A Pledge of Passion (The Rules of Engagement #2)(26)

"Then you wouldn't mind coming with me instead?"

Lydia wrapped her arms around her. "Of course not! Besides, the coach trip will give us time to get caught up with one another. So much has transpired that I feel like years have passed between us instead of mere hours."

"Thank you, Lyddie. How much time do you need?"

"None at all. My arrival was so late that I haven't even unpacked yet. I only need to speak to Marcus, and then we can be on our way."

"He's with Nick. They are practicing for the duke's cricket match." Mariah realized her slip the moment Lydia lifted a brow.

"Nick?" Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Do you perhaps refer to my husband's secretary, Mr. Needham?"

"Yes, Lyddie, I refer to Mr. Needham."

"I was unaware that you were on terms of intimacy. Has he asked for your hand, Mariah?"

Remembering her promise, Mariah licked her lips. "Not precisely."

"Then what . . . precisely?"

"Let us discuss it later, Lyddie. I must prepare to depart."

"Of course," Lydia said. "I'll send a footman at once to locate Marcus."

Mariah's thoughts and emotions collided in chaos. Only last night she'd fully intended on returning home, but one night had changed everything. Now, the idea of leaving Woburn Abbey, of leaving Nick, squeezed her chest, but Papa could be dying. There was no time even for good-bye. She was needed at home.

She went to the writing desk, where she sat and smoothed out a clean sheet of foolscap. Taking up a quill, her hand hovered over the ink pot as she composed her scattered thoughts.

My Dearest Nicolas,

It pains me beyond measure that we are deprived of a final farewell, but duty cannot wait. My father is gravely ill. I must be off at once to Morehaven. Know that I take with me the fondest remembrances to sustain me in the coming months. I pray for your safety and success at Aix-la-Chappelle and live in hope and faith that I will see you again well before the year is out.

Your most devoted,

Mariah





CHAPTER EIGHT





“I am sore wounded but not slain. I will lay me down and bleed a while, and then rise up to fight again.” -John Dryden





Derbyshire, England—Twelve Months Later





My Dearest Mariah,



Twelve long and agonizing months have passed since that fateful night I claimed a kiss and a promise from your sweet lips—the kiss meant to seal a pact that I have failed to uphold.

I strongly wish for what I faintly hope; like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet have now lost my way wandering in that golden maze.

That night was the loveliest dream, but the future we spoke of is naught but a fantasy that can never be. Thus, it is with a heart burdened with the greatest regret that I release you from your vow.



Please know that I will ever remain—

Your most faithful, humble, and obedient servant,



Nicolas



Choking back a sob, Mariah reread the letter through blurred and burning eyes. It had arrived days ago, and she'd already read it a dozen times, but knowledge of its contents did nothing to diminish the pain. Had he truly abandoned hope, or had he found another woman? It was impossible to know the truth. No further explanation had followed. She'd held on to her own hope as long as she could.

Until meeting him, she'd never expected to find love or passion. But now it was over. She slowly folded the foolscap, rose, and tossed it into the hearth, watching through blurred and burning eyes as the flames devoured the words that had shattered her dreams as well as her heart.

Clinging to a passionate promise made in the heat of the moment, she'd put her life on hold, but her father's passing had changed her circumstances. She'd come into her rightful title, but his will demanded that she wed or wait four more years to come into her fortune. She'd held off as long as she could, but now financial obligations compelled her to look to her security as well as that of her mother.

There was only one course of action. It was time to put away fantasies of love and find a suitable husband. She would write to the one person she was certain would help to guide her search—Philomena, Lady Russell.

***

Turin, Northern Italy



"Needham? Might I ask if you have a mistress?"

The earl's blunt question quite took him aback. Nick's head jerked up from the stack of official correspondence that had just arrived on the express packet from England. "No, I have not," he replied stiffly.

"Might I assume by your answer that you have recently parted with one?" Rochford suggested.

"You are quite mistaken, my lord. I have never kept a woman for my pleasure."

"Then perhaps it's time you did! Have you bedded an Italian woman, Needham? I tell you there is absolutely no comparison between English and Italian quim. It's the difference between fire and ice. If money is an object, I will even raise your salary—anything to improve this wretched aura of woe that you seem to be carrying about."

"Aura of woe?" Nick repeated incredulously. "I was unaware. I apologize if I have been preoccupied of late."

"It's far more than that, Needham. For weeks now, I have remarked a distinct melancholy about you. It is almost as if you were in mourning. Indeed, I'm half inclined to call you Dismal Nick. Have you perhaps suffered a loss you have not informed me of?"