The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(27)

“Oh, yes.” She straightened. “I must call in on Mr Potter. He has agreed to lend Mr Erstwhile a few herbs and tonics so he may open the shop.”

“Then I shall be your escort.” Ross seemed colder now, a little distant.

They left the coaching inn and made their way along St Martins Lane to Mr Potter’s shop on Castle Street. The apothecary had packaged the necessary items, but Estelle did not have an opportunity to mention the intruder.

Ross carried the parcel as they headed back to Whitecombe Street. While his outward manner was that of any considerate gentleman, she could not shake the thought of how savagely he’d claimed her mouth.

She cast him a sidelong glance, wondering what emotion lay behind the stone planes of his face. At some point, he would ask her the only question that mattered. Why had she left Prescott Hall instead of marrying him? To tell him the truth would only confuse matters. The prospect of a life together vanished the day she left. They were different people now, on different paths. And the sooner she put some distance between them the better it would be for both their sakes.

“May I ask something of you?” She had no right to expect anything from him, and yet somehow, she knew he would not refuse her request.

Ross glanced at her. “That all depends on what it is.”

“Don’t tell my brother you found me.”

“You want me to lie?” A weary sigh left his lips, and he turned from her to focus ahead. “I gave Fabian my word. That may mean nothing to you, but it does to me.”

Oh, if only he knew why she’d left he would not be so cold.

“I am not asking you to break an oath. I am merely asking you to delay.”

“Why, so you can run again?”

“Yes.” What was the point of lying? “You do not understand. Fabian will want to hear everything, every detail of my life. He will want to punish those who have harmed me, want to seek vengeance. All I ask—”

Ross came to an abrupt halt and swung around to face her. “What do you mean those who have harmed you? Do you speak of the smugglers?”

She could not risk telling him about Faucheux, or about the merchant’s son, Monsieur Robard. “A woman alone is an easy target. You know that.”

A growl rumbled in the back of his throat. Just like the landlord, he scanned her body as if signs of her mistreatment were still evident there.

“You’re avoiding my question. I suggest you tell me what happened now or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“This is precisely the reason I do not want you to tell my brother.” Estelle turned away from him and marched along the street.

Ross caught up with her in two strides. “Is it wrong that people care what happened to you?”

“No, it is not wrong. But I do not want my brother consumed with guilt or thoughts of revenge when he should focus on being happy.”

The same applied to Ross. Her love for both men had set her on her course all those years ago.

A tense silence ensued as they navigated the crowded pavement.

As soon as they turned into Whitecombe Street and the crowd dispersed, Ross suddenly blurted, “Did you marry while away in France?”

The question shocked her. How could she ever marry anyone else when she loved him?

“No, though one smuggler asked me many times.” Faucheux would never stop looking for her. The rogue always got what he wanted.

“Good God, your brother is a baron. Why the hell would you marry a smuggler?”

“My brother may possess a title” — she paused, glanced back over her shoulder and lowered her voice — “but I consorted with criminals, Ross. I have worked in a tavern, and as a maid and governess.” She closed her eyes briefly at the memory. “The lady you once knew died on The Torrens and you would be wise to remember it.”

A darkness passed over his features. “You’re wrong. Your kindness and devotion to others is still evident in the way you are with the Erstwhiles. The gentleman speaks of you like a daughter, not an assistant.”

She couldn’t help but smile when she thought of Mr Erstwhile. “He knows nothing about my past and places value only on the present.”

Ross’ bright blue eyes focused on her mouth. “Then perhaps I should seek to do the same.”

For a moment, she imagined being drawn into his embrace, imagined telling him that they could be friends, share dinner, take trips to the theatre. But he deserved to hear the truth.

“I cannot stay in London.”

“You’re leaving?” All the colour drained from his face, and he took a few deep breaths. “When will you go?” The hard exterior melted away, leaving a voice tinged with sorrow.

“Soon.”

“Then in light of your earlier request, I ask you pay me the same courtesy. I ask that you delay your departure, at least for the time being.”

“Why?”

He shrugged and diverted his gaze. “I wish I knew.”

Every moment spent with him was torture. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to last the week. “I cannot give you my word, but I shall consider what you have said.”

He swallowed visibly numerous times. “You cannot know what it is like to wake in the morning with one’s heart bursting with happiness. To go about your day with a false sense of rightness, to have everything you hold dear ripped away without a word or explanation.”