With that he slammed the carriage door in her face, grabbed the reins of his horse from the confused servant who had been riding him but jumped down when he saw Roarke get out of the carriage, and rode off at full speed to exit London.
He had to get to Flora. Nothing else mattered. He could only hope that it wouldn’t be too late.
CHAPTER 15
If Flora had hoped that going to a new location would quell the pain in her heart, she determined within a day of her arrival to Callum’s estate that it wasn’t meant to be. Now instead of sitting on her own veranda, staring out at fluttering leaves and trying not to cry, she looked over Callum’s foggy, moody estate grounds instead.
At least it was a change in scenery. But she couldn’t seem to change her heart. Why did this hurt so much? Why couldn’t she just write Roarke off and come back to herself? She feared the answer that sometimes woke her at night. Feared emotions that, if she accepted them, would only make all this worse.
“You look cold.”
She jolted at the voice close to her and looked up to see Bernadette had joined her on the terrace. She held out Flora’s spencer and she got to her feet as she took it.
“I didn’t even notice the chill,” Flora admitted even though now the breeze cut through her a bit more. “Thank you.”
Bernadette helped her slip the short jacket over her arms and Flora buttoned it while she continued to look out into the distance. She was warm now, but still empty.
“I know I must try to be a better companion during this trip,” she said with a sigh.
“Don’t be silly—you are a lovely companion,” Bernadette said, giving Flora’s waist a little squeeze.
“Well, then I must find some way to shake off these doldrums if only for myself.”
“I know you’re suffering.”
Flora rolled her eyes. “But why? I knew Roarke Desmond for a few weeks. I shared a handful of kisses and one…well, encounter on my settee.” She shivered as she remembered his mouth on her, her body convulsing with pleasure. “I should not be so forlorn like he was a lover for years with promises made and expectations created.”
“Expectations can be created in a night,” Bernadette said with a slight tremor to her voice. “I watched you with the man, I listened to you talk about him. Perhaps the acquaintance was brief, but it meant something to you. Trying to pretend it didn’t won’t help you get over your disappointment. Whatever his motives, yours were pure. Your emotions were real. I hate to see you try to discount them as a way to stop hurting. I can tell you from bitter experience that it doesn’t work.”
Flora bent her head. “Perhaps you’re right. But if I admit that I…I cared for him, oh even saying the words stings.”
“Understandably,” Bernadette said. “Because he lied and broke your trust and made you question yourself.”
“I think what’s worse is that I believe what he told me when I confronted him. I believe that he did truly care about me. That much of what we shared was real, despite his ulterior motives. That the connection we were forming could have been—” Flora broke off.
Bernadette took her hand. “If you have to mourn a future, it’s fine.”
“Hmmm.” Flora stared off into the distance. The woods beyond the main estate grounds were as tangled and cold as her heart at present. “Perhaps I’ll take a walk. I know it’s to rain the next few days, so this will be the last time I can stretch my legs and hopefully clear my mind.”
“A capital idea,” Bernadette agreed. “I’ll go with you.”
Flora turned toward her friend, saw the lingering pity in her stare. Hated it, even as she adored Bernadette for wishing to take care of her.
She gripped Bernadette’s hand and said, “No, dearest. While I appreciate the constant care you and the others have shown to me since we left London, I think the best thing I can do is go for a walk alone and have a stern talk to myself. And I promise when I come back I will laugh and play games and exchange knowing glances with you about Callum and Valaria.”
Bernadette smiled. “If you think it will help, I would never stop you. But do be careful.”
“I will,” Flora promised, and gave her hand a last squeeze before she walked across the large veranda to a short flight of stone steps that led down to the garden below.
She felt Bernadette watching her as she moved through perfectly trimmed, now leafless hedgerows and past covered beds of flowers, ready for their winter slumber. She had revealed too much to her friend…and to herself in their conversation. Now she had to sit with feelings she had been afraid to name.
She had cared for Roarke. And she’d known that feeling could develop into something much more powerful. Much more lasting. She’d known she could love him.
She stumbled a little with that thought. Love him. Let him love her. And she could picture it all in a rush of laughter and art and long conversations about current events. She could picture him pleasing her, touching her, taking her like she’d so desperately wanted him to do on the settee that day. She could picture a little life together. Not desperately exciting, but content and filled with passion.
That was what she’d lost when she realized he’d come to her from a lie. And it hurt. It hurt so much that she wanted to run from it.
There was a low gate in the distance, and beyond it, the wooded peace of the untamed part of Callum’s estate. There was a trail through the brambles and she followed it, stepping over dead sticks and crunching through the fallen leaves. There was a smell of smoke to the air—perhaps someone was burning leaves in another part of the property—but it left a crisp bite that made her breathe a little deeper. Yes, this was what she needed. This type of peace alone here in the woods that helped her shove those painful thoughts aside and not continue to have them torment her.
Except just as that thought calmed her, she noticed there was a man ahead of her on the trail. He was very tall, very broad shouldered, and as she stopped in the middle of the path, she could see he had a hard, cruel expression on his face. He spat off the side of the trail and then smiled at her, though it was not a pleasant expression. Her heart began to pound.
“What are you doing out here, little mouse?” he asked.
She took a step back, and he moved forward the equal distance. “I was walking through the estate of my friend, the Duke of Blackvale. This is his land, sir. I believe you might be trespassing. You’ll have to ask him when he and his party joins me in a few moments.”
She lied, of course. But she hoped she sounded truthful, so this man wouldn’t know she was all alone, without anyone from back in the house likely to hear her if she cried out. She hadn’t gone all that far off the main part of the grounds, but far enough that her voice might not carry and no one would notice her missing for a while.
“Now, now, lying ain’t very ladylike,” he drawled, and now he stepped toward her again. He had a big scar across his eye, like a knife had slashed him at some point. It only added to the terrifying presence of the man.
“I-I’m not lying,” she stammered.
“’Course you are. I know you’re by yourself. This ain’t personal, you know.” He moved closer again and now he withdrew a long blade from a sheath at his hip. “Though I won’t say I won’t enjoy what happens first.”