Richard was very quiet, speaking only to point out landmarks, or comment on the state of the roads.
Only when they reached Grosvenor Square and he escorted her up the front steps of Arnsworth House did he refer again to what lay between them.
‘Lallerton was a very lucky man for you to have loved him so deeply.’
Not the slightest hint of bitterness. No anger. Just the kindest understanding of the lie that she and her family had cultivated to screen the truth. So easy simply to nod. To accept what he had said and agree. It stuck in her throat. Even if she dared not tell Richard the truth, she would not lie to him. Not in any way.
She turned to face him fully. ‘I did not love Nigel Lallerton. Ever. Not then. Not now.’
And she opened the front door and fled into the house.
Richard stared after her, stunned. She hadn’t loved Lallerton? Then why in Hades had she remained in seclusion for seven years? Why had she set herself so flatly against marriage?
There was something odd here. She had said simply that she hadn’t loved Lallerton. But her tone of voice had said a great deal more …
Her perfect day was over. Thea sat with a smile of polite interest plastered to her face as she listened to the violinist Lady Fairchild had engaged for the evening. She should be enjoying this, but as the violin sang and soared, her thoughts spun wildly between doubt and searing conviction. Richard had not attended and Lord Dunhaven’s presence beside her served only to increase her distraction.
Could they have lied about her child’s death? Yes. Easily. And why, oh, why had she been fool enough to tell Richard that she hadn’t loved Lallerton?
Had Lord Dunhaven moved his chair slightly? He was too close, especially in the overheated room. Her temples began to throb.
His lordship leaned closer, murmuring something about how much he enjoyed Mozart.
‘Haydn,’ she told him, and had the dubious pleasure of seeing him turn a dull brick-red. Dunhaven hated being contradicted—especially when he was wrong.
Would they have lied?
Over something like that? With the honour of the family involved? With David at risk? Oh, yes. They would have lied. In a moment.
The accusation of that morning’s note hung before her in letters of fire: Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved …?
The sonata ended and the audience applauded with well-bred enthusiasm.
Yes. She had been relieved. For a moment. A day. And then the grief had come. The grief she had not been allowed to show. And the guilt.
But what if her child had survived? How could she find out?
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