“I suppose it’s the least reprehensible option,” Lilah said.
“It could be worse.” A look of sadness crossed Thea’s expression, then she smiled. “Sir Thomas is not a bad man. He loves you, and your fortune is guaranteed to enhance that love.”
“Except I have no fortune.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve invested it,” Lilah said. “Though, according to Dexter, I’ve as good as given it away.”
“Good heavens!” Thea cried. “Does Sir Thomas know?”
“He’s said he’s not marrying me for my money.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Thea said. “It’s easy for a man to declare he has no need for something when he doesn’t expect to be deprived of it. You must tell him, Delilah. It’s only fair.”
“I promised Dexter I’d tell him,” Lilah said, “and I will.”
“Tell him before tomorrow. He has a right to know that your fortune is no longer at his disposal.”
“You think a marriage should be founded on funds?”
“At the very least, Delilah, it should be founded on honesty,” Thea said. “You, of all people, should understand the consequences of deception.”
Thea was right. Lilah’s dishonesty had driven away the man she loved.
The man I love…
“Delilah? Are you all right? You’ve gone dreadfully pale.”
“I’m well, Thea, but perhaps I’ve been standing too long.”
“Let me fetch you some water.”
“No, I’ll be better once I’m out of this gown,” Lilah replied. “Would you send Sarah to help me?”
“Of course.” Thea dropped a kiss on her shoulder and withdrew from the room.
Lilah drew in a breath. The bridal gown restricted her movements, tightening against her chest, holding her captive.
Instead of this choice, she could still retire to the country, then return once the child was born under the guise of a widow. If she stayed away for long enough, a year or two, society might believe it.
But no—she couldn’t do that to Sir Thomas on the day before their wedding. It would be cruel to hurt his feelings when he’d professed to love her.
After Sarah had helped her into a day gown, Lilah slipped downstairs. Voices came from the morning room, and as she pushed open the door, Sir Thomas stood by the window, Dorothea next to him.
He rushed toward Lilah and took her hand, his grip a little too tight.
“My beautiful bride-to-be.” He bent his head to kiss her, and she turned away. A flash of annoyance crossed his expression, then he patted her hand and smiled like an indulgent parent. “There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow,” he said, “when we can start a new life together. And I promise, upon my heart, that I will never let you down.”
Thea shot Lilah a pointed look and raised her eyebrows.
Tell him, she mouthed.
“Dorothea, would you excuse us for a moment?” she asked. “I have something I need to speak to Sir Thomas about.”
“Of course.”
After her sister had left, Lilah took Sir Thomas’s hand. His smile broadened, and he squeezed her hand affectionately.
“What is it, my love?”
“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Dearest, Delilah, nothing you do could ever disappoint me, and nothing will prevent you from becoming mine tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Fraser climbed out of the carriage outside Clayton House and hunched his shoulders against the wind. A light dusting of snow covered the streets of London, which were deserted. The weather had driven the people indoors.
How London was considered the center of the world when they couldn’t stomach a little cold was beyond him. At Glendarron, blizzards clutched the landscape with icy hands for weeks at this time of year, but they never conquered the spirit of the people.
The butler opened the door, and Fraser stepped inside. Clayton House was unrecognizable from when he’d first seen it so many months ago. The garden, once overrun with weeds, was neatly trimmed, the ornate plants replaced with simple shrubs. The interior replicated Glendarron—soft oak paneling had replaced the cold marble of his predecessor, and antlers adorned the walls, together with tapestries depicting the highlands.
“Mind how you go!”
The butler barked orders as two footmen lifted Fraser’s trunk from the carriage, then he bowed to Fraser.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
“Thank you—Baldwin, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, sir,” the butler replied. “Will you require tea?”
“No, thank you, Baldwin. After being cooped up in that carriage, I’m in need of a walk.”
“In this weather?”
“There’s nothing better than a crisp, cold afternoon for a constitutional.”
“Very good, sir.” Baldwin issued a stiff bow and shuffled off, his body vibrating with the stiff disapproval thinly disguised beneath the stoic exterior of an upper servant.
Fraser could almost hear the man’s joints creaking as he crossed the floor. From where had his agent excavated that old fossil?
Miss Hart would have said something about him having blocks of ice in his breeches.
His mouth creased into an involuntary smile at the thought of her laughter and delightful wickedness, before the memories of their last encounter doused his pleasure.
She was no longer Miss Hart. She was Lady Tipton and had been for two months. Was she, even now, residing in some dreary little mansion somewhere, servicing the needs of that little fop, and looking forward to the prospect of having ten of his brats tugging at her skirts?
He thrust his hands into his pockets and strode along the drive. The servants continued to unload his belongings. By the time he returned, a fire would be crackling in the drawing room, and he could indulge in his whisky without the need to pander to society.
Without anyone to contradict his every word and fight him at every turn.
Without the passion and release his body had been craving these past months.
Damn it—would he never be free of her? A piece of her even resided in Clayton House. Mo Chridhe, a volume of poems, had already taken permanent residence in the library.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” a voice cried out.
He jumped back as a hackney carriage thundered past with the crack of a whip and rattled into the distance. He lifted his hand in a gesture of appeasement, then set off in the opposite direction.
By the time he reached the familiar street, the light had already begun to fade. The low winter sun cast its rays over the buildings, giving them the soft purple hue, which often signaled the onset of snow.
Most of the houses on the terrace were occupied. Lights flickered in the windows, and silhouettes moved about. The occasional pale face looked out from the top floors—servants taking a glimpse of the world outside before being summoned to service the shivering creatures who employed them.
None of the houses held any interest for him, save one. Three houses from the end of the street, its dark windows gave it the forlorn appearance of an abandoned orphan. The last time he’d seen the building, it vibrated with life and passion—the anger of a matriarch, the despair of a young woman, and the triumph of a rival.