Just before the door shut, Christine placed her hand at the back of Dunford's head, pulling his lips down to hers. Henry's fists clenched. The door shut before she could see just how deeply they kissed.
She looked down at her hands. Her fingernails had drawn blood on her palms.
"It wasn't his fault," she muttered under her breath. "He didn't initiate the kiss. It wasn't his fault."
"Did you say something?" the driver called.
"No!"
He sat back, obviously deciding all his theories about the general dim-wittedness of women had been confirmed.
Henry tapped her hand nervously against her seat. How long would it take him to tell Christine she had to find a new protector? Fifteen minutes? A half hour? Surely not longer than that. Forty-five minutes, perhaps, just to be generous, in case he had to make monetary arrangements with her. Henry didn't particularly care how much gold he gave her, just as long as he got rid of her. For good.
Taking deep breaths to try to control the tension racing through her, Henry perched the clock on her lap. She stared at it until she saw double, until her eyes watered. She watched the minute hand sweep down to the three and then told herself sternly that she had been far too optimistic; he couldn't possibly conduct his business in only fifteen minutes.
She watched as the minute hand fell ever lower, resting at the six. She swallowed uncomfortably, telling herself that since her fiance was such a nice man, he'd want to break the news to his mistress gently. That must be what was taking so long.
Another fifteen minutes passed, and she choked back a sob. Even the kindest of men could have gotten rid of a mistress in forty-five minutes.
Somewhere in the distance a clock struck one.
Then it struck two.
And then, unbelievably, three chimes were heard.
Henry finally gave in to her despair, poked the sleeping driver in the back, and said, "Grosvenor Square, please."
He nodded, and they were off.
She stared straight ahead the entire way home, her eyes glazing over with utter emptiness. There could be only one reason why a man spent so long with his mistress. He hadn't emerged even after three hours. She thought back to their few stolen moments in her bedroom at Westonbirt. He certainly hadn't been with her for three hours.
After all this, all these lessons in how to behave with poise and propriety and feminine grace, she still wasn't woman enough to keep his interest. She could never be more than what she was. She'd been insane to think she could even try.
At Henry's instruction, the hack pulled up a few houses away from the Blydon mansion. She gave the driver more coins than was necessary and walked blindly home. She slipped noiselessly inside and up to her room, where she peeled off her clothes, kicked them under the bed, and pulled on a nightgown. The first one she grabbed was the one she'd worn when she and Dunford had...No, she couldn't wear that again. It seemed sullied somehow. She balled it up and threw it into the fireplace, grabbing another.
Her room was warm, but she was shivering as she crawled beneath the sheets.
Dunford finally staggered down Christine's front steps at half past four in the morning. He had always thought of her as a reasonable woman; he supposed that was why he'd been with her for so long. But tonight he'd almost had to revise his opinion. First she'd cried, and he'd never been the sort of man who could walk out on a woman when she was crying.
Then she'd offered him a drink, and when he'd finished that, she'd offered him several more. He'd refused, smiling mockingly at her and saying that although she was an exceptionally lovely woman, alcohol didn't tend to seduce him when he didn't want to be seduced.
Then she'd started to express her worries. She had tucked away some money, but what if she couldn't find another protector? Dunford had told her about the Earl of Billington and then spent the next hour assuring her he would forward some funds and that she could remain in the house until the lease expired.
Finally she'd just sighed, accepting her fate. He'd prepared to leave, but she had put her hand on his arm and asked him if he'd like a cup of tea. They had been friends as well as lovers, she had said. She didn't have many friends, her line of work didn't encourage it. Tea and conversation were all she wanted. Just someone to talk to.
Dunford had looked into her black eyes. She had been telling the truth. If there was one thing you could say for Christine, she was honest. And so, since he'd always liked her, he stayed and talked. They gossiped; they talked politics. She told him about her brother in the army, and he told her about Henry. She didn't seem the least bit bitter about his betrothed; in fact, she'd smiled when he told her about the pigpen incident and told him she was happy for him. Finally he'd dropped a light, brotherly kiss on her lips. "You'll be happy with Billington," he'd told her. "He's a good man."
Her lips curved into a small, sad smile. "If you say so, then it must be true."
He looked at his pocket watch when he reached his carriage and swore. He hadn't meant to stay so late. He was going to be tired the next day. Ah well, he supposed he could sleep in past noon if he was so inclined. He didn't have any plans before his daily afternoon jaunt with Henry.
Henry.
Just the thought of her made him smile.
When Henry woke the next morning, her pillowcase was soaked through with tears. She stared at it uncomprehendingly. She hadn't cried herself to sleep the night before; in fact, she'd felt strangely hollow and dry. She had never heard of sorrow so great that one actually cried while asleep.
Still, she couldn't imagine a sorrow greater than hers.
She couldn't marry him. That was the only clear thought in her head. She knew most marriages were not based upon love, but how could she commit herself to a man who was so dishonest he could profess his love for her and then make love to his mistress only two weeks before their wedding?