“I…I don’t—” He pushed himself off the couch.
“Who Sapphire was—is—is just as important today as it was last week. It will be even more important if she is to wed this Blake Thixton. She’ll go on her adventure, explore the United States and then she’ll come back, most likely Lord Wessex’s wife, but she’ll still want to be recognized as her father’s child. It will be important to her children.” She stared at Jessup. “What? You don’t think she’ll come back?”
“I…”
“You’re wrong!” Lucia declared. “I know my Sapphire, and while she may have gone off impulsively, she will not forget us, nor will she forget who she is. She’ll be back, and if you don’t believe this to be true, Mr. Stowe,” she said contemptuously, “then perhaps Avena should show you to the door.”
For a moment Lucia thought he might burst into tears.
“No, no, no,” Jessup said, reaching out to her. “I only said that because I wasn’t certain—” He looked down at the floor, then up at her. “Lucia, love, if you want me to continue researching Sapphire’s parentage, I’ll do it. I’ll find the truth for you if it takes me the rest of my days, if that’s what you want.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “Please do not be angry with me. I can’t bear to have you angry with me.”
She fell silent at his plea. “It’s what I want, Jessup.”
“Then it’s what I want,” he said softly, offering his hand to her. “Now, come sit beside me and we’ll enjoy a cup of tea before I must return to my office.”
“Gone? Whatever do you mean she’s gone?” Henry asked, standing before a gilded floor-length mirror, trying to tie his cravat.
Angelique lay on her belly across his bed in nothing but her shift, a plate of berries and a bowl of sweet cream in front of her. She dipped a berry in the cream and popped it into her mouth. “She’s gone to Boston with the American.”
Henry turned away from the mirror, his fingers tangled in the fabric of the cravat. “Sweet, innocent Sapphire has run away with Lord Wessex?” he asked in wide-eyed amazement.
She dipped another berry, licked the sweet cream off it and dipped it again. “Wessex, Thixton, whatever you want to call him, left a note for his barrister, Mr. Stowe. That’s my aunt Lucia’s Jessup. He didn’t say much, but he did say that Sapphire was with him and not to worry.”
“I’ll be damned,” Henry mused, turning back to the mirror. “You think the chap is, you know, safe?”
Angelique shrugged. “Safe enough.” She cut her eyes coquettishly. “Safe as you, Lord Henry Carter.”
He chuckled at her reflection in the mirror. “Just not what I expected from our Sapphire. Charles said she wouldn’t give him so much as a squeeze of a teat.”
“She was in love with Wessex even though she said she hated him.” Angelique rolled her eyes. “Her and her romantic notions. It’s from reading that silly poetry—Keats, Byron, Shelly.”
“I don’t think it’s silly to be in love with someone.” He looked at her in the mirror. “I’m in love with you, Angel.”
She licked her sticky fingertips and frowned. “Don’t say such things. You’re in love with my body and what it can do for yours.”
“I am in love with your body and your heart.”
She rose from the bed and strolled toward him. “Have you been reading poetry, too?” She reached around him, pushed his hands aside and finished tying his cravat for him. “You’re going to be late for your parents’ dinner if you don’t hurry.”
“You should go with me.”
“That would certainly go well with the roasted pheasant your mother is serving. Didn’t you say your grandparents will be there? Lord and Lady Carter, the lady’s parents, Lord and Lady Bottlewait, the heir apparent Lord Carter…and his whore, Angel.”
“You’re not a whore.” He turned in her arms, wrapping his around her waist. “I love you, Angel, and I want to marry you.”
“That will wear thin once your father disinherits you.” She gave his cravat one last tug and then stepped back to view her handiwork. Satisfied, she gave him a nod. “Now go, before you’re late.”
He sighed, grasped her arm and kissed her soundly on the lips before releasing her. “You’ll wait up for me?”
She smiled, returning to the bed and her strawberries and cream. “Of course.” She dipped one finger into the cream and began to lick it off seductively. “I’ll even save you a little dessert.”
He removed his frock coat from the coat rack near the door and slipped one arm into it. “You’d better.”
Henry was always saying he loved her, but every man she had ever made love with proclaimed his undying love. She knew men didn’t mean it and she never held it against them. Life was too short for falling in love only to end up brokenhearted.
That was usually what happened to women, Angelique thought. She had witnessed it from a young age. Her mother had loved the white planter who had come to their hut nights, her father, whose name she had never known. Then he had cast her mother aside for another. She died of a terrible fever when Angelique was five, but the old women in the village said she’d died of a broken heart.
“Angel?”