At least someone had stars in their eyes about the future and no worries or doubts, Sara thought as she settled down in bed with a cup of tea and the hope that sleep would come soon.
*
In some distant corner of her mind she knew she was dreaming, knew that she should make an effort to drag her eyes open and wake up and yet she was powerless. Michael’s voice was speaking the words that she had only ever seen written on the letter he had left that morning when he had gone out to meet Francis in the dewy early light. Michael’s face showed vague and misty as though seen through a shifting fog bank, his mouth speaking the words.
Francis said things that I could not let go unchallenged—implied that when I was at the college in the evenings, at night, he would not be keeping you company having dinner, as I believed he would, but making love to you. He would not deny it, would not confirm it.
Of course I know it is all lies, that you would not so much as flirt with my friend, but he said such things… My friend no longer.
Duels have always seemed to me to be archaic, violent. Now I see that sometimes there are slurs too great, betrayals too vile, to leave unpunished. I will defend your honour and mine and if I do not come back then remember that I love you and do not believe his lies for one moment.
Your husband
Michael
And the fog swirled around her, choking her, muddling the words in her ears as she sank, drowning into the whiteness.
It was only flirtation, she tried to say to him. I was bored. I was lonely. All those long evenings you were in college at those interminable meetings and dinners. Francis was there—he was fun, amusing, a friend. I never loved him, Michael, only you. Only you.
Then there were three voices in that fog, like some devilish part-song. Michael’s, hers, and one she had not heard for two years. Francis Walton’s.
‘Just a kiss goodnight, Sara dearest. Where’s the harm? Just a kiss for an old friend…’
Sara woke sweating and crying, the sheets tangled around her legs, her hair in her face, clinging like the tendrils of the dream fog.
‘But I can’t have loved you, Michael,’ she said out loud. ‘Not enough, not as I should, or I would never have flirted with fire like that.’
Now Michael was dead and Francis an exile and she had been rewarded with a man she loved and desired and did not deserve.
Chapter Twenty
The tendrils of fear and shame still seemed to wrap her round next morning. As Sara made her way down the hill towards Aphrodite’s Seashell the air itself was misty with tendrils of sea fret swirling in, chill from the ocean. It was as if her dream had moved with her into the real world, even though her rational mind told her it was only to be expected at this time of year and was the first warning that autumn was on its way.
Dot was already in the shop, dusting, when Sara slid her key into the lock. ‘There you are, home safe and sound.’ She cocked her head to one side as though knowing full well there was a tale to tell.
‘Safe and sound,’ Sara agreed. ‘And Lady Marguerite is safe, too, and will be married to her Mr Farnsworth without a breath of scandal or gossip.’
‘Now that’s good news, bless her. A sweet girl from all I could see, even if she’s still got a lot of growing up to do.’
‘And I am selling this shop and I will be marrying the Marquess of Cannock,’ Sara said, delivering all her news in a rush. She saw Dot’s jaw drop. ‘It is all right, Dot, I will make sure you do not lose by it.’
But it was apparently not the sale of the shop that astounded the other woman. ‘The Marquess of Cannock?’
‘Yes?’ drawled a deep voice as the shop door closed on a tinkle of bells. ‘You wanted me?’
‘Mr Dunton? You are the Marquess of Cannock?’
‘Dunton is a family name,’ Lucian said smoothly.
‘Good,’ Dot stated. ‘So long as you do right by her.’ She stomped off to the back room. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
They stood there alone and Sara watched Lucian’s gaze wander over the shop and its contents. Was he already wondering whether she could put this behind her, become the sort of Marchioness he thought he needed?
‘We’ll have tea, shall we? Then I must talk to Dot and then go and see if I can find Mrs Ingram, who might be interested in taking over the shop. I can always lease it if she doesn’t want to buy.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Dot said, coming through the curtains with a vast tea tray borne in front of her. ‘Have to rent it, mind, don’t have the sort of money to put down to buy it.’
‘You, Dot? But you’ve never taken any interest in the money side, or the orders.’ In fact, Sara was not certain just how literate the ex-dipper was beyond basic reading and writing.