“I’m at leisure this evening, Mrs. Carrick. I distinctly remember saying that when you invited me to supper with you and the charming Miss Smith.”
The charming Miss Smith cast him a quelling glance. Diana gritted her teeth and only just stifled a growl of aggravation. Apparently Ashcroft meant to be difficult.
“Well, I’m no longer at leisure,” she said crisply. “I return to the country with my father.”
“I believe it’s time you left, my lord,” her father said in the same tone he used to quell dissension among the farm laborers.
She found it in her to admire his courage. He was a humble bailiff, and the Earl of Ashcroft was a powerful nobleman.
Her father always stood up for principle whatever the cost. Which meant he’d utterly despise what she’d done if he ever found out the full story. Dear God, he’d despise her anyway after tonight. He never believed the end justified the means. Harsh experience had taught her he was right.
“I hoped for some conversation with Mrs. Carrick,” Ashcroft said with the suave address he used when he wanted his way.
“My daughter isn’t staying in London,” her father said. “And what conversation with you could reflect to her credit?”
Ashcroft’s lips tightened at the slight. Although they all knew it was justified. What wasn’t justified was for Ashcroft to take blame for her wickedness.
“Mrs. Carrick?” Ashcroft inquired, as if he believed she’d change her mind just for the asking.
For one tremulous second, the idea of flinging herself into Ashcroft’s arms and defying Burnley, confessing all, begging him to take her somewhere this couldn’t touch them, rose like a mirage. So tempting. So impossible.
If she threw herself upon Ashcroft’s mercy, what guarantee he’d want her into tomorrow? Even if he forgave her, he had a reputation for inconstancy. She’d captivated him briefly. Nothing indicated she captivated him further than that.
She bent her head, closing her eyes in a silent prayer to a God who by rights shouldn’t listen to such a miserable sinner. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry.
Her father hated her. She abandoned Ashcroft. Her future was a bleak wilderness.
Tears wouldn’t help.
Nothing would help. Even becoming mistress of the house she’d always coveted, the house that had exacted a greater price than she’d ever thought to pay.
“I’ll fetch my cloak and bonnet, Papa,” she said in a dull voice.
Without sparing a glance for Ashcroft, she slipped through the door, closed it behind her, and rushed across the tiles toward the staircase. Mercifully, none of their small staff were present.
She felt strangely numb although howling pain lurked just outside the glass wall separating her from the world. Some functioning corner of her mind told her she was wise to get out now. She’d broken with Ashcroft and would never have to see him again. A swift, final separation was best, like wrenching an arrow from a wound.
Let the blood flow and cleanse the poison. Then they could both start to heal.
Except she had a grim premonition she’d never heal. She should have listened when Laura insisted she risked more with this scheme than giving her body to a man she disliked, then forgetting him. A transaction as simple and unremarkable as handing over a penny for a cake in a bakery.
Becoming Ashcroft’s lover had cost her soul.
Through her clamoring misery, she heard the door behind her open, then close. Her headlong flight didn’t slow.
“Diana, wait.”
Oh, heaven save me.
She lowered her head and walked more quickly, hardly seeing where she went. She had a superstitious certainty if she reached the stairs, she was safe. Ashcroft wouldn’t pursue her into her bedroom. Surely not with her father so close and a band of servants on call. Not even the libertine earl was so blind to convention.
She set foot on the first step, placed a foot on the next, and released the breath she hadn’t realized she held. Her hand automatically reached for the banister.
A tanned male hand closed over hers. Hard and ruthless, it pressed her palm int
o the polished wood.
So warm. His hand was the only warm thing in her frozen universe.