“Y-you cannot believe that I encouraged—”
“Of course not! I’m sure I know your character better than that. But others will be less discerning and more judgmental. Believe me, Lord Beaulieu’s very particular attentions, if they continue much longer unchecked, will create enough speculation that your character will be impugned and your standing in this community will suffer, be you innocent or not.”
“I would stand condemned even if innocent?” A note of outrage colored the distress in her voice.
“Such is the world. Which is why I felt strongly that I must make now an offer that, I assure you, I have been contemplating for some time. Your becoming a married lady would put a halt to any untoward advances as well as preserve the purity of your reputation.”
“I am to marry you solely to preserve my reputation?”
“For much more than that, I trust! I hope I do not err in believing that you cherish for me at least a modicum of affection—affection that two like-minded individuals committed to a life together could enrich and deepen. As my own emotions are already considerably engaged, I cannot stand by and see you harmed by one grown so accustomed to having his every wish and whim deferred to by others that he neither sees nor cares what harm he may do!”
“Mr. Blackthorne, having, as you’ve noted, spent much time with Lord Beaulieu, I must protest that harsh assessment. Whatever his intentions—and I still take leave to doubt he has any toward me at all—I cannot believe he would knowingly harm me.”
Bless you, sweet lady, Beau thought, both gratified and humbled by her avowal.
“Given my own aspirations, perhaps I am too harsh,” the vicar allowed. “But the danger to your reputation, even should his lordship’s interest be as fraternal as you assert, is nonetheless grave, and grows daily more acute. Please, my lady, I beg you to let me take your hand, offer you the protection of my name and my heart.”
“Sir, you will please release my hand.”
“Not until you’ve given me the assurance that you will carefully consider what I’ve said. I cannot leave until you guarantee me at least that.”
“M-Mr. B-Blackthorne, you are d-distressing me. P-please let go my hand now!”
“You will consider my words? You’ll promise me that?”
“Y-yes—no, oh, I don’t know! J-just go, I b-beg you!”
That ragged speech, followed by a choked sound suspiciously like a sob, had Beau poised on the balls of his feet in murderous rage, ready once more to burst into the room and drag the persistent clergyman away.
Before he could proceed, Mr. Blackthorne said, “I’ll withdraw now, ma’am, as you request. I am heartily sorry to have distressed you by speaking so forcefully, but I reiterate, the matter is grave. Rest assured I shall keep an eye on the cottage. We will speak further when you are calmer. Your servant, Mrs. Martin.”
Much as he’d like to go a few rounds with the vicar, Beau had no desire to have the man catch him hiding in the shadows like a petty thief. Quickly he slipped back down the hall and out the porch door.
Where he stood, irresolute. Standing out most clearly in the confused swirl of violent emotions racking him were a total incomprehension of why Mrs. Martin would refuse Blackthorne’s proposal and an immense relief that she had. Fear of the vicar’s repetition of his offer warred with a buoyant hope that it was not too late for Beau after all, humility at her trust in his honor, and the fervent need to prove himself worthy of it. A renewed imperative to claim her for his own fired up, fueled in part by anguish at the thought of her trapped in a distasteful marriage. How could any man not have cherished so gentle a heart, so sterling a character?
It seemed his careful theory lay in tatters. Apparently she had been wife rather than mistress to her lieutenant. Not only had her flat statement about marriage been utterly convincing, but a woman anxious to redeem her character should have leaped at, rather than refused, an honorable offer.
Unless her emotions were already elsewhere engaged. A rush of elation followed the thought. Dare he hope she might have refused the vicar at least in part because of the connection calling them together?
He’d find out—right now. Be she widow or wayward miss mattered naught—only their future together was important. He turned back toward the door, took two strides, and halted once more.
The vicar had been right in at least one assertion—Mrs. Martin was too distraught to receive anyone. Strongly as instinct called him to her side, prudence counseled him to give her time to recover from the turmoil created by the vicar’s visit. He should call again later.
But as he reluctantly turned toward the garden, the sound of a shuddering sob stopped him.
The first was followed by another, then another. He stood paralyzed as a series of deep, gasping sobs flayed his already raw emotions, wrenching from him both the desire to flee the premises immediately and the need to return and comfort her.
Mama, Mama, don’t cry! I’ll help you. Can’t help … darling. Too … late.
Sweat broke out all over his body as he jerked his mind from the echo of his nightmare of that long-ago accident. He hadn’t been able to help then, his mama and the unborn child she carried dying even as the frantic six-year-old jerked and tugged at the skyward-staring door of their shattered carriage. But much as the sound of Mrs. Martin’s sobs ignited a revulsion that shuddered through him, he knew he couldn’t walk away and leave her alone in her anguish.
He forced himself back down the hallway into the parlor. She still stood in the center of the room, face buried in her hands while sobs convulsed her frame. Neglected wife? Abandoned mistress? Whatever had befallen her, the agony shaking that slender body said the experience had been unendurably painful.
The remaining shreds of nightmare dissolved beneath an overwhelming need to help her. “Mrs. Martin,” he called softly, not wishing to startle her.
In a gasp of breath, the sobs halted. Before he could take a step, she jerked upright, eyes wide, face contorted.
With fear, he realized. “Don’t be alarmed—it’s Beau Bradsleigh.”
It took a long moment for the words to penetrate, before the alarm faded from her eyes. “M-my lord?”
“I—I was passing by and … and chanced to hear you. What has happened to so overset you? Please, let me help.”
At first she stared at him as if his words had no meaning. An expression of infinite weariness gradually overtook the misery in her eyes. “T-thank you, my lord. But ‘tis nothing that can be helped.”
“Everything can be helped.”
Her tear-stained eyes examined his face. Tell me, he silently willed her. She opened her lips, hesitated. Closed them again with a sigh.
And then, almost as visibly as if a curtain had descended, her face changed to a mask of distant politeness. “D-did you require something, my lord?”
He could not let it go, not now when he knew—he knew—she had come so close to telling him the truth. “I rather thought you might.”
