Kathryn Caskie (14 page)

The muscles in Hannah’s belly began to cinch. “Um . . . Mrs. Penny, might you be referring to Miss Howard?”

Mrs. Penny turned around. “Exactly, miss. She’d be the one. Lovely girl. I can understand why the mister would take a shine to that one.”

A biting chill prickled Hannah’s skin. No, Mrs. Penny had to be wrong. She just had to be.

Griffin was in love with her.
Her
.

Not Miss Howard. Yes, she’d introduced them, and for a time she thought there might be a match in the couple’s future—but certainly not now.

Griffin loved
her,
Hannah told herself again. And she, him.

Mrs. Penny had to be wrong about the woman’s identity. More likely she was a new housekeeper or even a cook. After all, Mr. St. Albans had only just taken the house in Queen Square. The man would need to assemble a staff. Surely that was all there was to Mrs. Penny’s sighting this morn.

Hannah didn’t move for another full minute as she plastered firmly into her mind the perfect explanation for what Mrs. Penny had supposedly seen.

As she sat, as still as a falcon perched high above a mouse-filled field, she busied herself by watching Lady Viola spread gooseberry jam onto a slice of toasted bread, while Lady Letitia pecked the crumbs off her plate with the pudgy tip of her index finger.

Finally, she could endure it no longer. She had to know exactly who was in Griffin’s company earlier this day.

Hannah bid the Featherton ladies good morn, then followed Mrs. Penny from the dining room.

She didn’t stop when she reached the passageway. Instead she snatched up her pelisse and reticule, then hurried down the front steps.

She had to see Griffin.

Now.

Chapter Twelve

A
biting wind cut through Queen Park, gusting into the crux of the hedgerow frame where Hannah stood, hoping that she might remain unobserved.

It had been nearly an hour since she had slipped among the manicured boxwood hedges directly across the street from the home Griffin had taken, and still she had not managed even a glimpse of the man . . . or this mystery woman of whom Mrs. Penny had spoken earlier that morn.

Twenty minutes earlier, she thought she might have solved the question of the woman’s identity, when a soot-marred chimney sweep descended from the heights of the town house’s rooftop and was ushered inside through the lower kitchen door. It had been an elderly woman who opened the door to him. Not Miss Howard or any other beautiful woman with hair of gold.

This frustrated Hannah. In her hurry to leave Royal Crescent, she had not dressed warmly enough for the cold weather and now, feeling frozen right down to her bones, she was still no closer to having an answer.

Hannah turned her eyes skyward in her aggravation. The bright cornflower blue sky of morning had already given way to darkening gray yet again, and no doubt the streets would be wet with rain soon enough.

At least that was what Hannah told herself, and the thought was reason enough to put her mission aside for a time, emerge from her hedgerow screen and start back up the hill for home.

The day that had started out so beautifully was growing progressively worse by the hour. She had walked half the steep length of Gay Street when she caught notice of a gentleman heading her way on his way down the hill.

She recognized those shoulders. The towering height. Hannah’s gaze widened with panic. Good heavens. ’Twas Griffin!

His eyes were fixed on a folded newspaper in his hand, and it was a godsend that his attention was diverted and he had not yet seen her. She turned her back and gazed down the street. There was nowhere to conceal herself. No place to run. Tightly packed buff-hued houses, each barely distinguishable from the others, ran on both sides of the street, creating what felt to Hannah to be a gauntlet.

At that minute, she knew she had but two choices: up or down the street, and neither choice appealed to Hannah.

And so, when Griffin’s footsteps grew loud enough that she knew his approach was but a moment away, Hannah whirled around and hoisted a manufactured smile onto her lips. “Why, good morn, Mr. St. Albans.”

He glanced up from his reading. “Oh, good day, Miss Chillton.” He smiled pleasantly enough back at her, but his countenance revealed nothing more.

It did not even hint at the passion and incredible intimacy they had shared only the night before.

It was then that she realized he appeared to be squinting at her. “Have you come to Gay Street for . . . the dentist, perhaps?”

Hannah had not the slightest notion what he was talking about. “The d-dentist?”

“For your tooth.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Hannah felt her eyebrows migrate toward the bridge of her nose. Nothing he was saying seemed to make any sense at all.

He cocked his head to the side and seemed to study her for the briefest of moments. “It’s just the peculiar way your mouth is twisted. I thought you must have a toothache.”

Hannah tried to relax her mouth, but her lips had gone taut at his ludicrous comment. “I was
smiling
. . . when I saw you, I smiled.”

Griffin laughed aloud. “I do apologize, Miss Chillton. Truly, from the bottom of my heart. ’Tis just that I have never seen anyone smile at me with such a pained expression.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “So, did you enjoy the Featherton ladies’ soiree?”

Did she enjoy the soiree? And why was he referring to her as Miss Chillton? She had given him leave to call her Hannah—which he had last night!

Hannah stared at the man before her, feeling both shock and despair. Was it that he intended to pretend that the intimacy they had shared last eve . . . never occurred?

He glanced down the street and suddenly realized the direction from whence she hailed. “Where are you coming from?”

Hannah didn’t know what she should say. So instead she disregarded his question and posed the one her heart demanded she ask. “I came to . . . I wanted to ask you something of great import.”

She looked down at her feet momentarily, wishing for a sudden burst of courage in the seconds the brief reprieve took. She turned her eyes up to his. “I wanted to know if you meant,
truly
meant, what you said to me.” Her heart slammed against her ribs as she awaited his reply.

His eyes narrowed, and he bit at the corner of his lower lip. “What do you mean? What did I say?”

Tears itched at the back of her eyes, and, God above, she knew that any moment she would begin to cry.

She was such a fool. A complete fool! She’d read Meredith’s book,
A Lady’s Guide to Rakes
—suspected what the man was capable of, and still she had allowed herself to be . . .
used
.

How could she have believed that the man who turned the pages for her at the precomet soiree, the man who kissed her, caressed her, and made love to her last eve—was the true Mr. St. Albans?

Perdition!
Her instincts had been right about him all along. She just hadn’t listened to that little voice whispering in her ear.

St. Albans was a rake. A debaucher of women. He had told her that he loved her, and she had been foolish enough to believe him.

And as a result of that trust, she had offered up her heart. That was what hurt most of all.

Why, he might as well have torn her beating heart out of her chest and cast it to the pavers. It would hurt far less.

A lone tear trickled down her cheek, feeling unbearably hot in the chill air.

“Darling, what ever is wrong?” He took both of her shoulders in his hands and squeezed them just a bit. “Have I misbehaved? Tell me, and I shall make it up to you. I promise.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes and slammed her palms against his chest, forcing his hands from her shoulders as he stumbled back a double pace.

Pain merged with anger inside Hannah.

She stepped boldly forward, and before she could stop herself, drew back her hand and slapped his cheek with all of her might.

Shocked by her assault, he clapped a hand to his stinging face. “Miss Chillton! I do not understand what has . . .”

But Hannah wasn’t listening. Instead, she cut past him and, rising on the toes of her boots, raced up the street, ignoring his frantic calls for her to stop.

Tears were still streaming from her eyes when she pressed open the kitchen door of Number One Royal Crescent and collapsed at the wide bare wood table, where Annie was sitting taking her tea.

“Miss Hannah!” Annie hurried around the table and put her arms around Hannah. “Are you all right?”

Hannah lifted her head and peered out of her reddened eyes at the maid. “No, Annie, I am not.” A whimper welled up from within and broke from her lips. “And I doubt I shall ever be all right again.”

Griffin St. Albans glanced out the carriage window as he and the earl arrived at the Featherton home on Royal Crescent. The earlier storm still concealed every star, even the glow of the waxing moon . . . and of course the coming Bath Comet.

Somehow, Griffin had imagined this night in an altogether different way, with the heavens alight, as twinkling and bright as the diamond-and-sapphire ring he carried in his coat pocket for his bride.

The cabin door squealed when the footman opened it and let down the steps. Griffin made not the smallest movement toward disembarking from the conveyance.

“Why are you dawdling, lad? Not fretting about this, are you?”

The earl, who had accompanied him that day to assist in accomplishing his most urgent of tasks, pushed at Griffin’s shoulder. His eagerness to follow his potential heir inside the house was all too clear.

The earl crossed his arms over his chest, resting his forearms atop his round belly. “The gel is
inside
awaiting your offer. She will accept. Just look at you. Handsome, intelligent . . . and heir to an earldom.” The earl chuckled. “You have naught to fear, St. Albans.”

Griffin nodded, but still did not rise. “I shall go alone. I must speak with her duennas, then with Miss Chillton herself. But our discussion is a private matter, one I wish to attend to myself.”

The earl was surprised by this demand. He huffed and waved Griffin’s notion—one he evidently found ridiculous—away. “Your offer to marry Miss Chillton is hardly private. Much is dependent upon the sealing of this union. The future of the Devonsfield earldom is at stake. Hell, boy, the continuance of the family is at risk until you, or your brother, become heir.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you also understand then that I can take nothing for granted, nothing at all? There can be no error, no oversight. The agreement must be expertly drawn and executed—all without legal or procedural failing.” The earl’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and his cheeks nearly glowed red. “So you do comprehend why I must join you?”

“No, my lord. I assure you, my wish to marry Miss Chillton has nothing to do with assuming the Devonsfield earldom but rather with love. When I offer for the lady, this is the sentiment I will impart.”

Griffin bent as he stood and ducked through the carriage’s open door. He descended the steps, then glanced back at the wide-eyed look of astonishment on the earl’s round face. “If you will excuse me now, I shall return to Queen Square once I have obtained the Featherton ladies’ blessing and Miss Chillton’s acceptance of my offer. Good night, my lord.”

Griffin closed the door, turned the handle to latch it, then shouted up to the driver to return the earl to his lodgings on Queen Square.

He watched as the well-turned carriage circled around the crescent and disappeared onto Brock Street. Then, straightening his coat, Griffin hurried through the light rain to the front door.

This was it.

Hannah could hear the tinkling of glasses in full toast as she descended the stairs at her duennas’ behest that night.

Though it was late in the evening for a caller, Hannah suspected that it was likely Lady Ebberly returning to continue the recounting of her sojourn on the Continent.

There was no way she could shirk her social responsibility to the ladies’ bosom friend.

No way either that she could feign happiness for more than a few minutes at best. Any longer and the ladies would know that something was dreadfully wrong.

Her course of action was simple really. She’d just greet the visitors, then plead fatigue and return to her bedchamber. The Feathertons would understand, for Hannah had little doubt that she looked every bit as physically drained as she felt.

She paused a few feet outside the drawing room and lifted the candlestick she found atop the table to peer at her appearance in the wide mirror hanging on the wall. She sighed at her reflection in the silver. Her eyes were puffy and red, and her face had taken on an almost ghostly pale pallor.

There was nothing she could do about her appearance at this moment anyway. And in all truth, she really did not care if she appeared a bit worn. There was no one in all of Bath she wished to impress.

Not anymore.

On account of the sudden turn of the weather, the settee and two wingback chairs had been arranged nearer the hearth for additional warmth. Hannah could not immediately see Lady Ebberly, whose high-backed chair faced away from her.

She gave a quick swipe at a deep wrinkle upon her frock, hoisted the best smile she could manage given the circumstances, and walked quickly into the center of the room with her hand outstretched to greet the Feathertons’ esteemed guest.

Except it wasn’t Lady Ebberly who rose from a chair.

It was Griffin; the one person in all of Bath she had no desire to see.

The one man she could not see.

Not now.

Not when her heart was shattered in a dozen jagged shards.

Surprisingly, his eyes were bright, his expression almost expectant as he moved toward her and clasped her hand between both his own, as was his way.

From the instant their hands met, a tremble rolled from her fingers, up her arm, and down Hannah’s entire body. All strength seemed to leach from her limbs, and for a scattering of moments, Hannah felt dizzy and not at all sure of her ability to remain standing.