Gingerly, feeling as if touching any man at that point might see her break, she lightly laid her fingers on his sleeve.
He said nothing more, just guided her across the street and to her waiting carriage, then helped her up and instructed Munns to drive to Park Lane. Then to her surprise, Child climbed up and sat beside her.
She couldn’t summon the energy to protest. Instead, she kept silent, and blessedly, he did the same.
By the time the carriage drew up beside the steps of Alverton House, Therese knew what she needed to do.
Rigidly contained, as soon as Dennis opened the door, she preempted Child and stepped down unaided. Head high, her face a carefully controlled mask with features set in stone, she walked swiftly up the steps and through the door Portland swung open.
She halted in the hall and started tugging off her gloves.
Footsteps had followed her from the carriage.
“Lord Child.”
“Good afternoon, Portland.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, my lord.”
“Thank you.”
Despite Child’s exchange with Portland, Therese knew Child’s gaze had remained locked on her; he was worried, but unsure what to do. Good.
Having succeeded in removing her gloves and bonnet, with them in her hands, she faced both men. “Portland, please inform the relevant staff that I intend leaving for the Priory immediately, on this evening’s train.”
Her tone had Portland coming to attention. “My lady?”
Ignoring the butler’s surprise and spiking concern, she handed him her bonnet and gloves and, her tone even, uninflected, and imbued with an ice-clad iron will, continued, “Naturally, the children will travel with me. Please inform Nanny Sprockett immediately.” She glanced at the clock on the nearby wall. “Send a footman to reserve a compartment. As well as the children, I’ll take Nanny and both nursemaids, Parker, Morton, and Dennis—instruct whoever you send to get tickets for us all. And I suppose Cook had better prepare a basket of food for the children—we’ll be traveling over their dinnertime.”
Portland slid a look at Child, then returned his gaze to her and ventured, “My lady, perhaps—”
“Immediately, Portland.” No one—no one—argued when she gave orders in that tone.
Portland’s expression blanked, and he bowed. “Of course, my lady.” He, too, glanced at the clock.
“I wish to depart the house by five o’clock,” she stated. “I want to reach the terminus in good time to find our compartment and settle the children.” Focusing on the practicalities of the journey helped keep a lid on the tumultuous, turbulent emotions raging inside her.
She couldn’t deal with them, not now, not when she couldn’t even think about what she’d seen without feeling helpless and nauseated and so hurt. So stupid.
So betrayed.
She hauled her mind back from the edge of the vortex waiting to suck her down. If she let herself fall into it, she would be ranting and raving, but she had children and a household to manage; she couldn’t afford to succumb.
At least not until I’m safe in my room at the Priory, out of sight and sound of everyone.
“Tell Parker I won’t be changing—I’ll go as I am. She’ll know what needs to be packed.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Portland bowed, and without acknowledging Child at all, Therese turned and made for the little reception room she used as her private sitting room.
Behind her, she heard Child murmur something to Portland, then Child strode after her.
With her lips set in an uncompromising line, she reached her sanctum, opened the door, and walked in, leaving the door swinging. She headed for the desk on which her diary sat, open to the page for the current week.
Child followed her into the room and shut the door. “Therese—”
“I would rather not speak about what we saw.” She rounded the desk and halted and, in the same rigidly controlled and distant tone, added, “And you have no authority or right to interfere in whatever I choose to do.”
“No, I don’t.” Child drew in a breath and carefully said, “All I can do is ask you to think things through.”
She looked down at her diary, scanning the entries for the next week.
He stepped closer. “Please. If you think about the possibilities—”
“I can’t.” She’d replied without glancing up. When she did, she saw Child frown.
“Can’t what?” he asked.
“Can’t think.” Looking down again, she confirmed that there was no event she’d agreed to attend over the coming week for which she couldn’t easily write an apology. She shut the diary, picked it up, and faced Child. “I can’t think, not about that. If I do, I’ll…” Her hold on the tempest inside her wavered. She sucked in a quick breath, held it, and pushed the roiling emotions down. She waved one hand and, in a weaker voice, said, “Explode. Shatter into a million pieces.”
Alarm flared in Child’s eyes. He searched her face, pressed his lips together, then offered, “Then let me think for you. What we saw…” He drew in a breath. “There has to be some rational explanation. Something other than the conclusion you’ve obviously leapt to.”
“Not unless business is now being conducted by beautiful women out of houses in Covent Garden—” She broke off, then head tipping, admitted, “Well, I suppose it could be said that there is at least one business beautiful women have long been known to conduct from houses around Covent Garden.”
Child’s jaw clenched. “I’ve known Devlin all my life. Ladybirds and opera dancers were never his style.”
She arched her brows. “Really? But then you haven’t known him for the past umpteen years. Now he’s married, who knows what his style is?” Temper stirring, she met Child’s eyes. “You certainly don’t.”
Child shut his lips, pressing them tight.
She nodded. “Just so.” She stepped around the desk and started past him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
He swung around and caught her sleeve. “Therese, please—”
“No!” She halted and closed her eyes, jaw tight as she fought to rein in her temper—and failed. But this was a different sort of temper, one without heat. A cold, raging fury, it erupted and filled every corner of her mind. She was hurt, wounded, and she no longer cared if it showed.
She opened her eyes and rounded on Child. Whatever he saw in her face, in her eyes, had him releasing her and taking a step back. She narrowed her gaze on his face. “Yesterday, my husband told me he loved me. For the first time. He told me, and he made me believe it. He repeated that vow this morning and convinced me that I could finally have”—her voice broke, but she forged on—“something precious that I hadn’t even known I’d yearned for for years.”
She hauled in a breath and held it; she’d been right in her description—she felt as if she was breaking into sharp, jagged, frozen pieces inside. The churning fury in her mind thrust a single burning question into her mouth, and she skewered Child with her gaze. “Can a man truly love two women at the same time?”
Faced with such incandescent fury and instinctively knowing he couldn’t reach her, with exasperated candor, Child replied, “Don’t ask me. I haven’t fallen in love with one woman, let alone two.”