Paying the Virgin's Price (Regency Silk & Scandal #2)(17)

In his dream, she had looked up at him, where he lay on the bed, and put down the book to come towards him. The glint in her eyes was as welcoming as he might wish, and she had smiled. And then, thank God, he had awakened. If the dream had gone as he expected--with her lying in his arms--he was sure that it would have ended in a nightmare, once he'd realized who she was.

He got up quickly, trying to clear the fog from his brain, then left the room, locking the door behind him and dropping the key into his pocket. Then he bypassed his own room and went down the stairs to his study. Or was it Edgar Price's study? He was no longer sure. He had been so proud, when he'd first won this house, although much less so of the rest of that evening. There would have been room for Helena and Rosalind, and Mother as well. They would have lived happily enough, he was sure, once he had found some way to persuade them that he had come by it properly.

He had meant to break the news to them gently, making sure that everything was legal and the way prepared. His mother had never approved of his gambling to make the rent. She had wanted him to find an honest trade to help contribute to the family. And if she had realized how high the stakes had risen, and how quickly? If it upset her that he was winning coins off navvies or a few quid off of drunken clarks to help pay the bills, then she would have been appalled to see what he had won from Price.

It would not do to drop his family into a house full of unwilling servants, with the previous owners' possessions strewn about and Price's pipe still burning on the mantle. So he had toured the premises, released any servants that did not feel they could make peace with a change of masters and arranged things so that his mother need never again be troubled with the butcher's bill. He topped up the household accounts with several more fine scores at the tables. When he was through, the place would run like clockwork. His mother need never think about the time he'd spent gaming for the money she lived on, or waste her fading energy in sympathy for the source of their wealth.

But it seemed that fate was working against him, yet again. For no sooner had he finished his plans, than he was set upon by a press gang. He did not wake from their tender ministrations until he was onboard ship and well on the way to France as a member of His Majesty's Navy.

When he had managed to make his way home, he found the house little different than it had been when he'd left it. He had returned to a life that was quite comfortable, and further gambling had made it even more so. But it meant nothing if there was no one to share it with.

And now he could not shake the feeling that it was not his life that he was living, but one that rightly belonged to another. He gathered paper and pen, and addressed a hurried letter to Miss Price, care of the Carlow family.

And what did he mean to say to her? 'I am sorry,' hardly seemed enough, nor would it do any good to explain himself. It might appear that he thought he had suffered more than she, and he doubted it was possible to compare burdens. At last, he decided to leave the contents blank. Then he turned out his purse and piled the folded bank notes neatly inside the paper, reaching for the wax to seal it all up tight before sending. He almost marked it, but thought better of it. She did not need to know the sender, nor the reason. After this afternoon, she would not wish to take a penny from Mr Dale for fear of encouraging his attentions. And if she should discover the real reason he had done it, he dreaded her response.

But if he could reimburse her, in some small part, for the damage he had done.

It was not enough. It could never be enough. But perhaps he could find other ways to help her, without giving the wrong impression, when her position with the Carlows was at an end. It was better than nothing.

But nothing was what he had done in the past, and he found it would no longer content him.





Chapter Six





As she sat enjoying morning tea in the small dining room with Verity, Diana tried not to think of the day before. So the girls were convinced that Mr Dale was considering marriage. The idea was as ridiculous as it was appealing. His interest could not be too strong, for she was sure he would not have returned to the Carlow home had Verity and Honoria not forced the issue.

But once there, he had been more than willing to speak to her. And it was more than that. It was far more telling that he listened. Anyone might speak when trapped alone in a room with a stranger, just to fill the embarrassing silence. He had said very little about himself, but made every effort to draw her out.

And he had made the curious offer of aid. Perhaps she had misunderstood him, putting too ominous a spin on the words. After years of watching out for the virtue of others, even the most innocent of unguarded comments might be seen as an improper advance. She replayed the exchange endlessly in her mind, trying to see it from all sides. But it became even more confusing with repetition.

And now, whether she saw him again or not, Verity and Honoria would tease her endlessly on the subject of Mr Dale, just to see her turn pink at the mention of the man's name.

But if she did see him?

It was all she could do not to moan aloud at the thought. Her curiosity about him had grown to fascination, and then obsession. If she saw him, she would make a complete cake of herself. Any interest he might have felt would turn immediately to distaste, once he saw her behaviour.

It was disaster.

She gave Verity a weak smile over her cup of tea, and wished Honoria a good morning as the girl appeared in the doorway, yawning and sorting through the morning's mail. 'Here, Diana. A letter addressed to you.' Honoria held it out to her, and then snatched it back, holding it to her temple, as though trying to divine the contents. 'Too thick for a billet doux. I wonder what it might be?' She passed the letter to her friend.