“If her events are so awful, why go?” Phoebe asked reasonably. It was the first morning she’d felt well enough to come down to breakfast. Her right arm was bound tight to her chest, and she used her left a little awkwardly to eat.
“My dear gel,” Cousin Bathilda said severely, “Mrs. Vaughan is sister to the Duchess of Chadsworth, who is mother to the future Duke of Chadsworth, a very fine catch indeed. It would not do to insult her.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Well, Hero is already engaged and I think the future Duke of Chadsworth is mentally deficient. And he has no chin.” She popped a bite of roll into her mouth.
“Hero, explain to your sister the importance of remaining in the good graces of duchesses, irrespective of whether their sons have chins or not,” Cousin Bathilda commanded.
Hero opened her mouth to say something vague. Her mind wasn’t really on the conversation. All she could think about was the appointment she intended to make immediately following breakfast.
Fortunately, Cousin Bathilda hadn’t really wanted someone else speaking for her. “No matter one’s own rank, one should never irritate the sister of a duchess. It’s simply bad form.”
“I think it’s bad form for her to hold boring musicales,” Phoebe said pertly.
“You are but a child,” Cousin Bathilda pronounced. “You’ll understand better when you come of age, won’t she, Hero?”
“Um…” Hero looked at the older woman blankly for a moment as her mind caught up with the breakfast-table conversation. “I suppose so.”
Cousin Bathilda was feeding Mignon a bit of bacon and wasn’t paying much attention to her, but Phoebe looked at her curiously, squinting a bit through her spectacles. “Are you feeling quite the thing?”
“Oh, yes.” Hero took a sip of her tea and found it had gone cold. “Why?”
Phoebe shrugged. “You seem distracted.”
“Wedding nerves,” Cousin Bathilda said. “I’ve seen it before. A gel gets all fuzzy-minded the closer the date comes. Soon she’ll not make a lick of sense at all.”
“You make getting married sound like a debilitating disease,” Phoebe laughed.
“For some it is,” Cousin Bathilda said darkly. “Now finish up your breakfast. Maximus said he’ll be calling on you this morning.”
Bathilda gave Hero a significant glance, and Hero realized that Maximus must be coming to tell Phoebe the bad news about her season—or lack thereof.
On that ominous note, Hero excused herself and called for a carriage to be brought round. She couldn’t bear to sit at the table any longer, listening to Cousin Bathilda talk about her marriage, and she was worried about Phoebe. Poor Cousin Bathilda was going to be so upset when she heard what Hero was about to do.
The thought wasn’t pleasant, and it brought with it the realization of all the other people she was about to disappoint. Dear Lord, her family might never forgive her. But her plan was the right thing to do, even if it was not the easiest, so she held her head high as she stepped down from the carriage outside Mandeville House.
The hour was unfashionably—indeed scandalously—early, and she hadn’t brought a chaperone. The butler lifted his eyebrow faintly when she requested to see Mandeville, but he showed her into the sitting room readily enough. Hero paced to the mantel and stared sightlessly at some Mandeville ancestor’s portrait. What she planned to do would infuriate Maximus, nullify their bargain, and put Griffin in danger. After talking to Thomas, she would have to go to Maximus and throw herself on his mercy. Perhaps if she promised to—
Thomas opened the door.
He crossed to her immediately, his handsome features worried. “What is it, my dear? Has something happened?”
Now that he was before her, tall and imposing, Hero found she had trouble putting together the words. “I…” She cleared her throat and looked about the room. A group of chairs sat together in one corner. “I need to talk to you. Will you be seated?”
He blinked and she fought down nervous laughter. No doubt he was rarely if ever told to take a seat in his own home—or anywhere else for that matter. He was a marquess. What she was about to do suddenly made her quail. Before she could change her mind, she hurried to the chairs and sat down. Mandeville followed more slowly, frowning now.
Hero waited until he sat across from her and then just said it. “I cannot marry you.”
He shook his head, his expression clearing. “My dear, such bridal nerves are common, even for a woman as level-headed as you. Don’t worry that—”
“No,” she said, causing him to abruptly close his mouth. “I’m not suffering from nerves or… or any kind of womanly hysteria. I simply cannot marry you.”
She bit her lip as he stared at her.
“I am sorry,” she offered belatedly, conscious that she was making a hash of this.
He stiffened at her apology, possibly realizing for the first time that she was serious. “Perhaps if you explain to me the problem, I can help.”
Oh, Lord, if only he weren’t so reasonable!
She looked down at her hands. “I’ve simply come to the understanding that… that we won’t do together.”
“Is it something I’ve done?”
“No!” She looked up quickly, leaning forward earnestly. “You’re everything a lady could hope for in a husband. This has nothing to do with you. It’s me, I’m afraid. I just can’t marry you.”
He shook his head. “The marriage contracts have been drawn up and our engagement announced. It’s too late to change your mind, my dear. You protest otherwise, but I believe this is simply a case of bridal anxiety. Perhaps if you go home and rest, spend the day abed with some tea. I do feel—”
“I’m not a virgin any longer, Thomas.”
His head reared back as if she’d struck him. “My dear…”
“I can’t with good conscience marry you,” she said softly. “It would not be fair to you.”
For a moment he simply stared at her, and she thought he’d realized that this was final.
Then he spoke.
“I cannot pretend joy at this news,” he began ponderously. “But it isn’t as earth-shattering as all that. I will, of course, want to wait long enough to make sure any offspring is mine, but—”
Dear God, but she wanted to scream! “I lay with your brother, Thomas.”