don’t need to worry, Alice. Razeby won’t be there. I checked for you.’
Alice felt her blood run cold. ‘You checked?’ she said softly.
‘I didn’t think you would want to bump into him any time soon.’
It was the truth, but she knew she could not let the comment go unchallenged. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s only been a couple of weeks since.’ Sara glanced away awkwardly.
‘He gave me my congé,’ Alice finished for her with a smile. ‘You can say the words. I’m perfectly fine with it.’ She knew whatever she said to Sara would be all round the theatre by this time tomorrow.
‘I thought that you and he… the way the two of you were together… that maybe you were loved up on him.’
Alice dreaded that was what they were all thinking. She gave a scornful laugh. ‘Don’t be daft. It was an arrangement, nothing more.’ She still had her pride.
‘But the way you looked at one another. If Fallingham looked at me like that.’ Sara fanned a hand before her face as if just the thought brought her out in a scorching flush.
‘We had a good time.’ Alice gave a shrug of her shoulders as if it was nothing so very special. ‘But these things aren’t meant to last.’ A parody of the words Razeby had said to her, standing there in that bedchamber.
‘Was it an amicable separation?’ Sara’s curiosity was getting the better of her. She looked surprised, making Alice wonder just what the gossipmongers had been saying, given that they had so little to go on. Maybe she needed to give them a little grist for their mill.
‘Sorry to disappoint the girls, but, yes, it was.’
‘We thought you were upset, you’ve not been seen out anywhere on the town.’
‘I’ve been busy. Give me a chance. I’ve not even finished my first opening week!’
‘I suppose so,’ said Sara.
‘And I’m not upset in the slightest.’ Alice smiled to prove it.
Sara gave a grin and looked like she believed her. ‘So you’ll come tomorrow?’
‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
The door closed behind Sara.
Alice took a deep breath. There could be nothing of avoidance. Avoidance was tantamount to admitting that she cared, that she was hurt, that she could not bear to face him. And none of that was the case, as London would see soon enough.
She was getting on with her life. And if Razeby happened to cross her path, then so be it.
It would make not one jot of difference to her. He would make not one jot of difference to her.
Within Hyde Park Miss Pritchard was strolling by Razeby’s side, her concentration more on the people in the park who were looking at them than anything else. Behind them, Mrs Pritchard, her younger daughter by her side, was espousing on the merits of good breeding and outlining a detailed Pritchard family lineage in the process.
The Pritchards were wealthy and well connected. A suitable alliance for Razeby. But Razeby did not know if he could suffer Mrs Pritchard’s incessant boasting. Or, indeed, Miss Pritchard herself. All he had to do was marry her and bed her. It should be simple enough, especially for a man like him who had bedded no shortage of women in his life. But the prospect left him cold. He stared into the hazy afternoon distance and tried to not to think about it.
The last time he had been here in Hyde Park was with Alice. She had shunned the use of his curricle and insisted they walk. She did not care about being seen on his arm or not. What she had cared about were simple things—the glory of the sunshine, the freshness of the air, the birdsong and the furls of new green buds on the trees; riches for the eyes, as she called nature or art or anything that she liked to look at. He had been unable to prevent his fingers from curling in hers. And she had smiled and not given a damn about who was watching them.
The memory made his heart swell.
He felt Miss Pritchard’s hand upon his arm stiffen. Mrs Pritchard was still talking, but he could hear the increased arrogance and volume of her tone, that sudden slight edge of superiority and distaste.
And then he saw the reason why. Ahead, rounding the corner was a small party of men and women, out taking the air and being seen at this most fashionable of hours in the park. But not just any men and women. The men were some of the highest in the ton. Of the women, Razeby only noticed one. A woman who stood out from the others because she was golden and beautiful and she just seemed to glow with life and with happiness. He could hear the playful banter within the little party, the laughter, the teasing, flirtatious air.
Alice, clad in her plain pale-yellow walking dress and contrasting cream spencer and gloves, was walking by Hawick’s side, listening to something the duke was saying to her. Perched at a jaunty angle on her head was a small stylish hat he had not seen her wear before. Beneath it her fair hair, so haphazardly pinned up, had allowed pale golden strands to escape and waft artlessly around her neck. It was fresh and simple. He had watched her so many times twist her hair up and pin it all within a minute, only to have him unpin it and slip his fingers through those long silken skeins and take her into his arms and kiss her.
She looked comfortable, confident and yet with that same slight shyness that had always intrigued him. Her eyes were lowered as she listened to something that Hawick was saying, but she was smiling. The sight of her made Razeby feel things he did not want to feel. Not now that it was over and he had set his mind to doing what must be done. There was the hard thud of his heart. The fast rush of his blood.
And the awful sinking sensation of his predicament.
Miss Pritchard was by his side, her mother and sister walking behind. Razeby realised what he was going to have to do. What any gentleman in his position would have to do. And the prospect of it sent a chill all the way through him.
Alice had been his mistress. The woman walking by his side could be his wife.
Duty. The word seemed to resonate with every beat of his heart.
Du-ty.
Du-ty.
Du-ty.
He had no choice.
He turned his eyes away from Alice. Kept his focus steadfastly elsewhere. Cutting her, as the rules of polite society dictated. As if she were some stranger. As if she were not the woman he had loved every night of the past six months.
But he could see her in his peripheral vision, that blur of yellow and cream and blonde, slight beside the tall loom of Hawick’s darkness. And he could hear the rustle of the silk of her skirts, hear the distinctive lilt of her softly spoken words, smell the faint scent of her perfume.
His heart beat faster.
He could sense her, feel her, the awareness as sharp as if his eyes were studying her every detail.
He measured every step that brought them ever closer on this path, knowing
