The words were there, though, even if neither uttered them. Kiss me, touch me, stay with me. They were in the slight pressure of her hand on his arm, in the way he watched her profile, their lagging steps that got slower as they neared the inn.
It had to stop, she knew that, or they would drift upstairs and then—who knew? And even though she could rely on Luc to save her life, she could not trust him with her virginity. Or perhaps it was herself she did not trust.
‘Thank you so much, Captain,’ Averil said in her brightest society voice as they reached the inn yard. ‘I feel better for the fresh air and the exercise.’
‘You will set out early tomorrow, I imagine. It is a good twelve hours to London.’ Luc stood, hat in hand, showing no sign of wanting to inveigle his way upstairs. Was it all her imagination and he just wanted to flirt?
‘Yes, the postilions said we should leave at half past seven. I shall be very glad to arrive, I must confess.’ The prospect of stopping this endless travelling, of reaching somewhere—anywhere—permanent after four months, was almost
enough to overcome the apprehension about meeting her betrothed.
‘Bruton Street, I believe,’ Luc said.
‘How—how did you know?’ A cold trickle ran down her spine. He had promised not to speak to Lord Bradon—surely he would not break his word?
‘I checked. Don’t look at me like that, I shall not interrupt your arrival with an ill-timed call, believe me, Miss Heydon.’
‘Of course. Thank you. It may be a little … strained at first, getting to know each other.’ His silence spoke volumes about how strained he expected it to be. ‘Well, good night, Captain d’Aunay. I wish you well at the Admiralty.’ She held out her hand and he took it, bowed over it and stood aside for her to enter.
‘I think the captain’s better looking, now I’m used to that nose,’ Waters remarked as they climbed the stairs.
‘Shh! For goodness’ sake, girl, he’ll hear you!’
‘He didn’t come in, Miss Heydon.’
‘Oh.’ Good. Excellent, in fact. That was that then. She would not see him again, perhaps not for years and when she did she would be Lady Bradon, a respectable society matron and Luc would be a count, or an admiral or ambassador for a royalist France. They would meet and smile and part again and all this agonising would seem pointless.
Unless Lord Bradon rejected her. The cold shiver came back. He was not going to be pleased, that was certain. But he might be a wonderful, warm, understanding man who would forgive her adventure and she would forget Luc. No, never forget him. He would always be part of her memories: his courage, his pride. His lovemaking.
‘Time for bed, I think, Waters. Please ring for the hot water.’ On an impulse, she said, ‘What is your first name? Waters seems so stiff.’ Probably it was how Lady Bradon should address her maid, but it was not comfortable.
‘Grace, miss.’
‘How pretty. I will call you that if you do not feel it lowers your dignity.’
‘My dignity, miss? I think calling me by my surname is because you’ll be a great lady and I’m supposed to be a superior servant.’ She said it with such a comical expression that Averil laughed. ‘Only I don’t think I’m cut out for being a superior abigail.’
She was rather dumpy and snub-nosed, Averil thought, thinking of her aunt’s descriptions of how a suitable dresser would look and behave. But she was warm and sensible and cheerful. Averil decided she would do her best to keep her—warmth might be in rather short supply at Bruton Street.
‘I think you will do admirably, Grace. I cannot promise anything, because Lord Bradon may already have employed someone as dresser, but if he has not, then I hope you will stay with me.’
‘Oh, Miss Heydon, thank you.’ Grace beamed. ‘Oh, and, miss, that means I’ll sit with the upper servants, right up at the top!’
And so she would, Averil thought with an inward smile. Ladies’ maids and valets took their employer’s rank as far as the hierarchy of the servants’ hall was concerned.
Grace was still bubbling with excitement as they took their seats in the post-chaise at just past seven the next morning. The yard was busy already with two private coaches ready to leave and another post-chaise with the ostlers backing the horses between the shafts.
Averil made herself as comfortable as possible and wondered if she would be able to sleep, something that she had signally failed to do the night before, except in snatches. Long intervals, marked by the church clock—which might as well have been the church bells tolling—were spent tossing and turning in an effort to stop imagining scenarios for her arrival in Bruton Street.
What would it be? A warm, understanding welcome, chilly reserve but acceptance or downright anger and rejection? She rehearsed, over and over, what she would say, how she would explain those nights in the company of a gang of condemned men and a half-French officer.
Then, when she did fall asleep, her dreams were full of Luc who was making love to her, fully. And then he appeared in the Bruton Street drawing room and explained that he had to do it, even though she was so inept and naïve in bed and then, somehow, he and Andrew Bradon were standing facing each other with duelling pistols raised and … And Grace had shaken her awake because she was having a nightmare.
The breakfast bacon was sitting uneasily in her stomach. It would be best to be very careful what she ate on the journey, she decided as the postilions swung up and the chaise lurched into motion. It would not do to arrive in fashionable Mayfair travel sick as well as crumpled and uneasy.
As she thought it they passed the other chaise and its occupant who was just settling into his seat. Luc. ‘Goodbye,’ she mouthed and lifted her hand.
He said something in response and she tried to read his lips. ‘Au revoir.’