The very idea that he could be persuaded away from her had been sitting on her shoulder like the heaviest of boulders. The countess’s promise that he would find Lady Beatrice vastly more suitable once he’d had the chance to properly court her, haunted Primrose’s dreams and waking moments.
She was without connections and money, and there was a child on the way. Pushing away the crippling doubt, she made her way into the cottage and efficiently stoked the embers of the dying fire. Tea was soon prepared, and she consumed two cups with dried toast, relieved that her sensitive stomach seemed of the mind to keep food in today.
After eating a more substantial meal of beef and potato stew, for the first time in several days, she made the trip back to Sancrest Manor. A peal of laughter and joy rode the air and tugged her to the eastern lawns instead of the massive oak front door. Primrose made her way around to the side gardens and down the cobbled pathway, careful of the melting snow. Primrose faltered at the sight which greeted her, confusion bubbling in her throat.
Verity and George laughed and played in the snow like children with Annabelle, while Gabriel reposed on a bench watching them. His lips moved, and she could see that he spoke but could not hear the words. Even from a distance across the lawn, he seemed relaxed, pain-free and happy. Also, though, his face looked thinner, and his cheekbones more pronounced. Her throat went tight when Lady Beatrice—appearing so charming in a peach day gown, a jaunty hat perched rakishly atop her head, and a basket in her hand—strolled over and sat beside Gabriel.
Whatever Lady Beatrice said caused him to smile, and his reply made Lady Beatrice tip back her head and laugh, the sound rippling through the brisk air like musical notes. He was recovered…and he'd not returned to their cottage…and he was smiling warmly at Lady Beatrice. She handed him an apple, and he took it with a nod, then directed his attention to his sister who had smacked George with a snowball. How happy everyone looked, and Primrose had never felt more as if she did not belong.
The sob that tore from Primrose’s chest caught her unawares. The memories of his promises and their time together felt like jagged shards of glass raking in her chest. She spun around and faltered at the sight of the countess. Where had she come from?
“Their engagement is set to announce this week in the Times. Both families are well pleased," the countess said softly, undisguised pity shining in her blue eyes.
She held out an envelope and Primrose suspected money was inside.
“I’ve increased the draft to one thousand pounds.”
A fortune. Instinctively she rested her hands on her stomach where life was already growing. Knowledge leaped in the countess's eyes, and for a brief moment, she hesitated, her features softening. She firmed her lips.
“Take it, Miss Markham. If you wish a moment with my son, please go on over to him now, and say your goodbyes.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Primrose glanced back, but he was too caught up in Lady Beatrice's conversation even to sense her presence. And the fact that the countess urged her to go to him was quite telling. He was truly lost to her, and the humiliation of facing him under the watchful eyes of his family…of the lady he would now marry…was too much to bear. Primrose ached until she thought her soul would shatter from the pain. Wiping furiously at her tears, she drew in a hard, desperate breath as she blinked back her tears. Then without a word, she took the envelope and walked away without looking back.
Chapter 9
Gabriel stumbled awkwardly along the lawns of his family estate, staring at the woman in the distance, craving her with keen desperation. "Primrose!" His shout echoed across the lawns, but the slight figure in the distance did not waver. Gabriel knew it was her, he would recognize the petite, sensual shape of her anywhere, even if swallowed in a thick coat. Dropping the walking cane, he tried to increase his pace, hoping to take himself into shouting distance.
“Primrose!”
“Good God, man, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” George hissed, hurrying over to him and picking up the walking cane. “You are mortifying Lady Beatrice and her mother.”
“I do not give a damn what they are thinking. Primrose was here. Why did she not come over? I must go to her.”
He stepped forward and stumbled, pain ripping through his side.
“Do not be a dimwit, you’re hardly recovered. You had a life-threatening surgery to remove the piece of shell from between your ribs for Christ’s sake. It took you days to come from the bed, and you are here making an ass over a lady who may or may not be Miss Markham,” George said, fisting a hand on his hips.
“It was her,” Gabriel insisted stubbornly, fighting the panic rising in his chest the further away the figure appeared. Some instinct warned him that her walking away was the very worst thing he could imagine. Had she been hurt? “Primrose!” he bellowed.
George winced. “That lady was at a distance, Gabriel, you could not be—”
“I’m certain,” he rasped, hobbling down the path and toward the manor. “I’m certain because every part of me came alive.”
His brother sucked in a sharp breath and glance behind him. Gabriel looked around to see Lady Beatrice’s mouth frozen in a small o and a look of injury in her eyes. Her eyes held an expectation he did not understand, and a sliver of discomfort darted through him.
He frowned, not understanding. He'd made no promises to her or even intimated he was interested in a courtship. She had been very kind and gracious these past few days, putting up with his black, irritable mood as he struggled to be on his feet. Several times she'd attempted to lighten his temper and had failed, for only Primrose occupied his mind and heart. He and Lady Beatrice had never been alone despite the machinations of his mother, and even the lady’s mother herself. Nor had Lady Beatrice hinted of any romantic feelings toward him. For if she had, Gabriel would have made known that his heart irrevocably belonged to another.
So why did she appear so disappointed now? “Lady Beatrice, thank you for your charming company as always,” he said with firm politeness. “But I must take my leave. I bid you good day.”
She nodded gracefully and hurried passed him, slashing him a rather intent and anxious scrutiny, but he offered no reassurance. No doubt his mother had made foolish promises, but he would not be persuaded to abandon his love.
Gabriel resumed his hobble toward the side entrance, ignoring George’s muttered curse. Every hurried step had pain lancing through his side where the doctors had cut deeply to excise the infected flesh and remove the shrapnel and bits of bones. He’d been abed with fever for days he’d been told, and had spent quite some time sleeping, only to surface when he’d been roused for sustenance. Gabriel recalled none of it.
He made his way inside and down the hallway to the sitting room. It would take too much effort now to climb the stairs. The pain was already clawing through him like a poison-tipped dagger,
beading sweat on his skin. He would need his strength soon, for he would order the carriage to take him to their cottage. What he should have bloody done days ago even though he had felt so damnably weak and pain filled. Instead, he'd entrusted George with messages for Primrose, and she'd made no response to any.
A cold knot of suspicion sat heavy in his stomach. He shrugged away George’s touch when he attempted to help him into the sofa by the fire.