Child pulled a face. “You know me—I thought she was being overly dramatic, and I pushed. I told her that you hadn’t been lying when you’d told her you loved her.” Child met Devlin’s eyes. “I don’t know what’s been going on between you—why it’s taken so long for you to admit to loving her when clearly you do and have done for years—but what I glimpsed inside her…” Child’s features tightened, and he sat up, carefully placed the empty tumbler on the table by the chair, then looked directly at Devlin. “Damn it, man! She was so damned wounded.”
The kaleidoscope of fact and conjecture whirling in Devlin’s brain stopped. And he saw…
He felt the blood drain from his face, along with all expression.
“What?” Child demanded.
His mind racing, assessing all he could now see, Devlin slowly said, “I don’t know exactly why, but the issue of me loving her is…a very raw point for her.” He paused, acknowledging that truth, feeling his way forward. “I knew convincing her that I did wasn’t going to be easy, even with me demonstrating how I felt as far as I was able and telling her so in words impossible to misconstrue.” He took a second to consider all that, then admitted, “I thought I’d succeeded, but…”
She’d been very ready to leap to the conclusion that despite his protestations, despite his behavior, he didn’t truly love her at all.
Because I hid my love for her for five long years?
It had to be that—his years-long deception—and its deep-seated, lingering effects. Effects he’d underestimated. He hadn’t yet revealed that he’d loved her from the first, which made their present situation, their mutual pain and anguish, all his fault.
Jaw clenching, his gaze unseeing, he stated, “This is my fault.”
“Well, I can’t say that surprises me,” Child quipped. “But the question now, boyo, is what you’re going to do to put things right.”
Devlin barely heard the words. The vise about his chest had tightened to a near-unbearable degree. Because of his cowardice, everything—everything he’d wanted and worked for, so much that was now so very precious to him, and more than anything else, the future he’d wanted so very much to share with her—was now at risk.
No. That was one failure he couldn’t accept. He would do anything and everything he possibly could to save his—and her—dreams.
He needed a plan. Struggling to get his mind to oblige, he reassessed what Child had told him of Therese’s reactions… “She loves me. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have acted like that.”
Child snorted. “You’ve only just worked that out?”
Devlin ignored him.
After a moment, he refocused on Child. “Did you see what team was hitched to the coach?”
Child frowned. “Chestnuts, I think. But why is that important? They were only driving to the terminus.” He glanced at the clock. “They must be nearly there by now.”
“The train?” Aghast, Devlin stared at him. “She’s taken the train?”
“Yes, didn’t I say? She had Portland get tickets for the train.”
Devlin growled and swung to look at the clock. “Damn it!” He pushed to his feet and strode for the door.
Child twisted around and watched him go. He heard Devlin shouting orders in the hall, then the scurrying rush as the staff responded.
Relaxing in the chair, Child looked at the glass he’d set aside, then picked it up and drained the very last drops.
Lowering the glass, he shook his head. “If that’s what happens when one falls in love, I’m exceedingly glad I’ve avoided the malaise.”
Devlin drew his team of matched bays to a snorting, stamping halt by the curb outside the London Terminus of the Great Northern Railway. Before the curricle stopped moving, he tossed the reins to his groom, Mitchell, leapt to the ground, and bolted into the station.
Dodging porters and passengers in the main hall, he made for the single outbound platform. He raced onto the gray expanse, only to see the rear of the train vanishing in a cloud of steam.
“Damn!” He slowed and pulled up. Chest heaving, he leaned a hand against a post and fought to regain his breath, a task made more difficult by the steadily cinching band of iron clamping about his lungs.
The stationmaster had noticed his mad dash and, recognizing him, came hurrying up. “My lord, if we’d known you wished to catch that train, we would have held it back.”
Devlin battled to summon some civility. He and Therese alternated between taking the train and taking the coach to the Priory—the train was faster, but not by much, as they needed to take a carriage from the station at the other end—but the station staff recognized him more for being one of the major shareholders in the railway company.
He waved, attempting to project unconcern. “It’s all right. I wanted to catch the countess for a word, but…” He glanced at the man. “When is the next train due to leave?”
Earnest and eager to please, the stationmaster replied, “At ten o’clock tomorrow morning, my lord. If you wish, we would ensure it waited for you…”
Devlin considered. Portland had told him that Therese had taken her usual complement of staff for the journey. She and the children would be safe enough and would reach Alverton Priory at about ten o’clock that night.
It was already dark; if he headed up the Great North Road now, it would be the small hours before he reached the Priory.
The sensible thing to do would be to wait until morning and take the next train north. He would be at the Priory by early afternoon.
Too late.
Every instinct he possessed was very sure of that. He needed to see Therese tonight—or at least before the next dawn. He couldn’t let her misapprehension—and the vulnerability that drove it—remain unaddressed for a moment longer than necessary; he was unutterably certain of that.
And he did have the most up-to-date driving lamps installed on his curricle.
He shook his head and refocused on the stationmaster. “No. Don’t hold the train for me.” The man’s face fell, and Devlin managed a weak smile. “No doubt you’ll see me and the countess when next we head north.”
Reassured, the man smiled and bowed. “We’ll look forward to it, my lord.”
Devlin reined in his impatience and allowed the man to deferentially escort him from the platform and across the hall before firmly taking his leave beneath the ornate entrance.
Finally free, he strode to where Mitchell waited, chatting to several urchins who, attracted by the show of prime horseflesh, had drawn close enough to pepper the groom with questions.
Mitchell saw Devlin coming and saluted.
The urchins took one look at his set face and scattered.
He returned to the curricle’s seat and, when Mitchell offered them, retook the reins. He settled the ribbons in his hands as Mitchell swung up behind, then set the horses trotting toward the road.
Once he’d turned in to the traffic heading west, Devlin called over his shoulder. “Are you up for a run to the Priory? Or would you rather I drop you off farther along, and you can take a hackney back to Alverton House?”
He didn’t need to look to know that Mitchell blinked in surprise. “What? Now, my lord?”