At least not until she made it to her bedchamber.
“Explain why I lied to you,” he said in a rough whisper.
She closed her eyes. There it was. His admission. Whatever hope she’d held out that this was all somehow a crazy mistake and perhaps he just looked like the Earl of Kendall was dashed to bits.
“Does it matter? Does it really matter?” She felt her nostrils flare with each word. Her emotions were riding a runaway horse, a mixture of anger and sadness and jealousy and a host of other things she didn’t even want to think about. She had to get away from him quickly or he would see her tears and so would the bevy of young women congregating at the foyer’s entrance. Two more had joined the first two and they were jockeying for position to get a better view of the show.
Lucas reached for her and kept his voice low. “It may not matter to you. But it does to me. Please, Frances, let me explain everything. It’s not what you think.”
That was it. Her head snapped to the side as if he’d slapped her. He might as well have, the insult was just as brutal. “How could you possibly know what I think?” She swallowed the painful lump in her throat and forced herself to keep her gaze trained on him. Tears or no, she wanted him to see her face when she said, “Don’t you ever speak to me again, Lucas.” She paused for a moment, swallowing again. “Wait. Is that even your name? Lucas?”
He lifted his chin. His voice was hoarse, his face had lost its color. “Yes, it’s my Christian name.”
She put one hand on her hip. Anger spreading through her veins like poison. “Is that the only thing you didn’t lie about?”
“Nearly.” He lowered his gaze to the polished marble floor.
She took a deep breath, still fighting like hell to keep the unwanted tears at bay. Just one minute longer. Just one minute more. Then she could leave his presence and never see him again. “I only want to know one thing.” She clenched her jaw so tightly it ached. “Why?” she breathed. “Why in the world would you dress up like a footman and pretend to be a servant? It makes no sense at all.”
He raised his gaze to hers. It was filled with something akin to regret, but at the moment she couldn’t even acknowledge it. “I fear my explanation would make even less sense,” he began. “You see, I made a bet with my friends and—”
The wind was knocked from her chest. Pain wrenched her insides. She clenched her fists and turned her head away from him, clenched her eyes shut. “Stop. Just stop. A bet? That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.” She forced herself to reopen her eyes, but refused to look at him. Instead she kept her gaze focused on the bannister this time. “You played with my life, my emotions over something as crass as a bet?” She practically spit the last word.
His voice remained low, obviously to keep the ladies from overhearing. “That’s not how it started, Frances. You’ve got to believe me. I—”
Still refusing to look at him, she faced the top of the staircase and lifted her skirts. “Go,” she demanded. “Just go. It makes me ill to look at you. I never want to see your face again.”
It took all her strength to climb that staircase without running, but she did it. She didn’t know how she did it and she had no earthly idea how long it took, but by God, she never once looked back.
By the time she made it to the end of the corridor and her bedchamber, she was a quivering mess. She opened her door, stepped inside, shut it behind her, leaned back against it, and slid all the way to the floor in a crumpled heap. Sobs racked her body and she cried until she had no more tears.
Albina came tiptoeing into Frances’s room from the adjoining bedchamber. “Are you all right, Miss?”
“I’m fine, Albina,” Frances said, grasping the door handle and forcing herself to stand. The last thing she needed was that tell-all Albina running off to inform her mother that she was laying on the floor crying. “I’m just going to lie down for a bit.”
“Yes, Miss,” Albina said before tiptoeing back out.
Frances walked to her bed on wooden legs. She’d no idea how much time had passed. It could have been moments, it could have been minutes. She pulled herself atop the mattress, and sat on its edge, staring numbly at her sodden handkerchief.
How? How could Lucas, the footman, the man she’d met the first day—no, nearly the first moment she’d stepped foot on this property—be the Earl of Kendall? How could he be the man she’d detested since learning last year that he was the sponsor of the Employment Bill? How was that possible? And more importantly, how had she managed to not know it? She’d always thought of herself as reasonably intelligent, but somehow, she’d failed to see what was happening. She was an utter fool.
No. That was not true. She was perfectly intelligent. The man had lied to her. He’d deliberately deceived her. Any normal person might have been duped if they’d been placed in her position. But why? Why had he lied? And why to her? Had he singled her out? The other young ladies at the party obviously knew who he was. Why had he chosen her to deceive?
The questions just kept coming, one after another rolled through her mind like waves upon the seashore. Why would an earl pretend to be a footman? What good did it do? What purpose did it serve? He’d mentioned a bet with his friends. That implied it had been a jest. A lark. She swallowed yet another painful lump in her throat. Had she just had her heart smashed into a thousand little pieces by a group of noblemen trying to outfox each other for a few lousy coins? Dear God, Kendall was even more of a bastard than she’d guessed. He could rot in hell as far as she was concerned.
Anger at herself seeped into her thoughts next. She’d been far too emotional downstairs. She should have told him she didn’t give a whit who he was and given him a piece of her mind about the Employment Bill. She’d told him she never wanted to see him again. She wouldn’t have another chance to tell Lord Kendall precisely what she thought of his abominable bill. In addition to having her heart broken, she’d missed her only opportunity to rail at the bastard. She ripped at her handkerchief with both hands. Life was so unfair.
Then the conversations they’d had in the library came back to haunt her, one-by-one. Oh, God! The things she’d said to him about the ton, about nobility, about gentlemen of the Quality. And all the while he’d smiled and nodded and pretended as if he agreed. He was a liar and a fake! The lowest of scoundrels.
What sort of man did something like this? What sort of man took advantage of a young lady the way he had? Why, she should have Papa call him out. Lord Kendall deserved no less. She quickly discarded that notion. She didn’t want Papa to die. Besides, she’d had a part to play in this turmoil, too. She’d never had any business meeting with a footman in the library each day. She would accept that much of the blame. But she wasn’t the one who’d lied about her identity. He was.
Dear heavens. He must have been laughing at her the entire time. And their kisses. Their kisses! Were they even real? Or had he merely been pretending to want her in order to win his silly bet? Good God. He’d touched her, he’d kissed her, he’d— No. She couldn’t think about that. If she did, she’d go mad. She had to pretend that had never happened or she couldn’t stand it. Not today. Perhaps not ever.