so that she would not trip over it in her haste.
He stood looking after her, feeling as if she had plunged a knife into his stomach and twisted it. But it was natural, of course. How could he expect her to wish anything different?
And he had the same wish as she. He wished it could be Julian there at Crayboume with her, and himself in that grave on the Inkerman Heights. She would be happy—for a time—and he would be at peace.
He wished it profoundly.
Chapter 5
The countess was to attend a meeting in the village after luncheon to arrange a prize-giving and fete at the school. Rebecca would normally have gone with her, but she made an excuse of her headache and retired to her room.
Much as she had felt awkward about living at Craybourne after Julian's death, especially during the past year, she had never felt afraid to leave her room. She was afraid now. She did not know where she might safely go. She did not know where David was. At luncheon he had said nothing about his plans for the afternoon.
She had been appallingly rude to him. She could not remember ever treating another human being with such discourtesy. She could not remember speaking deliberately to hurt on any other occasion.
If it had to be one or the other of you, then I wish it were Julian standing there and you in the grave in the Crimea.
She could hear herself speaking the words, wanting to hurt him.
Feeling quite vicious in her need to wound.
And you in the grave in the Crimea.
Yes, she hated him for forcing her to say those words. She hated him.
How dare he ask her to marry him! And in such a coldblooded manner. Merely so that she could get his house in order for him.
How could he possibly have expected her to say yes when she had been married to Julian? He knew what that marriage had been like.
He knew how close they had been, how deeply they had loved each other. Had he seriously expected that she would be willing to make a marriage of convenience after knowing that? And with him of all people?
/ am fond of you, he had said. Was he? Yes, he prob-
62 Mary Balogh ably was. He had been fond of Julian for all his wildness, and she had been Julian's wife. And he had always been tolerant of her as a child even though she was four years younger than he—and a mere girl.
And I think perhaps you are a little fond of me. He was wrong about that. She was not fond of him at all. And yet Julian had loved him.
And yes, there was something of a bond. She closed her eyes and remembered Southampton and her final wrenching parting from Julian. She had hugged David there and felt a terrible dread for him and begged him to keep himself safe—even though all her mind had been on Julian and the fact that she must next turn to him and take her leave of him.
Forever, as it had turned out.
Yes, she felt a little fondness for David, she supposed, though it had been drowned out by dislike. By that one unforgivable fact about him. He had fathered Flora Ellis's child outside of marriage—the very thought could make Rebecca's cheeks grow hot with shame—and had refused to take responsibility for his actions afterward. He had refused to marry Flora. Though she would not have accepted him anyway, he had said. That was difficult to believe. Any woman in such circumstances would gladly marry even if she did not love the man. And how could Flora have done what she had done if she had not loved David?
Ask her, he had said.
Did it matter to her? Was it any of her business what had passed between those two former lovers and why they had made the decisions they had made? Was it of any personal concern to her whether David had treated Flora as shabbily as it had always appeared or whether Flora had not wanted marriage? They had an agreement, David had said—whatever that meant. It was really not her concern, Rebecca thought, unless she planned to marry him. She did not plan any such thing. The idea was absurd.
And yet when she sat down to write a letter to her
Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Martin A. Lee, Bruce Shlain