Susan withdrew a lace handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her tears. She gazed at him with large soulful hazel eyes.
“I would not have called, my lord,” she said, “if I had known that you and her ladyship were also visiting. I would not have intruded. Mama and I merely wished to hear how you did. I am very, very happy that you escaped the fate of my dear husband.”
She dissolved into further tears and was comforted by her mama.
She looked remarkably pretty, Lord Eden thought, even in her mourning. The unrelieved black of her dress made her look more fragile than ever and complemented the auburn of her hair.
But it was not Susan he saw in his mind after she and Mrs. Courtney had taken their leave. He saw Ellen as he had seen her last, also in black, hiding herself in the shadows of her living room in Brussels. She would still be wearing mourning. So would Miss Simpson.
He must call upon them. She had told him, of course, that she never wanted to see him again. But he had promised Charlie. Besides, she had spoken at an emotionally charged moment. Despite everything that had happened between them in those rooms, they were still friends of long standing. He owed her a courtesy visit. He must put it off no longer.
Even so, he had to use all his willpower the next day not to make excuses yet again for staying away from the house on Bedford Square. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he handed his card to Lady Habersham’s butler and asked if he might wait upon Mrs. Simpson and her stepdaughter.
It was strange, he thought as he left the house a few minutes later, having left his card and the message that he would call again the next day. He had rehearsed several scenes that might develop from his call. He had pictured Ellen upset or angry or cold or even glad, and he had dealt with all those possibilities in his mind. But he had not at all prepared himself for finding that she was from home. He had not prepared his mind for perhaps having to go through the same ordeal all over again.
Or perhaps she was at home. Perhaps she would not see him. He would find out the next day, he supposed, when she would be expecting him. He mounted his horse and turned its head toward the stone gateposts and the square beyond.
ELLEN STOOD LOOKING DOWN at him. He was wearing very fashionable civilian clothes. She had never seen him out of his officer’s uniform. Except in those last few weeks, of course.
He looked strange. Different. And very, very familiar.
She wished she could relive the past few minutes. She would not behave in the same way. She had been very foolish, very uncontrolled. But he had taken her by surprise. She had not expected him. And so she had reacted by instinct. And instinct had made a coward of her. She had run from him.
She would not have expected to act that way. In two months she had worked him out of her system. Her grief at her loss of Charlie had outweighed all else in her life. It had been far, far worse than she had expected even in her worst nightmares. It had paralyzed her, taken away all her will to live, to do, and to plan.
She had put Lord Eden out of her mind, out of her heart. And she had forgiven herself for what they had done together. In the absence of anyone to confess her guilt to-in the absence of Charlie-she had forgiven herself. He had been right about that one thing. Neither of them had been ready to face the truth, and so they had turned to each other. They had become lovers briefly.
There had been no love involved, only a physical and emotional need. They had filled the void for each other for a few days.
There was no point in carrying around a burden of guilt with her for the rest of her life. No point at all. And so she forgave herself. And him. She did not hate him. But she did not love him either. She had no feelings for him. He had been Charlie’s friend. That was all.
But she did not want to see him again. She did not want to be reminded either of those days when he had been almost a part of their family or of the days after Waterloo. She did not want to see him again. And she had assumed that honor would make him respect her final refusal to allow him to see her.
She had been taken by surprise. And instead of receiving him downstairs in Dorothy’s presence and conversing politely with him for half an hour, she had run like a frightened rabbit to hide in her room.
Except that her room faced the front of the house and she had been unable to resist the temptation to cross to the window, standing well enough back so that she would not be observed from the outside, in order to see him when he left.
Just like a lovesick schoolgirl!
He looked so very familiar, despite the unfamiliarity of the clothes. Certainly no worse for his ordeal, though she could not, of course, see his face. He looked quite as splendidly built as ever.
Would he come back? She must prepare herself. She must know very clearly how she would react next time. She must certainly not rush away like that again. Dorothy would think she had taken leave of her senses. Or would perhaps suspect the truth. And Jennifer might begin to wonder. It was a good thing she had not been at home this first time.
She must prepare to meet him as an old acquaintance. She must inquire about his health and about the members of his family. She must prepare herself to look him squarely and coolly in the eye.
It should not be difficult. She had known him and been on friendly terms with him for more than three years. There had been only six days of the other. No more.
Of course there was a good deal more. Ellen’s hand was spread below her waist as she watched horse and rider leave the square and disappear from sight.
A great deal more.
Her mind had been in a deep torpor for two months. She had made no plans whatsoever for her future apart from the ones she had made on the boat home. It was as if life had been suspended. And yet all the time-a great irony indeed-life had been developing. New life. Her future.
There was no doubt left in her mind. And there was no panic and no fear either, though perhaps there had been a little of both at the end of the first month. No thought to how she would cope with the reality, how she would explain to other people. To Jennifer and to Dorothy.
She was going to have his child. Lord Eden’s child. There. She had said it in words in her own mind. Charlie and the army surgeon had been right. It had been something to do with him. Not with her. She was able to conceive, and she had conceived at some time during those six days.
She was going to have a child. And she must be taking leave of her senses-she was glad! There was an excitement in her that she had not until this moment admitted to herself.
Here was her future. Something-no, someone-to live for now that there was no longer Charlie. She could wish fiercely that the child were his, but it was not, and it could not have been. And so she could not after all feel as sorry for that affair as she should have felt, for without it she would be without this child growing in her. She would be without a future. No, not that. She did not think she was the sort of person who could ever give up entirely and permanently on life. But without the child she would be starting at the age of five-and-twenty with a blank life ahead. A frightening prospect.
She would have her child to live for. And it did not matter that it was not Charlie’s. It did not matter that it was Lord Eden’s. What did matter was that it was a living being and growing in her, that it would be hers, and that it had been conceived at a time when her love for Charlie had been too great for her mind to be willing to let him go. And at a time when she had felt a great tenderness for its father.
For the child had not been conceived out of lust. She had been wrong to say that. There had been a closeness, a tenderness. Nothing that would last. Nothing that could be called love. But not just lust, for all that. Nothing ugly. Nothing sordid, despite what she had said to him at the time.