as the Wellinghams disappeared from view.
She could not believe it. He would not even tarry to say goodbye after all that they had shared?
The sound of a door shutting and a call to the horses answered her query. Then the beat of hooves and a quickening pace, the contraption lost to the whiteness of the landscape and the newly falling snow.
Gone.
Finished.
‘If you would come this way, miss, the others are in the coach…’
‘Others?’
There was a shout of recognition from the old woman and her son she had met the night before as she scrambled up the steps and into the shelter of the vehicle. She was pleased to find no sign of the one who had been killed in the accident. Or the driver.
‘Mr Brown was taken on to London an hour or so ago and the other went to Brentwood to the church, I would guess, until his family have been notified to collect him.’ The younger man was full of chatter, his mother less talkative after such a long and harrowing night.
‘We spent the night at a farmhouse further north and were picked up just a little time ago. He’s brother to a Duke, you know, the man we all rode with, and he has a wealth of land in Kent.’
Bea nodded, pleased when the carriage was spurred on, the droning sound of miles being eaten up as they travelled south sending the others to sleep.
Lord Taris Wellingham, brother to the Duke of Carisbrook.
She turned the names on her tongue, grand names, names that were known in all the four corners of this country, the lineage of the dukedom reaching down through a thousand years of privilege and entitlement.
Taris Wellingham.
She remembered his profile turned against the snow, strong and proud, a man who might not understand how easily he intimidated others with his effortless leadership and control.
Control over the reactions of her body too, every bit as persuasive yet infinitely gentle.
‘Enough,’ she whispered into the gathering greyness of the morning and, pulling the collar of her cloak around her eyes, she was glad to hide her tears from a world that she no longer understood.
Taris felt his sister-in-law’s gaze on him even as he turned to the window, looking out.
Lord, he was a coward and a faint-heart and as the miles between them grew he understood something he had never in his life before experienced.
A woman had bettered him, had made him feel a cad of the very first order, a man who would not own up to either circumstance or reality, but hid in a world that was only deception.
‘So if by chance I should catch sight of you in the streets…?’
‘Your reputation would stay safer should you ignore me altogether.’
He took in a breath and held it, hating the tightness he could feel in his throat, loathing the way he still did not say anything.
Turn around. Turn around and go back.
He should say it, should shout it, but with the world only a grey sludge he found that he just could not.
Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke had seen him at his best. The best that he used to be, before…before he had become dependent on everyone! He wanted her to remember him like that, a man in charge of his life and his actions.
From best to worst, Bates’s hand threaded through his own and Emerald’s on the other side, leading him out through the space to his carriage. He hoped she had not seen the coat of arms emblazoned on the side or heard Bates calling him ‘my lord’. He hoped she might have thought him ill or cold or disorientated. Certainly he hoped that she had not seen him trip as they had rounded the wall of the barn, his feet catching a ditch that he had had no notion was there.
Anger consumed him. And regret. For three years this blindness had been taking his sight day by day and piece by piece. At first it had been just his central vision, but now it was all the light on the periphery too; a creeping silent thief with total blackness as the end point of a journey he had no wish to be making.
A sadness that had been a constant companion of his recent months gathered with biting force, pushing him back in his seat so that his fists almost shook with the sheer and utter wrath of it all.
He had never accepted it, never come to the place where acquiescence might have softened anguish and allowed a healing.
No, he had never come to that!
‘Why the hell you insist on these public carriage excursions eludes me, Taris, when you have a bevy of your own conveyances ready and willing to take you anywhere?’ Asher’s voice sounded wearied and the truth of the query added to Taris’s own frustration. This was the first time alone on the road that he had indeed felt sightless, the struggle of coping more overwhelming than it had ever seemed before. He was pleased when his brother took his criticism no further and Emerald spoke instead.
‘Your companion sounds interesting?’
‘She was.’
‘She looked worried, though. I wondered if you had noticed?’
‘Yes.’
‘I also saw she wore a wedding ring?’
‘He’s tired, Emmie. Leave him to rest.’ Asher’s voice wound its way around protection with its particular undercurrent of guilt. Suddenly Taris had had enough.
‘Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke is a widow from Brampton. She is turned twenty-eight. She appreciates honesty and she hates her name.’
‘A comprehensive list.’ Emerald’s voice faltered as Asher began to laugh, and the quick thud of his leg against the side of the coach told Taris of a well-directed kick.
‘I thought she seemed…strong.’
‘Indeed, she was that.’
‘Any woman bold enough to leave the safety of a carriage and venture into a snow-whitened night would win my favour.’
‘What does she look like?’ Taris had not meant to ask this, so baldly, so very unmindful, and the silence in the carriage was complete until Emerald began to speak again.
‘Her hair is the colour of chestnuts ripe in autumn and her eyes hold the hue of wet leaves in the shadows beside a forest stream.’
He stayed silent, hoping that she might carry on, liking the way that she brought Beatrice-Maude to life for him in that peculiar way she had of using words.
‘She isn’t very tall, but she is very thin. Between her eyes is the line of a woman who has worried a lot. The dimples in her cheeks are the prettiest I have ever seen on anyone.’
Taris nodded, remembering the contours of them, remembering how she had taken his fingers into her mouth, licking them in the way of one versed in the sensual arts. Remembering
