Page 58

Why hadn’t he mentioned Laura Odgers before? Why had he let her assume . . . what exactly? What had he let her assume?

Everything. It wasn’t assumption. A man didn’t invite a woman on an excursion to let her dine alone.

Except men did. Or they did with her.

In Cannes, she’d spent much of her time drifting alone through the grand hotel, reading novels at little tables, drinking chocolate that always tasted slightly bitter. Sometimes she’d glimpse George from the terrace as he sauntered down the Croisette.

But he couldn’t have invited her to the yacht races, or to the parties. Acquaintances from London might have turned up, might have recognized her, asked questions. It had made sense, his leaving her behind. It had even seemed loving, this consideration for her reputation. Protective.

Recently, she’d begun to change the story. To fault George for not loving her, not considering her, enough.

But Neal? If Neal, too, wanted to flee her company, maybe the fault lay with her.

She wasn’t worth loving.

“Is something the matter?” He put it to her casually, as though the answer couldn’t possibly be of his concern. A faint smile curved his lips.

“Of course nothing is the matter.” She said it with composure. In days gone by, she would have cried and stormed. “Confer with your colleague, by all means. I’m sure you have much to discuss.”

He had the grace to look chagrined.

“Pertaining to the flora,” he said stiffly, and the insistence made her heart sink further. He wasn’t being honest with her. She had no right to demand his honesty, of course. But she’d come to take it for granted.

Honest, steady, blunt, kind Neal Traymayne. He had had designs on Muriel Pendrake, she was sure of it.

Something inside her had leaked out, had worked this transformation.

My sweet Vinnie. George had liked to stroke her hair, rubbing the pale blond strands between his fingers, kissing her white shoulder. You’re like a meringue.

Meringues stirred the appetite. They didn’t satisfy.

She’d squeezed the package of buns too hard. She felt the oil through the paper.

Neal brushed a thick lock of hair from his forehead with the back of his large hand.

“You and I will go collecting in the morning,” he said. “In your last letter, you mentioned you were particularly looking forward to rambling in this part of the county.”

“I did.” She kept her voice level. Not a question.

“I am,” she said, and felt a small rush of hope.

Tomorrow might bring another reversal.

She lifted her chin. “Even more so now that I’ve seen the hills. They remind me of China.”

His lips curved again, a mocking light replacing the chagrin in his eyes.

“How fascinating it will be for both of us, then,” he said. “We’ll cover every inch of the terrain. Miles and miles. Starting at first light.”

She swallowed. “Good.”

“Good,” he said.

She wouldn’t watch him walk away. She gazed at the green, the laughing children rolling now down the slope.

She hadn’t thought she would truly escape Cranbrook. But his lust had its limits. As did her mother’s love. Her papa’s love. George’s love.

No one was searching for her. That realization was worse than anything.