Cheryl Holt (33 page)

He’d been relieved to have their help, but by the time Nick had been taken away in chains—wounded but alive and complaining—too many people had observed the debacle. It was impossible to conceal the facts. The gossip mills were spinning at a frenzied pace.

He arrived at the door and knocked. He’d had a note delivered, requesting the appointment, so he was expected, and he hoped to resolve the matter quickly and be on his way. He’d never been adept at farewells, and this one would be the most difficult of all, but it had to be done and done as graciously as he could manage it.

He prayed that he could stumble through it without
making a fool of himself or blubbering like a babe. Lately, he’d been so accursedly sentimental. The least comment or memory would have him moping in an insidious depression for hours, and for once, he refused to be maudlin.

He’d been born and bred to obligation, and on this day of all days he’d do what he ought, would hold his head high and carry out his responsibilities.

The maid showed him into the outer parlor, then departed. There were two chairs, a table in between. No tea tray was provided as courtesy demanded, but he ignored the snub. This wasn’t a social call, and there was no reason to pretend the meeting was anything but the final installment of an awkward and uncomfortable business transaction.

“Hello, Ellen.” He sat across from her, making an extreme effort not to display any frailty.

“Alex,” she replied coolly.

As if she was in mourning, she was dressed in black. She appeared frozen, icy as a marble statue, and so brittle that the slightest noise might crack her into tiny pieces.

Her pretty face, formerly so animated and alluring, had no expression whatsoever. Previously, he’d felt so close to her that he could read her mind, but no longer. He couldn’t begin to guess what she thought.

After so much had occurred, was she glad he’d come? Was she weary? Was she angry? If she was experiencing any heightened emotion, he couldn’t discern what it might be.

“How have you been?” he queried.

“Fine.”

“I trust your accommodations have been suitable?”

“Certainly.”

He halted, and a cumbersome silence festered, but he couldn’t initiate any small talk. He hadn’t seen her since the terrible morning in the country, and it was evident that she wasn’t
fine
. She’d lost weight and might have been ill, but he had no idea how to probe for details that she would likely consider to be none of his affair.

Immediately after Nick’s mayhem was ended, Alex had been too impaired for rationale reflection, and by the time he’d been sufficiently coherent to worry, she’d been ensconced at the hotel. As soon as his condition had improved, he’d deliberated over the wisdom of sending her a letter, had started and discarded a dozen, but he’d been too ashamed to contact her.

He might have begged her to come home, but he hadn’t. If she’d wanted to be residing with him, she would have been—there was nothing keeping her away. Or he might have ordered her to return, but it was clear she preferred the sterile surroundings of a public inn, and he couldn’t blame her.

When he’d created his private sanctuary for his mistresses, he’d never contemplated how reprehensible someone of a more decent character might find such a dwelling. It was horrid enough that she’d been violently whisked to the tawdry abode, but after what Nick had done to her there, Alex didn’t feel he was in any position to direct her to do anything.

She hadn’t wanted to marry him, but he was pompous and vain, and he never let anyone tell him
no
. When she’d spurned his proposal, his enormous pride had been dented, so he’d driven her to consent, but look where his coercion had landed her!

If he’d had a thousand years to atone, he never could.

“And how are you?” she asked, but she didn’t seem genuinely curious.

“I’ve been better.”

“I’m sure you have been.”

The volley was an opening where she might have inquired as to his injuries, as to his recovery. When no further questions were forthcoming, he tamped down his hurt that she was so uninterested.

After all that had transpired, he couldn’t suppose that any fondness remained, and if he’d been harboring some ludicrous, misguided hope that she still cared, he had to bury it. Nothing was to be gained by wishful thinking, by lamenting over what might have been.

They stared, a multitude of comments floating through the air, but neither of them could grab hold and utter one aloud.

“I have some papers with me,” he murmured.

“Have you?”

He couldn’t believe how hard it was to refer to them. He’d rehearsed what he would say, but none of his preparation had equipped him for how awful it would be, for how desperately he wouldn’t want to proceed.

Yet he wouldn’t humiliate himself by pleading for a second chance. He didn’t deserve one, and if he could convince her to try again, he’d only fail her. It simply wasn’t in his nature to behave as he should. He was a cad and a scoundrel—as she had learned to her peril.

“You’ll need to sign your name in a few places.” He dug in his satchel. “My solicitor, Mr. Thumberton, has marked the appropriate spots.”

“That makes it easy, doesn’t it? Everything nice and tidy.”

“Yes.”

He retrieved the documents and laid them on the table, then he searched for pen and ink, but he hadn’t brought them, and he hid his irritation. Anymore, he was such a scatterbrain.

“I don’t seem to have a pen,” he lamely mentioned.

“I have one we can use.”

“Oh. Perfect.”

Just bloody perfect!
he mused, incredibly irked that she was so unruffled. Would it have killed her to be fretting? To be nervous or hesitant?

She went across the room to fetch the required items, then she scrawled her signature wherever indicated, not bothering to read the terms, and his annoyance grew.

They were terminating their marriage. They were separating forever. After he left her suite, they’d never see each other again, yet she was acting so nonchalant that she might have been checking her maid’s shopping list.

He forced down his aggravation. If she could be apathetic, so could he. If she could be indifferent, so could he. He’d never really wanted to marry—not her or anybody. He should be shouting in the streets that the wretched liaison could be severed so painlessly.

“It will take several months—perhaps more—for the annulment to be completed.”

She studied him as if he were a stranger, as if he were expounding in a foreign language. “Are you positive this is what we should do?”

“Well. . . yes . . .” he stammered. “Thumberton says it’s the best way.”

“We wouldn’t want to argue with Mr. Thumberton, would we?”

“He claims a divorce would be so messy.” She was
scowling, though he couldn’t figure out why. “Don’t you agree?”

“Your attorney is the expert. Why wouldn’t we defer to him?” He detected a hint of sarcasm in her words, but her face was impassive.

“I’ve purchased a house for you in Surrey.”

“Marvelous.”

“You can move in whenever you’re ready. If you correspond with my secretary, he’ll see to everything.”

“I’m certain he’s a very competent fellow.”

There was that sarcasm again. Didn’t she want a house? Didn’t she want to be settled? If she was opposed to the plan, why didn’t she speak up? “And I’ve arranged a trust—with Thumberton as the trustee.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll never want for anything.” His voice shook with a fervor he hadn’t intended, but he couldn’t bear to imagine her struggling. The notion tormented him.

Her perplexing, impartial appraisal swept over him. “You don’t have to, you know,” she eventually said. “I’m fully capable of employment. If you’d give me a reference, I could find a job that would—”

“Ellen . . .” he scolded.

“What?”

“You’re not working, and that’s final.”

She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “As you wish.”

“I’ve taken steps to help your brother.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’ve had the ring melted down, and I’ve sold the gems. He can have the money.”

She shrugged. “It’s a paltry gesture.”

“I’ll also transfer title to a farm called New Haven.
It belongs—belonged—to my . . . my brother. It’s an excellent property, with a steady income, so he’ll be able to support himself.”

“Any action is pointless if he’s still a felon.”

“I understand that, so I’ll utilize my influence to have the charges expunged.”

“I hope you succeed.”

He sighed. Not even the discussion of her dear sibling affected her. She was so cold, so detached. What would it take to pierce the wall she’d erected to keep him at bay? Unfortunately, there was probably nothing he could do.

“You once confided that he’s in England.”

“Yes.”

“He and I should converse about these matters. How might I contact him?”

She grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled the name of a tavern. “I always sent letters to him at this establishment, but he’s vanished.”

“Has something happened to him?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

At the admission she was unusually calm, while he had to stifle a shudder of dread. Mr. Drake could have been killed by a villain, conscripted into the navy, or caught by the law. He might already be hanged, and if he had been, it would be another sin the Marshall family had perpetrated upon her.

“I’ll investigate,” he offered.

“I’d be very grateful.”

“I’ll visit again, to let you know what I learn.”

At the prospect he felt a flutter of excitement, but instantly she snuffed it out. “You needn’t trouble yourself. I realize how busy you are. Your lawyer can write to me.”

So . . . she wasn’t interested in an enduring connection.
It was a bitter tonic to swallow, but he couldn’t blame her for desiring a clean split. What purpose would be served by fraternization? Why torture himself? They were never meant to be together, and he had to remember that fact and come to grips with how their separate futures would evolve.

Another awkward silence ensued; then she said, “Before you go”—Gad! Was she so eager to be rid of him?—“might I ask you a question?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Why was the ring in your dresser?”

“My mother gave it to me, when she was in her final decline. She begged me to keep it and conceal it, though she never told me why.”

“You didn’t inquire?”

“She was a very theatrical female, so I assumed it might be any silly reason. She was mortally ill, so I didn’t press. I threw it in a drawer and never thought about it again.”

“You weren’t aware of what it indicated?”

“No,” he truthfully replied. “My mother doted on my brother—to excess. She spoiled him horridly, and I’m guessing she suspected his crime, that she covered it up for him.”

“I see.”

After that, there wasn’t any other topic worth review. They stared and stared, an impossible gulf dividing them.

It was time to exit, and he recognized that he should rise and depart, but there were so many things he should explain, so many apologies to make, that he couldn’t begin. He could talk to infinity and not adequately convey his sentiments.

He craved a different ending and yearned to have rendered a conclusion that didn’t seem so wrong.

“This is farewell, then.”

“Yes, it is.”

“If you ever need anything, if there’s ever anything I can—”

“I won’t ever need anything from you,” she interrupted.

If he’d had any doubts as to her opinion of him, they’d definitely been clarified, yet he hated to go on such a sour note. Once prior, he’d loved her so desperately, and he was certain she’d harbored some fondness for him, as well. Where had it all gone?

“Ellen . . . I’m sorry for . . .” he tried to start, but she leapt from her chair and went to the window, her back to him, her fingers fiddling with the drapes as she peered outside.

“Leave it be, Alex.”

“But I want you to know that I—”

“Alex! Please! You’re embarrassing me.”

He stood and reached out, wanting to touch her, or that she would turn around. He was anxious to gaze into her beautiful blue eyes, to imprint every detail in his memory so he’d never forget, but she ignored him.

He dawdled as long as he dared; then he mumbled, “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” she answered.

His heart breaking, his world in disarray, he tarried another second; then he spun and left.

Ellen listened as he hobbled out the door, as his strides marched him down the hall and away from her. He was limping, his heels clicking in an odd cadence as the sound faded. He’d looked wretched—thin and pale and
lost—and she could tell he was in pain, that his wound continued to plague him.

Eventually, he appeared on the street, a burly footman dogging his heels. He was too frail to climb into his carriage on his own, and with an eerie detachment she spied on him as his coachmen jumped to assist. Ultimately, the coach was prepared, and with a crack of the whip, the horses pulled him away forever.

She watched until he was out of sight, vehemently concentrating as if—through the force of her attention—she could persuade him to change his mind.

How could he abandon her? How could he walk away?

For weeks, she’d languished at the hotel, too uncomfortable with her shaky status as his unwanted bride, to show up on his stoop. Instead, she waited and waited, positive that he’d send for her as soon as he was able.

But he never had.

She’d ached to be at the mansion, but his staff had made it clear that her aid was neither wanted nor needed. She’d written several letters to him but had received courteous responses from the housekeeper, advising her of his improving condition.

Then, without any warning, his attorney had delivered notification that Alex was seeking an annulment. Alex hadn’t asked her opinion, hadn’t endeavored to learn what
she
might select. He’d simply forged ahead, which was so typical of him, and exactly what she’d expect from one as impervious as he.

But how could he cast her aside?

She pondered the property he’d bought her in the country, the quiet years without him. What sort of life
would that be? How could he presume she would choose to be so alone?