"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "I believed that your concern for your nephew and your need to go to your brother were your first consideration. Under the circumstances, I put aside the desire both you and I might have to disown our relationship."
She could feel his anger and it subdued her own. "I am sorry," she said. "Of course, it must have been very painful for you, too, confessing to such a thing in the presence of your friends."
Silence descended on them once more.
"What did you mean," she asked, "when you said that it was news to you?"
"About your being my divorced wife?"
"Yes," she said. "Were you merely trying to make things easier for me, letting those people believe that there is nothing improper in our being together?"
He looked across at her fleetingly. "What made you believe that we are divorced?" he asked.
"But we are," she insisted. "You informed Papa and he broke the news to me. Why do you deny it?"
"Your father was lying to you, if indeed he did tell you that," Hetherington said cynically. "He was probably ashamed of you and wished to ensure that you did not keep coming back to me for more."
"For more?" she asked, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come, Elizabeth," he said impatiently, "let us not reopen that sordid episode in our lives. I do not wish to talk about it. In fact, my dear, I do not particularly wish to talk to you at all. I am taking you to your brother because you need help and because I still owe you the protection of a husband. I do not pretend that there is any sentiment involved. This is no social occasion."
Elizabeth did not feel the set-down because she had heard it with only part of her mind. "Are you telling me that we are still married?" she asked incredulously.
"As tight as parson's mousetrap," he answered. "You are a marchioness, my lady. Are you not highly gratified?"
This time she heard the sneer in his voice. She stiffened, then drew her cloak more tightly around her against the chill of the cloudy summer afternoon and sank lower in the seat. If he wished for silence, she was quite willing to give it to him. And even if he did not want silence, he probably needed it. The curricle was moving along the narrow country road at a spanking pace. She felt safe; even as a very young man, Robert Denning had been a notable whip. She could see now that his ability had not left him. He took hills and corners with a skill that suggested perfect concentration, perfect confidence. And speed was everything. If only she could reach home in time. She dreaded to face the question: in time for what? When the thought that Jeremy might already be dead threatened to intrude, she thrust it resolutely to one side. He could not be dead. By the time she arrived, he would probably be toddling around again and everyone would wonder why she had come. Anyway, brooding would accomplish nothing. She turned her head to one side and tried to concentrate on the scenery.
They were still married. The thought would not dislodge itself from her mind. She was still legally his wife. Why had Papa lied about that? Could there possibly have been a misunderstanding? But no. He had said there was a letter from Hetherington and legal papers of divorcement from his solicitor. He had refused to show her the papers, had not wanted to upset her further, he had said. Why had he done it? The answer seemed obvious enough. He had been unusually concerned about her as she had grieved almost to the point of madness over her broken marriage. He had probably hoped that by telling her Hetherington had divorced her he would force her to face reality more quickly. And he had been right, probably. It was after that news that she had finally taken a hold of herself and started to put her life back together again. Poor Papa. He had done it for the best.
But her marriage still existed. It was as legal and as real as it had been on that day in Devon. It was the day after their arrival from London. They had both been taut with anxiety, fearful that someone would come galloping down from London and prevent the marriage. Lady Bothwell had not raised any objection when they had asked if the wedding could take place in the morning. The elderly vicar from the nearby village had come out to the small stone chapel that was part of the estate, but that was hardly ever used any longer. And in the presence of Robert's grandmother and several of the servants from the house, they had been married. She had worn a garland of fresh flowers in her hair, lovingly fashioned by the countess's ancient gardener, and had carried a small matching posy.
Elizabeth's eyes misted now as she looked back to that day. It was such a cliche to say that it had been the happiest day of her life. But that was the simple truth. There had been a fairy-tale quality about the day. It had not seemed as real as others. She remembered Robert as he had looked when the vicar had pronounced them married. The sun itself had seemed to be behind his smile as he had turned to her and kissed her lightly on the lips. It had seemed that they had conquered fate, that they were now safe forever.
They had walked back to the house and eaten a wedding breakfast with only Lady Bothwell and the old vicar for company, but they had not felt the absence of larger celebrations. They had wanted only each other. Their world had been complete.
When the meal was over and the vicar had taken his leave, Lady Bothwell had announced that she was going to visit a few friends for several days.
"They have been inviting me for at least a quarter of a century, so it is time I went," she had said. "And newlyweds need to be alone for a while. Mrs. Cummings and the other servants will take care of all your needs."
By the middle of the afternoon they had been alone. And they had had two days together, forty-eight hours into which to cram a lifetime of happiness. No longer.
It was almost beyond belief that the Robert of those two days was the same person as the man who sat silently beside her now, the man who had told her only a little while ago that he had no wish to talk to her at all. He had talked and talked in those two days, and laughed and joked and teased. They had walked a great deal along the cliffs that formed one boundary of the estate and along the wide, sandy beach that could be reached after a difficult climb down a winding cliff path. They had cared nothing for the salt wind that had blown their hair into tangles and whipped color into their cheeks. They had not worried about the sand that filled their shoes and found its way into the rest of their clothing. They had been intent only on each other, their fingers entwined or their arms encircling each other's waists, since there were no other eyes to see and to censure them.
And they had made love for two glorious nights-no, for one glorious night. Robert had not been himself a virgin, but neither had he had a great deal of experience. He certainly had not known how to avoid giving her pain. And she had been hurt at his entry, so much so that she had cried out. It had not been good. He had finished hurriedly and then held her, alternately soothing her and apologizing to her and kissing her face. He had not tried to take her again that night. Yet even then she had felt a certain pride in knowing that she was indeed his wife and that she was now as close to him as any woman could be to a man.
But the next night had been very different. After a whole day in each other's company, they had been far more relaxed, far less nervous of what was to come. He had spent a great deal of time kissing her, touching her, and murmuring to her, so that when he had finally come inside her she had let him take her with him until they had been clinging to each other, sated with a shared ecstasy. She had discovered with wonder that that part of marriage was not to be just a necessary ordeal but that it would be at the very heart of her love for her husband. They had turned to each other time and again during that second and last night, one body, man and wife.