sunderland, but she’d changed many times since then.
From now on she’d be all business. She would live for her scholarship, and she would become an esteemed linguist. Why shouldn’t she? No one could dispute the fact that she spoke the languages she did.
She said good-bye to Nick without crying; how she managed that, she’d never know.
She said good-bye to the duke, and to Berthold, March, and Bill.
She made her farewells and she left.
Climbed into a carriage wearing a sensible traveling dress with Kali in her wicker basket.
The carriage met some sort of obstruction and couldn’t seem to move around the blockage in the road. Alice sat, dully, watching the light fade.
She would be terribly late.
But Captain Lear would wait for her. He’d been charged by Nick with delivering her to India.
Follow the plan. Honor the contract.
And never look back.
Like a damned coward, Nick watched Alice’s carriage leave from his window.
Because if he’d gone down to see her off, he would have broken down and begged her to stay.
And that wouldn’t be fair to her. She might think she loved him, but if she stayed here, eventually she would resent him for ruining her dreams and subsuming her goals.
She’d left nothing behind but a book. Fitting for such a studious lady.
He slipped the leather-bound novel into the inner pocket of his coat and headed for the duke’s orchid conservatory.
March blocked his way as he attempted to leave the house.
“You’re still ’ere?” he asked, his wrinkled face filled with confusion. “Thought you would have gone after her by now.”
“I had to let her go,” Nick said, trying to convince himself he’d done the right thing.
“Won’t miss that furry rodent of hers,” March said, sticking out his lower lip. “Not one bit.”
