Diane Gaston - Bound By Their Secret Passion

They would not be entirely wrong. He’d certainly been the catalyst for it.

She rose from the sofa and began to pace. Dell stood, as well.

‘I wonder...should I have stayed with him?’ Her voice rose, but fell again. ‘I do not know what is expected of me.’

‘What do you wish to do?’ he asked. ‘If you wish to be with him, do not let my presence stop you.’

She glanced at him with pained eyes, but looked away and paced to the marble mantelpiece, intricately carved with leaves and flowers.

It was agony to see her so distressed. He ought to comfort her somehow, ease her pain, but how could he do so?

When he’d caused it.

‘I am sorry this happened, Lorene,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am.’

She glanced at him again with those eyes so filled with torment. ‘Sorry? You are sorry?’

He stepped closer to her and wanted to reach out to her, but did not dare.

Death arrived when least expected.

Tinmore’s death had been quick, but death had not been as kind to Dell’s family. His father, mother, brother and sister, as well as several servants, perished in a fire in their London town house in April of 1815. Think of the terror and pain of such a death.

He shook himself. If he thought of that, he would descend into depression and this time not come out. ‘I never anticipated this would happen,’ he forced himself to say.

She leaned her forehead against the white marble. ‘Nor did I,’ she whispered. ‘I never dreamed he would think—’

That they were lovers? Who could think such a thing? He had been nothing but polite to her.

With a cry of pain she flung herself on to the sofa again and buried her head in her hands.

He sat next to her, his arm around her. ‘I know what it is to grieve,’ he said. ‘Cry all you wish.’

She turned to him, her voice shrill. ‘Grieve? Grieve? How little you understand! I am the most wretched of creatures! I do not feel grief! I feel relief.’

She collapsed against his chest and he held her close, murmuring words of comfort.

The door opened and she pulled away from him, wiping her eyes with her fingers.

‘Your tea and brandy, ma’am,’ a footman announced in a tone of disapproval.

‘Put it on the table,’ she managed in a cracked voice. ‘And please tell Mrs Boon to make a room ready for Lord Penford.’

The footman put the tray on the table next to the sofa and bowed, leaving without another word.

‘Brandy?’ she offered, lifting the carafe with a shaking hand.

He took it from her. ‘I’ll pour. Perhaps you would like some brandy, as well. To steady yourself.’

She nodded and another tear rolled down her lovely cheek.

He handed her the glass and she downed the liquid quickly, handing it back to him for more. He poured another for her and one for himself, which he was tempted to gulp down as she had done.

He sipped it instead.

She blinked away more tears and took a deep breath. ‘You must think me a dreadful person.’

‘Not at all.’ The dreadful person had been her husband. ‘Perhaps you have endured more than you allow others to know.’

She shook her head and took another big sip. ‘He—he was not so awful a husband, really. He merely liked for people to do as he desired. All the time.’

Tinmore had been autocratic, neglectful and, at times, extremely cruel, from Dell’s observation, no more so than this day when he sought to deprive her of her family on Christmas Day. His accusation that they were lovers was unjust and unfair. Tinmore should have known his wife was much too honourable to be unfaithful.

She swallowed the rest of the brandy in her glass. ‘So it is terrible of me to feel relief, is it not?’ Her chin trembled and tears filled her eyes again.

Dell felt as helpless as when he’d watched Tinmore tumble down the steps. ‘You are merely numb. It is not unusual to feel numb after such a tragedy.’ Dell had felt numb when he’d been told the news about his family. It took time for the wrenching grief to consume him.

He finished his brandy and poured another for himself, offering her a third glass.

She refused. ‘Perhaps I should go to him. Perhaps that is what is expected of me.’

He hated for her to leave. Not because he needed her company, but because he felt she needed him in this house with no allies. But, thanks to Tinmore, the false rumour of them being lovers had been heard by the servants and one footman had witnessed what must have seemed like an embrace between them. He must distance himself from her.

For her sake.

And his.

* * *

Lorene rose from the sofa and reached for Dell’s hand. She held it between her own. ‘I will go to him now. Thank you for sitting with me.’

He covered her hands with his. ‘You mustn’t thank me. But do not concern yourself with me. Take care of yourself.’

His hands were warm and strong and she relished the feel of them against her skin. And instantly felt guilty for even noticing.

She pulled away. ‘Someone should come to show you to your room. At least I hope they do...’ Tinmore’s servants were so loyal to him. But not to her. Never to her.

He looked at her with such an expression of sympathy it almost hurt. ‘I will see you in the morning. You must get some rest.’

The day would not be easy, would it? A magistrate. The coroner. Things she must do but, what? She could not think. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight then.’ She curtsied.

He bowed.

She turned and fled from the room.

Lorene forced herself to make her way to Lord Tinmore’s rooms on the same hallway as her own, but thankfully not too close. She knocked before opening his bedchamber door.

Wicky was seated in a chair next to the bed. The bed curtains blocked a view of the bed. She was glad. She had a sudden horror of seeing the body again.

‘How are you faring, Wicky?’ she asked from the doorway.

He turned his head slowly to face her. ‘I would like to stay here if I may, my lady.’

Her heart went out to the old man. Wicky had loved her husband. Wicky, Dixon and Mr Filkins were especially devoted to Tinmore. Goodness. They’d served him for decades.

‘Of course you may stay,’ she said, backing out of the room and shutting the door.

She walked down the hall to her own bedchamber where her lady’s maid, grim-faced, helped her prepare for bed, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary. Finally the woman left and Lorene burrowed under the bedcovers.

Her heart pounded rapidly as if she’d run a great distance and she realised she’d felt that way since seeing Tinmore at the bottom of the steps. How could she calm herself? She tried to sort through the emotions twisting inside her. Uncertainty about the following day. Would there be trouble with the magistrate or the coroner? Would they question what Dell told them? Would they believe she and Dell had been lovers?

Why had Tinmore thought such a thing? Her infatuation with Dell had always been her private delight. She’d never talked about Dell. She’d always schooled her features when around him. Tinmore could not have guessed. No one could.

Tinmore had never cared a fig when she was thrown into Dell’s company. At social events Tinmore always left her as soon as it was expedient. He’d never shown any interest in whose company she kept while he played cards or conversed with his cronies. He’d shown little interest in Dell, a mere earl, much preferring Dell’s friend, her sister Genna’s husband, the Marquess of Rossdale, a duke’s heir. Or the Duke himself. What had worked its way into Tinmore’s mind for him to make that outrageous accusation?

When Tinmore told her to go to her room, she’d known that would not be the end of it. At least now she didn’t have to listen to him rail at her.