“I’ll not forgive you,” she whispered fiercely, uncaring tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I assure you I would never ask for it,” he replied with an arrogant sneer to his lips.
She left without a retort. And Primrose returned the next day. Before she knocked the door swung open, and the butler peered down at her with a slight frown.
“Miss Markham, please—” he began, then paused, considering her for several moments. “I’m pleased to say Lord Gabriel’s fever broke this morning. An operation was performed yesterday afternoon by two doctors, and he is being monitored closely to ensure he remains on the road to recovery.”
She slapped a hand over her lips to prevent her cry of relief. “Truly?”
He smiled, kindly. “Truly, Miss Markham. Now please leave before her ladyship knows you are here once again. I will send one of the maids with news to you should his situation take a turn for the worse.”
Primrose rushed forward and hugged his portly figure fiercely. “Thank you!” Then she turned around and ran and ran until she reached the beaten path leading to the woods. There she leaned against a massive horse chestnut tree, and slid against the rough bark until her backside was planted in the snow. Her laugh rang through the woods as indescribable relief and joy pierced her heart.
All would now be well, and her love would soon be home in her arms.
Three weeks later, Primrose pushed from the bed weakly, groaning as her stomach roiled. She struggled from the bedroom, down the small hallways, and wrenched the front door open. Once outside, she took a deep breath of the
crisp morning air. It did not help; on a gag, she dashed toward the gardens and emptied the content of her stomach into the holly bush.
It was foolish to continue denying her condition. Not when the kindly widow cleaning the cottage a few days ago had remarked that ‘the first’ was always the hardest. Her eyes had been kind and non-judgmental, but her words had been a blow to Primrose. She was with child. She was unmarried. And she was alone.
Gabriel had not returned home, nor had she heard any word from him or the estate. A few mornings she’d tried to walk the snow-covered path to Sancrest Manor but had been too ill to make the journey. Only yesterday the village midwife had confirmed her pregnancy, and at first, joy had blasted through her, to now slowly be replaced with a peculiar terror.
Why hadn’t Gabriel come home?
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.”