Louise Allen - The Regency Season - Shameful Secrets - From Ruin to Riches / Scandal's Virgin

You are in love. And you’ve thrown your cap over the windmill with a vengeance, the inner voice that was presumably her conscience informed her. Yes, but that does not mean I have to be a useless ninny, she argued back. I must think how to be of help.

The jolting, high-speed ride across country had been straightforward enough once Jonathan had explained why they were not going directly north to Gloucester and the road to the Border. Cutting north-east to Oxford and then going north would confuse pursuit and the road, once they got there, was better. They had turned on to the Maidenhead-Oxford turnpike about ten miles back, but apparently Oxford inns were wildly expensive, so this one, out of town, was the prudent option for their first night.

She would look after the money now, budget carefully, save Jonathan the worry of sorting out the bills, at least. North to the border. To Gretna. How romantic.

The north. That was what was wrong. The wine slopped from her glass staining the sheet like blood. The stage was going to London and it had turned right, the direction they had been heading when they arrived here.

‘Jonathan.’

‘Yes?’ He looked up. Those long-lashed blue eyes that always made her heart flutter were as unreadable as ever.

‘Why were we driving south for ten miles before we got here?’

His expression hardened. ‘Because that’s the way to London.’ He put down the glass and stood up. ‘Come back to bed.’

‘But we are not going to London. We are going to Gretna, to be married.’ She drew two painful breaths as he did not reply and the truth dawned. ‘We were never going to Scotland, were we?’

Jonathan shrugged, but did not trouble himself with denials. ‘You wouldn’t have come if you’d known otherwise, would you?’

How could the world change in one beat of the heart? She thought she had been chilled before, but it was nothing to this. It was impossible to misunderstand him. ‘You do not love me and you do not intend to marry me.’ There was nothing wrong with her thought processes now.

‘Correct.’ He smiled, his lovely slow, sleepy smile. ‘You were such a nuisance to your relatives, clinging on, insisting on staying.’

‘But the Grange is my home!’

‘Was your home,’ he corrected. ‘Since your father died it belongs to your cousin. You’re an expense and no one’s fool enough to marry a managing, gawky, blue-stocking female like you with no dowry. So...’

‘So Arthur thought a scandalous elopement with Jane’s black sheep of a third cousin would take me off his hands for good.’ Yes, it was very clear now. And I have slept with you.

‘Exactly. I always thought you intelligent, Julia. You were just a trifle slow on the uptake this time.’

How could he look the same, sound the same, and yet be so utterly different from the man she had thought she loved? ‘And they made you seem a misunderstood outcast so that I felt nothing but sympathy for you.’ The scheme was as plain as if it was plotted out on paper in front of her. ‘I would never have credited Arthur with so much cunning.’ The chill congealed into ice, deep in her stomach. ‘And just what do you intend to do now?’

‘With you, my love?’ Yes, there it was, now she knew to look for it: just a glimpse of the wolf looking out from those blue eyes. Cruel, amused. ‘You can come with me, I’ve no objection. You’re not much good in bed, but I suppose I could teach you some tricks.’

‘Become your mistress?’ Over my dead body.

‘For a month or two if you’re good. We’re going to London—you’ll soon find something, or someone, there. Now come back to bed and show me you’re worth keeping.’ Jonathan stood up, reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet.

‘No!’ Julia dragged back. His fingers cut into her wrist, she could feel the thin bones bending.

‘You’re a slut now,’ he said, ‘so stop protesting. Come and make the best of it. You never know, you might learn to enjoy it.’

‘I said no.’ He was a liar, a deceiver, but surely he would not be violent?

It seemed she was wrong about that, too. ‘You do what I say.’ The pain in her wrist was sickening as she resisted.

Her feet skidded on the old polished boards, the hearth rug rucked up and she stumbled, off balance. There was an agonising jolt in her arm as she fell, then Jonathan’s grip opened and she was free. Sobbing with pain and fear and anger Julia landed with a crash in the grate. The fire irons clattered around her, striking elbow and hand in a landslide of hard little blows.

‘Get up, you clumsy bitch.’ Jonathan reached out to seize her, caught her hair, twisted and pulled. It was impossible to roll away. Julia hit out wildly to slap at him and connected with a blow that jarred her arm back. With a gasp Jonathan released her. Get up, run... She rolled free, hit the foot of the bed, dragged herself up on to shaking legs.

Silence. Jonathan sprawled across the hearth, his head in a crimson pool. Her hand was wet. Julia looked down at her fingers, rigid around the poker. Blood stained her hand, dripped from the iron.

Blood. So much blood. She dropped the poker and it rolled to come to rest against his bare foot. Not my dead body—his. Oh, God, what have I done?

Chapter Two

Midsummer’s Eve, 1814— King’s Acre Estate, Oxfordshire

The nightingale stopped her. How long had she been running? Four days...five? She had lost count... Her feet took her up the curve of the ornamental bridge, beyond pain now, the blisters just part of the general misery, and, as she reached the top the liquid beauty poured itself into the moonlight.

Peace. No people, no noise, no fear of pursuit. Simply the moon on the still water of the lake, the dark masses of woodland, the little brown bird creating magic on the warm night air.

Julia pulled off her bonnet and turned slowly around. Where was she now? How far had she come? Too late now to regret not staying to face the music, to try to explain that it had been an accident, self-defence.

How had she escaped? She still wasn’t sure. She remembered screaming, screaming as she backed away from the horror at her feet. When people burst into the room she’d retreated behind the screen to hide her near-nudity, hide from the blood. They didn’t seem to notice her as they gathered round the body.

And there behind the screen were her clothes and water. She had washed her hands and dressed so that when she stepped out to face them she would be decent. Somehow, that had seemed important. She’d had no idea of trying to run away from what she had done so unwittingly.

Jonathan’s pocketbook lay on top of his coat. It must have been blind instinct that made her stuff it into her reticule. Then, when she had made herself come out and face the inevitable, the room was packed and people were jostling in the doorway trying to see inside.

No one paid any regard to the young woman in the plain grey cloak and straw bonnet. Had anyone even glimpsed her when they burst in? Perhaps she had reached the screen before the door opened. Now she must have appeared to be just another onlooker, a guest attracted by the noise, white-faced and trembling because of what she had seen.

The instinct to flee, the cunning of the hunted animal, sent her down the back stairs, into the yard to hide amidst the sacks loaded on a farm cart. As dawn broke she had slipped unseen from the back of it into the midst of utterly unfamiliar countryside. And it felt as though she had been walking and hiding and stealing rides ever since.

If she could just sit for a while and absorb this peace, this blissful lack of people to lie to, to hide from. If she could just forget the fear for a few moments until she found a little strength to carry on.