Rafe stopped short. “She rode recklessly through a storm to escape from me. I promised to look after her and I failed.”
“You keep telling yourself this story, but what if it isn’t true?”
“I was there, Nicholas. I know what is true.”
“You allow your guilt—”
“Guilt has nothing to do with it. I’m simply not made for…for marriage.”
“Katharine’s situation was unusual. There is nothing more you could have done.”
Rafe shook his head, tired of this argument. It suited the bishop to absolve him, but Rafe would never escape his failure to look after his wife. He would never escape the truth that he could look after nothing more complicated than a plant.
Their thick silence was broken by the sound of a carriage pulling up outside.
“Is it her?” Nicholas dashed to the window, eager as a boy at Christmas. “Oh, it’s her!”
Rafe found himself at the window too, watching as Thea’s manservant Gilbert helped her down from the carriage. She certainly appeared the part of a countess, in a sleek blue-striped pelisse and large, elaborate bonnet. The wide-brimmed bonnet did a fair job of hiding her face, until she paused and looked up to admire the house. The light caressed the angle of her jaw and slid down the smooth column of her throat.
“She looks delightful,” Nicholas said. “Please, may I talk to her? Please, please, please?”
“No!”
With both hands on the laughing bishop’s back, Rafe marched him into the hall and ordered him to leave through the kitchen. A moment later, the butler had opened the door and Rafe was in the doorway, looking at Thea.
“Begone, fair lady!” Dudley screeched at her, bouncing on his feet. “We be in the Devil’s lair!”
Thea paused mid-step. “Oh, is that what they call Mayfair these days?”
“Here lives a wild man! He consorts with demons!”
“Don’t be silly. He doesn’t consort with anyone. All that talking.”
Behind Rafe, Nicholas chuckled. “This one’s going to liven you right up.”
Rafe twisted around. “I told you to go.”
“Not a chance, my boy. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Chapter 7
Thea had intended to walk straight past the man in black. As a Londoner, she was familiar with such men. Every market square in the city had people like this, yelling warnings at the world, while the world either ignored them or threw slops at their head.
Besides, her day in London had left her weary. First, she had gone with Gilbert to deliver her manuscript to Arabella’s publisher and to meet Mr. Witherspoon, the man who would oversee her advertising campaign. He was as excellent as Arabella promised: He listened to her wishes and suggested improvements, before briskly stating how he would achieve each item, how many delivery boys he would hire, which artists he would commission, and, of course, how much it would all cost. The amount made her heart sink, but she confidently assured him the money would be forthcoming, and dashed off on her risky shopping expedition, praying no one would recognize her.
She had hoped to get home before Luxborough did, so she could plead a headache, lock her door, and avoid awkward questions about her shopping.
And perhaps she would have succeeded, if not for her rash decision to have the carriage stop in Warren Street, a little down from the blue door with the brass mermaid knocker. Ma had planted pink flowers in the window boxes and changed the curtains upstairs.
As Thea sat watching, that blue door had swung open to reveal Ma, as if she sensed in her heart that her eldest daughter had come home. But then Pa had dashed up the stairs with his usual vigor and they were both laughing as he whirled Ma about, and they laughed harder when Pa clutched at his lower back.
Thea had blinked away tears, though she smiled for them too. It was too soon to hear from Helen, so the Knight family must have scored some other victory. If only Thea could share in their celebration! If only she could skip through that blue door, wink at the brass mermaid, and know that she was home.
But then another carriage had rumbled past, blocking her view, and when it had passed, her parents were gone and the blue door was shut.
Nothing to do but wait until her pamphlets were ready, and never forget that the Earl of Luxborough was her enemy, and it signified not at all that he was kind to weeping women and plants.
Neither did it signify, she reminded herself sternly, as Lord Luxborough stepped through his front door, his dark hair curling damply over his forehead and collar, that his lordship looked deliciously fresh after a bath.
Dismay shot through her. At least, she thought it was dismay, though it felt like a mix of excitement and pleasure. Their eyes met, and she was reminded of their very first encounter, for that same glee lit his brown eyes as he slowly descended three steps.