So there was no chance of an ongoing affair with her. Perhaps it was just as well, however. He doubted she knew the unwritten rules of dalliance. Its inevitable ending might be messy. And to be quite honest with himself, he was not sure he could treat an affair with her as lightly as he did with other women. He was not sure what he meant by that, and he was certainly not going to puzzle over it at this precise moment.

She drew a deep breath and let it out on a low, self-satisfied sigh. Her hand came over his about her waist.

“Daylight,” she muttered a few moments later. She did not sound too pleased.

“It is an abomination, is it not?” he agreed.

She turned to lie on her back the better to look at him. “How are you going to get home?” she asked.

“Ah, we are looking ahead to the day, are we?” he said. “I have no idea, but I very much doubt I will be stranded here for the rest of my natural-born days, attractive as the prospect might be if I could have a fellow strandee of my own choosing. That is unlikely, however. I took a stroll out into the yard yesterday while waiting for a certain lady to get ready to go dancing. The coachman of that dreadful hired vehicle was confident that it would be ready to proceed by the middle of this morning. You will be home before nightfall.”

“Provided a couple of wheels do not fall off,” she said.

“Do you look forward to being at home?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, and looked unutterably bleak.

“And who is awaiting you there?” he asked.

“No one,” she said. “Only peace and quiet. I left behind all my family in Bath—except my son, who recently returned to the Peninsula to rejoin his regiment. I left behind my daughters and my son-in-law and grandchildren. I left my mother and my brother and his wife. I left all the Westcotts, who came for the christening of my newest grandchild. I had to get away.”

Had to?

“Too much family?” he asked. “I know the feeling.”

“It sounds so very ungrateful put that way,” she said. “I love my children and grandchildren dearly, and everyone else too. The Westcotts in particular have been unwaveringly supportive and kind since the discovery that I am not really one of them after all. But . . . I had to get away.”

“In a hired carriage,” he said. “Did no one offer a private one for your use? And servants to accompany you?” They sounded like a grim lot, her family.

“I had my own carriage with me,” she explained. “I left it for Abigail, my younger daughter. She lives with me at Hinsford. I was offered the loan of several others. I believe I even hurt a few feelings by refusing, but . . . I had to get away.”

He was beginning to understand yesterday afternoon a little better. And last night. It sounded to him as though, surrounded by her loving, concerned family, she had cracked.

He knew all about that—cracking, that was.

“Are you looking forward to going home?” she asked.

“It is full of . . . people,” he said. “Family. All of whom need to be sorted out and put in their place. By me. I have a severe aversion to being forced to exert myself in domestic matters.”

“It is all quite sufficient to make one want to run away and hide, is it not?” she said with a smile.

Ah, that smile. So rare with her.

“It is indeed,” he agreed.

He kissed her and wondered if they could or should have sex again. How many times would that make? Five? Six?

Did it matter? The night was all but over, and there would be no other. Not with her, anyway. There was something melancholy in the thought, though melancholia was not something he was in the habit of indulging.

They made love again.

Six

Viola was seated in the dining room again, eating breakfast. The carriage was indeed ready to resume the journey. She would be home well before nightfall, barring any further accident. One of her eggs was too soft, the other too hard. The toast was dry, the coffee too bitter. Or was it all just her? Was there in fact nothing wrong with the food? Her stomach felt a bit queasy. She ate only because she believed she ought to before embarking upon a longish journey.

And perhaps to prove to herself that she was fine, that she had had a bad few days followed by an unexpectedly pleasant day and night and was now cheerfully back to normal. Perhaps she would be better able to convince herself once she was actually on her way. She did not know if she would see him again before she left. He had gone from her room an hour ago without giving any indication of whether he intended seeing her on her way or not. She would not press the issue. She would not linger in the hope that he would come down, and she would not knock on his door. When she was ready to leave, she would simply go.

She set down her coffee cup with a grimace. She had added more milk to counter the bitterness, and now it was too weak.

It is all quite sufficient to make one want to run away and hide, is it not? she had said earlier, before they made love for the last time. She supposed she would continue to hide, as she had done all her adult life, deep inside herself. She had burrowed deeper after the great catastrophe that had followed Humphrey’s death—only to have everything erupt out of her for no apparent reason a few days ago. She would press it all deep again and deeper yet from today on, and she would go inward with it. She would go so deep no one would ever find her again. Perhaps she would not even find herself.

The thought made her bite her upper lip to stop herself from crying—or laughing—and for a moment she thought the panic was going to return. But the dining room door opened and saved her.

“Good morning,” he said, all elegant formality. “Or have I already said that?”

“Good morning,” she said.

The innkeeper came hurrying in behind him and indicated a table a little removed from Viola’s.

“Perhaps, Mr. Lamarr,” she said, “you would care to join me?”

“Thank you,” he said. “I would.”

The innkeeper went to fetch more toast and coffee.

“Nothing else,” Marcel said firmly when the man tried to suggest eggs and beefsteak and kidneys.

They spoke of the weather until the innkeeper returned and had gone again. Viola was not sure if she was glad Marcel had come down or if she would have preferred him to stay in his room until after she had left. Her stomach was clenching about the little food she had eaten.

She hated goodbyes, especially when they were forever.

“Well, Viola.” He was leaning back in his chair, the fingers of one hand playing with his quizzing glass, a habit that was becoming familiar to her. He was making no effort to butter his toast.

“Well.” She made the effort to smile. There was never anything to say when there was all the world to say. She had to remind herself that there was nothing unusual about this to him.

“Well,” he said softly again. “Shall we run away?”

The absurdity of the suggestion struck her at the same moment as a great wave of yearning washed over her. Oh, if only . . .

If only life were that simple.

“Why not?” she said lightly.

“We will travel in your hired monstrosity of a carriage until we can replace it with something altogether more roadworthy,” he said. “And then we will go somewhere, anywhere, everywhere until we are ready to return. Next week, next month, next year. Whenever the urge to run away wears thin, if it ever does.”

“Well, I would like to see my grandchildren again before they grow up,” she said.