Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

It could only kill him. Ross swigged it back, gasped and collapsed on to the pillows while his head spun and his stomach churned. Then, by some miracle, he felt marginally better.

‘What time is it?’

‘Two, my lord. Shall I send for your bath?’

‘The bath and cold water. Then coffee.’

He forced himself out of bed when the shallow tub was manhandled into the dressing room and stood there stark naked while Perrott poured cold water over him. It was vicious, but effective. By the time he had drunk two cups of coffee his brain was working again, which was unfortunate as he was then able to recall, in unpleasant detail, just why he had gone out to get drunk yesterday.

He had to go to Meg, speak to her, try to convince her that he did trust her. Yesterday the shock and anger had overwhelmed him and the cold temper that was his inheritance had ridden him. She had seemed so shaken by his disbelief, so angry when he kissed her. She was as hurt by his lack of trust in her as he had been that she had lied to him.

Something was nagging him, some turn of phrase. Ross rang for food and poured more coffee, forcing his memory back over every word they had exchanged.

I was coming to tell you the truth, give you the opportunity to withdraw your offer.

Before… That was the unsaid word in that sentence. Meg had been going to tell him the truth so he could withdraw, because if he did not she would accept him. If he believed that, then other things made sense. She was not trying to trap him, or she would not tell him the truth—not until she had accepted him, by which point his sense of honour would probably bar him from withdrawing.

And if she was prepared to marry him, at the cost of confessing her whole painful history—what did that prove? That she loved him?

Perrott put a veal chop coated in steaming onion gravy in front of him. Ross cut into it and chewed. What had she said to him when they had had that furious argument? Don’t men realise that it is not the lying together that is important to women—however good that is—it is all the other things. Friendship, companionship, trust, give and take between two people…

And he had sneered at her about love and she had gone white. If she loved him, and thought she would lose him by telling him about her sham marriage, then that would explain her reluctance, the time it had taken her to pluck up courage.

Love. Did he want love? Of course he did. He wanted Billy’s love, as the grandfather he had never known, Lily’s love, the sister he never had, William’s love, another brother. And Meg’s love. A wife and lover’s love.

‘You damned idiot.’ He stared at the half-eaten chop.

‘My lord?’

‘Not you, Perrott. Me. Where is Mrs Halgate?’

‘In her room, I believe, my lord. Damaris said she was unwell yesterday afternoon and I have not seen her since.’

Something trailed one icy fingertip down Ross’s spine. He shoved back his chair and strode out of the door, up the stairs, two at a time. There was no answer as he hammered on Meg’s door, only the silence of an empty room. When he opened the door the bedchamber was immaculate and on the end of the bed was a neat pile of clothing and money. Money and paper.

Ross snatched at it.

‘Oh, my lord.’ Damaris arrived flustered in the doorway. ‘Mrs Halgate said she had a sick headache, my lord. I left her to sleep until she rang.’ She stared about the room, then at Ross’s hand. ‘She’s gone? And left a note?’

‘She has gone and left a precise accounting of her wages.’ Ross strode to the landing. ‘Woodward!’

‘My lord.’ The butler appeared below him in the hall.

‘When did Mrs Halgate leave?’

‘I was not aware that she had, my lord.’

Ro

ss closed his fist and felt the painful scrunch of the paper against his palm. Where have you gone, Meg? Back to Cornwall? No, there was nothing for her there. So where? Where could a young woman without friends, without references and with virtually no resources, go?

Meg climbed down from the farmer’s cart, stiff in every joint. The journey had seemed to last for ever. The stage from Ludgate Hill had been cramped and smelly and it had been a relief to climb down at the Falcon in Ipswich, even though she then had to find a carrier’s cart to take her as far as Framlingham. When they finally arrived she had given up for the day and went to seek a room at the inn, too tired and hungry to face finding someone to carry her the remaining six or so miles to Martinsdene.

Discomfort was a blessing sometimes, Meg decided, buttering bread in one corner of the dining room of the Blue Boar. It was difficult to think too hard when you were uncomfortable. Now with a chair beneath her bruised behind and good food in front of her it was all too easy to think about Ross and to mourn what she had so nearly shared with him. He might even have come to love her, one day. Just a little.

She no longer even wanted to throw things at him, exasperating, proud, private man that he was. She just ached for him and the challenge of teasing the faintest twitch of a smile from that gorgeous, wicked mouth.

Meg finished her roast gammon and found she even had appetite for the apple pie the waiting girl was bringing out from the kitchens. She had learned in the Peninsula that it was no good picking at food, however miserable she was. Food was strength and she needed that.