It was her only choice. Already, she had grown far too attached to little Anne and Elizabeth. Lady Octavia and Mr. Sutton were kind and just employers, the best she had ever known. Mr. Sutton was a man who seemed genuinely concerned about the welfare of not just his family, but everyone in his household. Lady Octavia dearly loved her daughters and wanted them to receive the best education and care possible. But lingering any longer would only be delaying the inevitable.
Because then there was Rafe.
He already owned her heart. He always would, and she knew that now. But they came from disparate worlds, and although she had given him her body the night before, she had never given him the truth.
There are few things lower than a liar, and I ain’t one.
How would he feel if he knew Miss Persephone Wren was not just a simple governess who had been chased from her former position by a lecherous lord? Would he look upon her in the same fashion once he realized she was Lady Persephone Calcot, daughter to the last Marquess of Silwood, betrothed to the current Lord Silwood, one of the wealthiest heiresses in all England?
Unlikely.
She turned her face into the pillow where Rafe had lain his head, the divot still there, slightly warm. He had stayed for most of the night, then. Judging by the weak light hovering at the edges of the curtains, the hour was yet early. She had just missed his departure, and how she mourned that loss.
For if she did what was necessary, she would not see him again.
Tears stung her eyes. Never see Rafe Sutton’s charming grin, his dimples, his golden curls, or his hazel eyes. Never hear his decadent baritone calling her lovely once more.
A sob tore from her throat and she buried her face in the pillow to muffle it.
He is not for you, Persephone. You have known that all this time, but you were selfish and you wanted him for your own.
It was true. She had. But last night had seemed laden with endless possibilities that this grim morning light now mocked. She had not been prepared for the magnitude of her grief. She unleashed it now, giving in to the overwhelming sadness as it flowed from her.
When her tears subsided, she forced herself to rise, going to the small pitcher and bowl she kept by the bed and splashing water on her swollen eyes and heated cheeks. Leaving would not be easy, but it had to be done. Her resolve returned. She was mere weeks from reaching five-and-twenty. After almost seven years of hiding in plain sight, her ordeal would soon be at an end.
But she would have a tremendous fight awaiting her. Heaven knew Cousin Bartholomew would not forfeit either her fortune or his power over it easily. He had already proven himself a very dangerous man. She scarcely knew what he was capable of, but she understood that he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. And ultimately, what he wanted was Persephone and her inheritance. Not necessarily in that order.
With a shudder, she hastily dressed in her unlaundered undergarments from the day before and pulled a clean gown atop them, a no-nonsense affair she could fasten herself with ease, just like her other few, serviceable gowns. When she had been Cousin Bartholomew’s unwilling betrothed, he had made certain she had more dresses, undergarments, and hats than she would have ever been able to wear. She had fled without a single one of them, save for the one on her back the night she had run. He had spared no expense in clothing her as would befit his marchioness. But then, the expenses had all come from funds that were rightfully hers.
And what a bitter realization it had been, discovering the ugly, bitter truth. When Persephone had first learned she had been left a vast fortune by her mother, whose family had been in trade and extraordinarily wealthy for it—much to the shame of the Calcot family—she had been shocked. But the swift understanding that her guardian would be in control of it until she either married with his approval or reached the age of five-and-twenty had been brutally disappointing. More so for the man who was her guardian.
When she had been a child, Cousin Bartholomew had scarcely paid her any notice. He had assigned her joyless governesses with a penchant for cruelty, and he had summoned her for periodic reports on her progress or lack thereof. However, he had not been interested in her in the way he had been interested in the chamber and scullery maids, which she had always understood with a despicable sense of relief. Better them, she had so selfishly thought as a girl of twelve, than me.
But when she reached her sixteenth birthday, his disinterest had faded.
She could still recall the way he had looked at her for one of their periodic meetings to discuss the reports he received from her governess. His gaze had lingered on the new fullness of her bodice, and he had asked her to take down her hair. Uncomfortable yet wishing to please him to avoid punishment, she had done so. And he had run his fingers through the strands, declaring the shade was unpleasant to him, but the texture fine enough. Whilst he had been touching her hair, his hand had passed over her breast.
The touch had been most unwanted, and yet, she had seen the expression of sudden, lewd excitement on his face. And even as young and innocent as she had been, she had understood it had been wrong and that later, although she had done nothing untoward in their meeting, she had felt despicably soiled.
“Dear God,” she whispered to herself now, hands shaking as she fought tears and packed her meager belongings. For so long, she had kept these memories firmly at bay. She had tamped them down, banished them, had stricken them from her mind.
But now that the time had come where she would inevitably need to face him once more, she was reliving each painful recollection as if it had been yesterday. More sobs shook her as she hid the small amount of coin she had been able to secret and carry with her through all her recent situations. Deep within her portmanteau, wrapped in a new pair of stockings she had never worn.
Everything she remembered was a reminder of why she needed to leave.
She had lied to everyone. To Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia, to Anne and Elizabeth, to Rafe. None of them knew who she truly was, and she did not dare to tell any of them the truth. To do so would only bring unnecessary danger and worry. They all deserved more than that. So much more.
Leaving them
would be her gift.
In all the years she had been running from Cousin Bartholomew, this was the first post where she had put the welfare of the family employing her before her own. In the past, discovery by him had been a risk she had been willing to take. She knew he was powerful, spiteful, vindictive, and violent. That he would not hesitate to exact his swift revenge upon her should their paths ever cross again. But now she also feared what he might try to do to the Suttons.
They were not a noble family by birth. Their wealth had been built upon their own tenacity and hard work. One vindictive marquess who had been slowly and steadily building his influence with the aristocracy could ruin them in a month. Perhaps even a week.
Rats would be the least of the worries of the Suttons.
And all because of her.