The appreciation in his eyes died, replaced by coldness. “So I have heard,” he drawled.
“He has already danced with me twice this evening.”
“How fortunate for you.”
“He is good and kind.”
“Most vicars are. Seems to be a prerequisite for the vocation.”
Anyone watching them would see two people having a genteel conversation, but Sara knew better. She could feel the shards of ice building up between them, sharp as knives.
But she could not stop herself. She had questioned everything since her return to Ridgestone, so much that it had nigh driven her mad. She could not have imagined everything, could she?
“Do you have nothing to say about this?” she asked, her eyes imploring him to reciprocate her desires.
“Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, Miss Collins.” He sketched her a shallow bow, his face unreadable.
Her brows rose. “Is that truly all you have to say to me?”
“What else is there?” His voice was even, emotionless.
“I thought—I thought that after that week—”
“What week?” His voice remained the same, but she thought she heard a harsh edge to it. “The one that does not exist? Do not make a fool of yourself, Miss Collins.”
“Did it truly mean nothing to you?” she whispered.
He shrugged and scanned the crowd beginning to gather for another set. “It was a short affair, nothing more.”
“But I thought—”
He returned his gaze to hers, his eyes colder than she had ever seen them. “Thought what? That I would toss you over my shoulder and whisk you off to Scotland? Or stand up during your wedding ceremony and say that you can’t marry him? Promise you a happily ever after? Get your head out of the clouds. I am not that sort of fellow. We both got what we wanted—you had your taste of adventures and I had my bedding without the wedding. There is nothing more to it.”
Sara stared at him, her heart frozen in place. This was not the man she had been with at Cloverfields. Had he been an illusion? Or merely patronizing her to get what he wanted, tossing her morsels of compassion and understanding so long as she warmed his bed?
Oh good heavens. Sara felt her knees weaken as the reality of what she did finally settled in. She had even been fooling herself for this past week that he had been harboring a secret affection for her, as she did for him. She had fallen in love with a man who saw her as nothing more than a conquest. He must be spending his nights laughing at her and thanking his lucky stars they had not been caught.
Nausea bubbled up in her and Sara swayed, her vision blurring. She reached to steady herself on the table.
“Miss Collins?” She looked up and saw the dark figure move toward her. But it was not Nathan’s voice speaking. “Miss Collins, what is the matter?”
“Mr. Pomeroy,” she croaked. “I fear I may be unwell.”
“Shall I fetch Mr. and Mrs. Knightly for you?” He scanned the crowd, looking for her friends.
“No, please. Just some fresh air. That is all I need.”
“Of course.” Sara felt his hands on her shoulders, and she followed his guidance out of the hall and into the small courtyard at the back. He assisted her to a bench where she sat down, her hands over her face. They were in plain view of the large French windows that lined the hall, light spilling out into the groomed area.
How could she have been so wrong about Nathan Grant? He had warned her against making him into an honorable man; it appeared his warning had been justified after all. She had been little more than a plaything to him, a means to his selfish end.
Good heavens, it felt as though her stomach was being cut out. A low moan escaped her.
“Miss Collins?”
She had forgotten about Mr. Pomeroy. Just for a moment.
“Are you certain you don’t wish me to fetch Mrs. Knightly? Perhaps Miss Hurst?”
Sara forced herself into an upright position and inhaled deeply, dropping her hands from her face. She willed herself into composure. “I believe I will be fine, Mr. Pomeroy. The fresh air has done the trick. Thank you for your concern.”
The vicar looked at her, his face a mixture of worry and uncertainty. “If you are sure. I find myself disliking seeing you in distress.”