“I don’t know. You must quiz him on that. All I know is that the false wedding was not so important as your pursuit of me on the Great North Road.”
“I don’t understand. The value of our pursuit was that we learned we were never married,” Mary retorted.
“No, the time you spent together, alone, united in purpose, was the value Lotharian envisioned. Time enough to see the other clearly. Time to realize that love is not only possible but…inevitable.”
She heard Rogan’s breath hitch in his throat. She didn’t know what to say or do.
They both stood silently for several moments before Rogan started for the doorway, pulling Mary along with him.
“We’re heading back to London. Now.”
The carriage tore down the road, sending clouds of earth spiraling out behind it.
Mary sat rigid and still in the corner. “You didn’t know either.” Her words were merely an observation, but Rogan seemed to hear them as a question.
“I should think that quite evident. Had you not prevented it, I might have pounded Archer senseless.”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
“No, it was Lotharian’s, and I will remember that fact.” He exhaled a long breath, then inclined himself forward to look into her eyes. “I am sorry for all of this, Mary.”
“You are sorry?” She regarded him quizzically. “You are in no way to blame for this.”
“None of this would have happened had I restrained myself.” There was something flickering in his eyes, and she knew he had more to say. “Had I not been so taken with you that night, allowed my passion to overtake my logic, perhaps I would not have been willing to do anything to make you mine.”
Mary sat mutely and stared at him.
“Lotharian was right, at least about my feelings for you. I never hated you. I desired you. I did from the moment I first saw you…in the garden. I just could not admit it to myself.”
Hearing his words, her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. “I never hated you either. I…” Mary could not admit anything else.
In truth, she knew that what had happened in the carriage had been her fault. Her desires, her passions, her wanton dreams come to life by her own doings.
But it was all too much to confess.
And so she sought to lighten the conversation. “However, I did think you to be a wicked rake.”
For a moment, his eyes brightened. “And you were not wrong.” But then his gaze became serious again. “But I am no longer that man.”
Mary considered him for a moment. “No, I don’t think that you are.”
Rogan reached out and placed a hand on her arm. “So there is no reason we should not marry.”
“Except one.”
Rogan furrowed his eyebrows. “What is that?”
“Love.”
Mary’s sisters were not at home when she arrived at Berkeley Square that evening. She was bone-weary and drained, and so the solitude suited her very well.
Mrs. Polkshank served her a cold dinner in her bedchamber. Though she’d barely eaten all day, she only picked at it.
When Mary was finished eating, she sank into the steaming bath Cherie had drawn for her.
Raising her left hand from the soapy water, she watched the liquid slowly trickle down her fingers and over the gold ring Rogan had placed there.
She tugged on the ring. She’d have to give it back to Rogan in the morning. She tried twisting it, but her fingers had swelled in the hot water and the ring would not be removed.
A raw and primitive sadness washed over her.
She would have agreed to marry Rogan when he’d asked in the carriage. Would not have needed to think at all about it.
All he’d had to say was that he loved her.
But he hadn’t.
The aching in her heart evolved into a sick, painful gnawing.
A sob overtook her, and she allowed herself to weep aloud, rocking back and forth in the hipbath.
Cherie rushed into the chamber, wrapped a towel around Mary, and led her toward bed.
When Cherie doused the candles, Mary curled to her side, pulled the coverlet high around her, and buried her face in her pillow.
Then something occurred to her, and she sat straight up in bed.
Rogan had not confessed his love for her.
“But nor have I.”
Chapter 18
When Mary descended the staircase very early the next morning, she had no intention of sitting down to breakfast with her sisters.
She had a mission. Arguably the most important of her life.
Nevertheless, she had planned to quickly stop by the dining room. She needed a swipe of butter. The stubborn wedding ring still would not slide off her swollen finger.
The sun had risen only an hour past, time enough for Mary to see to her morning ministrations and dress. Even with Cherie’s nimble fingers assisting, she’d taken much longer than usual to prepare her toilette.
Her hair had to be perfect, her clothing neatly ironed. She’d fastened a triple strand of creamy pearls, a gift from her father long ago, around her neck.
It was important to her that she look her best when she pressed the wedding ring back into Rogan’s hand. Because her true purpose for seeing Rogan was not to return his property but to confess the depth of her feelings for him.
To tell him that she loved him.
She trembled just considering that moment. What would she do and say if he did not reply in the manner she hoped?
Lud, what if he just said “Thank you” and nothing more?
Either way, she had to return the ring. If she was lucky, she would soon see the ring on her finger again when he admitted his love for her.
If not…well, the ring had never truly been hers anyway.
Because of the early hour, and her sisters’ late night, Mary did not peek into the dining room before entering for a bit of butter. This proved to be a mistake.
“There you are!” Elizabeth exclaimed. She leapt from her chair and rushed over to Mary. “Mrs. Polkshank told us you had come home.”
“And that you practically collapsed last night.” Anne had a concerned look in her eyes when she hugged Mary.
Mary drew a deep breath and expelled it.
She had hoped to avoid telling her sisters until after she’d called on Rogan that the wedding had been naught but a hoax.
She had her mission to perform first, after all, and she knew any mention of that would not sit well with her sisters, or rather one sister in particular. A young lady visiting a bachelor, well, it was simply against the rules of propriety, as Anne certainly would remind her.
“I must tell you something. Something horrid,” Mary began.
Before she could say another word, Elizabeth interrupted her. “That the wedding was a sham arranged by Lotharian?”
Mary was dumbfounded. “W-why, yes. How did you know?”
“Lady Upperton told us everything,” Elizabeth admitted. “She is furious with Lotharian.”
“She thought she recognized the vicar during the ceremony, then belatedly realized that she knew him from one of Lady Carsington’s faro parties,” Anne added. “When she approached Lotharian about it, he confessed his scheme, though he still believed it had been the right thing to do.”
“He said that had he not acted quickly…” Elizabeth paused, her gaze tracking the slow progress of the butler as he headed toward Mary with a large tea tray mounded with cards and the Morning Post. “As I was saying…had he not acted quickly, you and the duke would never realize that you belonged together.”
“Your Grace,” MacTavish said, “some cards have arrived for you.”
“Please, just set them on the table if you will.” Just then, it struck Mary just how the butler had addressed her. “MacTavish, why did you address me as ‘Your Grace’?”
Anne narrowed her eyes at him. “Were you perhaps listening to our conversation?”