Averil made herself breathe slowly in the long, difficult silence that followed. She felt as though she had been punched in the chest. Of course she did not want him to marry her, but he might at least have hesitated before repudiating the idea with such humiliating vigour! It was incredible how much that sharp negative hurt.
‘I have matrimonial plans,’ Luc said when it was obvious that she was not going to speak. His eyes were dark and hard and there was colour on his cheekbones under the tanned skin.
‘You are betrothed, Captain? Oh, dear, that does complicate matters.’
‘I am not betrothed, Sir George. But I am intending to marry a lady of the émigré community. A Frenchwoman. I see no reason why Miss Heydon cannot adopt your most sensible solution.’
‘Because it is a lie, as I said.’ She lifted her chin a notch and managed not to glare at him. That would have revealed too much of her feelings. ‘I am contracted to marry Lord Bradon and I intend to honour that contract. I shall go to him and tell him all.’
‘All what?’ Lady Olivia demanded.
‘That I was washed ashore, found by a group of men on a covert naval mission, protected by their officer and returned safely to your care, ma’am.’
‘Safely?’ There was no mistaking what the Governor’s wife meant.
Averil hung on to the ragged edge of her temper with an effort. ‘If you are enquiring if I am a virgin, Lady Olivia, the answer is, yes, I am.’ She managed, somehow, to say it in a chilly, but polite, tone of voice.
Miss Gordon gave a gasp and Sir George went red. Luc merely tightened his lips and breathed out, hard. ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Lady Olivia retorted. ‘One only hopes that your betrothed believes you.’
‘Of course he will. He is, after all, a gentleman.’
The Governor’s wife inclined her head. ‘He is certainly that and will have expectations of his wife
-to-be.’
‘I will call on Lord Bradon,’ Luc said. ‘He will wish to assure himself of Miss Heydon’s treatment.’
‘I do not think that would be wise,’ Averil said. ‘It would make it appear that there was something that needed explanation.’
Luc stared at her profile. He could not read this new Averil. The half-drowned sea nymph, the innocently passionate woman, the boy-girl in her borrowed clothes had all gone and in their place was this elegant young lady. The intelligence was there still, of course, and the courage and downright inconvenient honesty. But those attributes lived in the body of this elegant, angry, beautiful creature he did not know how to reach.
And what had possessed him to snap out that one word? In French, too, which somehow made it worse. A few seconds and he could have been politely supporting Averil. As it was, his reaction had been one of deeply unflattering rejection. He, the last of the d’Aunays, was not going to marry an English merchant’s daughter, however well brought up and however elegant her manners, but he could have managed the thing more tactfully.
‘I think it would be helpful if I were to speak to Miss Heydon alone.’ He had to explain, he could not leave it like this. He no longer had any responsibility for her, he could stop being concerned for her—thank the heavens—but even so, this must be ended properly.
‘I hardly think—’
‘If they were to stroll in the gardens, Sister?’ Miss Gordon intervened. ‘I could stay on the terrace as chaperone. The evening is balmy and the fresh air would be pleasant.’
‘Very well,’ Lady Olivia conceded.
Luc did not wait for her approval. He was on his feet, extending a hand to Averil, even as he said, ‘Thank you, Miss Gordon. Miss Heydon? It seems a very clement evening. It would be best if we could agree a mutually satisfactory approach to this, after all.’
‘Of course.’ Averil got up with grace, as though he had asked her to dance at a ball. ‘Thank you, Miss Gordon.’
It was not until they had walked in silence down the length of the path that bisected the long garden that he realised just how angry she was. She turned, slipped her hand from his forearm where it had been resting, and faced him. In the distance, well out of earshot, Miss Gordon strolled up and down the terrace.
‘How dare you!’
‘Averil, I have explained. You know who I am, what I am. I cannot marry—’
‘A merchant’s daughter,’ she spat.
‘An Englishwoman.’ Even as he equivocated he felt guilt at not matching her burning honesty.
‘That is not what I meant. Of course I don’t want you to marry me any more than you want to marry me, but could you not have trusted me to refuse? Did you think I want to trap you into marriage?’
‘No, I did not think that.’ Was that the truth? Why had he been so vehement? It had felt, for a second, almost like fear. Fear of something he did not understand, something that would turn his world on its head. He tried to focus on the important thing, protecting her from the consequences of all this. ‘Lord Bradon may not understand. He does not know you as I do.’