Of course. Fall out of love. She smiled up at Bradon as they took their places. It was a matter of will-power. ‘Six days of our month have gone already, my lord,’ she said and saw his pupils widen. He was not as indifferent to her as she thought.
‘You are a formal little thing, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You should call me Bradon.’
‘Yes … Bradon.’ Was she supposed to have known that would be acceptable without being asked? No matter. Provided she made no major breach of etiquette he seemed to like putting her right. Being patronised was just something else she must add to her list of things to become accustomed to. Somehow it no longer seemed of importance, she was so unhappy. The pain could not stay this acute for ever, Averil told herself as she stumbled and Bradon steadied her. When it became a dull ache then she would manage better.
‘I am so looking forward to Almack’s,’ she s
aid.
‘Ah, yes, Mama has secured you vouchers. She will explain the rules to you—there is no need to be nervous about it.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Averil said and he frowned.
‘You should be. Pay great attention to what Mama tells you—making a good impression at Almack’s is vital.’
‘Yes, Bradon,’ she said meekly and told herself he was only concerned that she was not embarrassed.
Resolutions were all very well, Averil realised at one in the morning as she sat up in bed and lit a candle. She should have gone to sleep half an hour ago when she climbed into bed, but her eyes, hot and heavy, would not stay closed and her mind would not settle.
I love him and I cannot have him. I should not want him. I must learn to forget him. How long would it take? If only she could marry Bradon now, or in a few days’ time. Then perhaps her foolish heart would give up, because then being with Luc would be an impossibility.
But it would be another two weeks before the arrival of her courses convinced his mother that there was no danger of her carrying another man’s child. Then there would be all the necessary preparations to be made, her drowned trousseau to replace, arrangements to be made. Another month at least.
Averil tossed and turned and finally gave up. The soft pile of the carpet cradled her feet in luxury as she slid out of the high bed, reminding her of her new circumstances. She would go down to the library and find a book, or a fashion journal or something to distract her mind until she could sleep.
The house was quiet as she padded downstairs in bare feet. Her ghostly reflection in her white robe made her jump as she came face to face with a mirror on the first landing and her heart was still thudding as she walked across the hall to the library door.
The fire was burning low in the grate, but candles were still lit and she found the pile of journals on a side table easily enough. Fashion and frivolity to distract her or something serious, sermons perhaps, to make her concentrate?
As she stood with the journals in her hand she became aware of voices. The door to the study was slightly ajar and at least two people were talking in there. Eavesdropping was unladylike and irresistible. Averil put down the Lady’s Monthly Museum and walked soundlessly to stand by the door.
‘… better than I could have hoped. Inexperienced, of course, but there is no vulgarity and she has a certain style. I have high hopes of her once she acquires a little town bronze.’ It was Lady Kingsbury and she was talking about her. Averil tried not to bridle at the presumption that she might have been vulgar. ‘I just hope that our fears are unjustified and she is not breeding. My instincts tell me that she is not.’ Averil rested her hand on the door jamb and leaned closer.
‘It will be a pity if she is. The girl has potential, as you say, and of course, there is the money,’ Bradon remarked.
‘I have been thinking about that, and I agree with you, it would be regrettable to lose her and the money both. If she is carrying a child, then it is not an insurmountable problem, we can deal with that.’
Averil clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the involuntary gasp.
‘End the pregnancy, you mean?’ Bradon said conversationally. ‘There’s that woman in Charles Street that I sent my mistress to when the careless little slut got herself in pup, if you recall.’
Averil dropped her hands to cradle her belly as though there was a real child into there that they were threatening. That poor girl. He takes no responsibility, he sounds as if he hates her for it.
‘I did think of that, but we do not want to risk anything that might harm her future childbearing,’ Lady Kingsbury said with as much sympathy as if she was talking about her lapdog. ‘There is always such a risk of infertility and the last thing you want is to find yourself tied to an otherwise healthy young wife who cannot bear a child.’
‘She might not stay so healthy in that case,’ Bradon said in such a matter-of-fact way that it took Averil a moment to realise he was suggesting murder. Her murder. Soundlessly she slid to the thick carpet, her legs incapable of supporting her.
‘Better not to complicate matters,’ his mother said with chilling practicality. ‘If the chit has got herself with child, then we send her off to the country somewhere for about ten months and then you marry her. We can always say she came down with an illness as a result of the change of climate or some such excuse. And at least you will know she is fertile. We can find some couple to take the child.’
‘Rather a risk, don’t you think? They might talk. But then, small babies are so fragile. It would be best to make sure it never became a hostage to fortune.’
‘Yes, that would be best, and so easily done with a newborn babe.’
Averil stuffed her knuckles into her mouth against the rising bile. Oh, God, what had she done? She was trapped with people who would kill without the slightest compunction simply for money. A baby. An innocent babe. How could they even contemplate such a thing? And then to solve the problem of an infertile wife by murder—how long would they give her to conceive before they decided she was not use to them? A year?
The urge to retch almost overcame her. With painful slowness Averil crawled back away from the door until she could haul herself upright.
She made herself tiptoe across the floor, not run, screaming, as she wanted to. Somehow she remembered not to slam the door, then she fled upstairs, not stopping until she was huddled shivering in her own bed again.