Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Louis knew instantly that something had changed the minute he walked back into Hillsworth House.

Hetty seemed subdued, even more than she usually was. She sat on the chaise longue in the drawing room, dressed in a sober dark blue gown, as severe as a nun's habit. Her rich chestnut hair was styled in a plain bun at the back of her head; there were no curls framing her face. She glanced quickly at him, then dropped her gaze to the floor.

Mrs Arnold was sitting opposite her, looking solemn, as well. There was no sign of Mr Arnold.

He gazed from one to the other. "Has something happened?"

Mrs Arnold cleared her throat. "I think I shall go to the kitchen and order some tea," she said, standing up. "Perhaps Hetty might inform you of what has occurred while I do so, Your Grace." She hesitated for a moment, glancing at her daughter, but when Hetty did not respond, she quickly left the room.

Louis sat down on the chair that Mrs Arnold had just vacated, gazing closely at Hetty. She was pale, even paler than normal.

"Hetty," he said, in a low voice. "What is it?"

She sighed deeply, finally raising her head and gazing steadily at him.

"I received a letter from Frank," she said slowly. "It arrived just yesterday afternoon."

Louis felt his heart constrict. The rake had finally got in contact with her. And judging by the look on her face, what he had imparted was not good.

"What did he say?" he asked gently.

Hetty stood up abruptly, pacing the floor. "He informed me that he has left the country," she said, in a strangled voice. "He is currently in France. He said that he sailed there as soon as he left our own home …"

"France?" Louis frowned. "He sailed there to avoid the fallout from the scandal I take it?"

Hetty stopped, gazing at him with a bitter look on her face. "One might assume so, but it is a bit more complicated than that," she said. "Frank informed me that he has a mistress. Her name is Amelie Marchand, a French native." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Mademoiselle Marchand wanted to return to her home, and her family, as she is in a delicate condition."

Louis's blood ran cold. "She is …"

Hetty took another deep breath. "Yes, she is with child, and Frank claims her child as his own," she said, her face twisting. "Mademoiselle Marchand was his mistress, the whole time that we were engaged, you see. He claims that he always loved her, and that he never loved me." She paused. "As if I did not always know that he held no great affection for me. But still, the fact that he had a mistress the whole time is still a great shock, as you can imagine."

Louis nodded. The unspeakable scoundrel. Frank Blackmore had married Hetty, while involved in a close liaison with another woman. More than that, he had always been intending to desert Hetty, to be with this other woman. He had just been waiting to get her money before he did so.

"Frank claims that he wishes to start afresh, in France," she continued, her voice bitter. "And reading between the lines, it is obvious that the funds from my dowry and the sale of our house is funding his little love nest." Her face twisted again. "While I sit here, in my parents' home, bearing the brunt of his desertion, he has sailed off into the sunset with his lover and their coming child, laughing all the way to the bank."

Louis stood up, slowly approaching her. He reached out, taking her hand. He was heartened to see that she did not try to snatch it away.

"At least you know," he said, in a quiet voice. "At least you have the reason, now, why he did what he did. It does not make it any less painful to bear, but it clears up a few questions."

"Indeed," said Hetty, her eyes flashing. "I simply have no idea why he condescended to finally write to me to inform me of it. Perhaps he does have a small conscience after all. Perhaps he wants absolution from me, for what he has done. Confession does ease the soul, after all."

Louis frowned. "Hetty, I know how painful this is for you," he said. "But it means that you can move on." He gazed at her closely. "Please tell me that you have not destroyed the letter. It is proof of his permanent desertion and that he was calculated in what he did to you. We can present it as evidence to the court when the time comes."

Hetty smiled faintly. "Oh, believe me, I have not destroyed it," she replied. "I made that mistake with the note that he left me at our house, hurling it into the fire, in my pain and rage." She took a deep breath. "I am keeping this one. It is in a very safe place, and I shall present it as evidence if the court decides ever to grant me a hearing."

He squeezed her hand. "It will happen," he declared fervently. "The wheels of the process are slow turning, but I am confident, as you should be, as well. We shall make Frank Blackmore pay for what he has done to you. But more than that, you shall be a free woman again, Hetty."

She gazed at him, her eyes filling with tears. "How could he have done it to me?" she whispered, in anguish. "How could he have been so mercenary as to marry me just for my money, all the while knowing that he was going to discard me like a used rag?"

"There are no words for such a man," he said, his face darkening with anger. "He has no honour. To treat you in such a cavalier fashion … when you deserve the world … when you are the epitome of loveliness, in a woman…"

He was so close to her now. He could smell the scent of her hair; a lemony fragrance, wafting up towards him, so very inviting. He could pull her into his arms so easily. A mere slight tug and she would be encircled within them …

But at that moment, the maid arrived, carrying the tea tray. He stepped back, away from her, severing the connection between them.

It wasn't time, yet. And now she was wounded anew. Would Frank Blackmore's declaration sever completely the fragile bond that they had established? The bond that he had worked so hard to build between them?

***

Later that day, they walked together through the gardens, her dog at their heels. She was silent and subdued. He could tell that her mind was very far away.

"Shall we go further?" he asked quietly. "To the apple tree again?"

She sighed. "As you wish."

Della yelped delightedly when he opened the back gate, sprinting off over the field. They walked in further silence towards the large tree. It had shed the majority of its fruit, the apples lying on the ground around it, rotting. But there were still a few on the tree, and he reached up now, picking two.

He handed one to her, and they sat down, side by side, leaning against the trunk. The broken wooden seat of the swing was still lying on the ground, in exactly the same position. Vividly, he remembered when she had crashed to earth, and he had rushed to her, concerned she had hurt herself. And then, to his surprise, she had started laughing. The sound of it still reverberated in his head.

Hetty stared at her apple, contemplating it as if it might hold the answers to the meaning of life. "I will never be free of him, will I?" she asked quietly. "The court will never grant me a divorce. That man will haunt me forever."

"You do not know that," he said, gazing at her, feeling uneasy. "The court moves slowly, as I said before. Have faith, Hetty. It will happen."

She shook her head. "No, I do not think it will," she said, in a small voice. "I am enough of a realist to know that." She paused, gazing over the landscape with sad eyes. "If Frank was petitioning for the divorce, and I was the one who had deserted him, carrying on with a lover, then they would quickly grant it. But the fact that he is the one who has done it all, makes a huge difference. The law does not regard a man's infidelity the same way as it regards a woman's. There are separate rules for each sex."

He was silent for a moment, his heart sinking. She was speaking the truth. The law was very forgiving of a man's infidelity to his lawfully wedded wife, almost condoning it. A woman was expected to be faithful, though, as so much was at stake through it. If a woman was unfaithful during her marriage, then the question of a child's rightful paternity could be raised, among other considerations. The law protected the man, but not the woman, in so many ways.

He briefly thought of Benjamin. He did not know, for sure, that the child was his. Rachel could have slept with another man, either immediately before or after, the one time they had made love. He had discovered later that she was not chaste, in any way.

He knew that Ben was his, in his heart: the boy looked like him, had his eyes. But it could have been different. Paternity was not easy to establish, in such cases. He had taken her word and did the honourable thing by her. Another man might have cast her aside, telling her that he had no proof that the child was his, and the law would have backed him up.

Women were vulnerable in this society. Look at what had happened to Hetty.

But he must believe that the court would grant her divorce. The alternative could not be borne. That he had got so close to finally making her his own, only having to admit that she could never be his.

He could barely endure the thought.

"I will go to a convent," she said suddenly, her face twisted in pain. "If I cannot get divorced, then that is my plan …"

"Hetty, no," he said, appalled. "I could not bear it. To think of you locked away in a convent, forever denied to me …"

She was trembling, gazing at him. "What are you suggesting? Do you think for a moment that I would submit to an unlawful union with you? The same thing as what this Amelie Marchand has done with my husband?" Her eyes glittered dangerously. "If you are suggesting such a thing, then let me tell you now, and you can be away: I will do no such thing."

Louis flinched as if she had struck him. "I am not suggesting any such thing," he whispered. "I would never dishonour you in such a way." He took a deep breath. "All I am saying is that I cannot bear the thought of you in a convent. We will fight, together, for your divorce. If the court denies it, then we shall appeal. I will wait years for you."

She gazed at him, dumbfounded. "You would wait years for me? Even though I might never obtain a divorce and be a free woman?"

He nodded slowly, his heart aching, with love for her. "I will wait forever, Hetty."

She was silent for a moment, gazing out over the hills in the distance. "I cannot believe it," she whispered. "Why would you sacrifice your life for me on the slim hope that I might one day be free to marry you?"

"Why do you think?" he said in an anguished whisper. "Can you not see how much you mean to me? I have been trying to show you all this time. I have been trying to win your trust, trying to show you that it is only you, Hetty. It has only ever been you."

She looked amazed, her mouth dropping open slightly, as she turned to him. He swore underneath his breath, his heart yearning for her, so much that he could barely contain it.

He had exposed himself. It was too late, now, to take the words back. Would she jump to her feet and run away? Had he scared her off, once and for all, with his declaration?

But she didn't move an inch. She looked like she was rooted to the spot. Their eyes met and held, a magnetic cord pulling between them.

And then, he was reaching for her, eagerly taking her in his arms, his mouth descending upon her own, for the very first time.

Her lips were as soft as he had dreamt they would be and so very sweet. He moaned, underneath his breath, pulling her closer. He waited for her to pull away, but she didn't. Instead, he felt her lips open, beneath his own, blossoming to life as she kissed him back.

The kiss deepened. He couldn't help it. His hands caressed her, exploring her curves. The rounded hips, the small waist, the fullness of her breasts. He could not get enough of her. He wanted to gather her up, take her beneath this tree, claim her for his own, once and for all. He was so giddy with desire he could barely breathe.

He trailed feverish kisses down the curve of her long neck, tasting the sweetness of her skin, as he caressed her breasts, feeling the nipples beneath the fabric of her gown grow hard for him. He tilted her back in his arms, pulling aside the bodice of her gown. Hungrily, his eyes registered the creamy fullness of her breasts, the rosy aureoles, before his lips descended upon one, drawing the nipple deep into his mouth as he suckled her. He heard her low moan, thick with desire, as she arched her back to accommodate him.

She was trembling, now, her skin mottled with pink. He reached down, seeking her centre, briefly touching her through the gown. She shivered convulsively as he kept caressing her gently, then with firmer, more confident, strokes. He suckled harder, raising his eyes to watch her. Her head had tilted back, and her eyes were closed in ecstasy. He felt the answering throb deep in his loins.

But suddenly, Della leapt upon them, barking ferociously. Hetty leapt back as if scalded, laughing hysterically as the dog licked her face. He started laughing, too. The moment was well and truly broken.

"Down, Della!" she commanded, barely able to draw breath. "Down, girl!"

He leapt to his feet, his heart expanding with love for her. He reached out a hand, pulling her up. Tenderly, he adjusted the bodice of her gown, tucking away those magnificent breasts. She stood as impassive as a doll while he tidied her. She had stopped laughing, now, and gazed up at him, her blue eyes impossibly large.

Gently, he kissed her forehead, his eyes never leaving hers for a second.

"Do you believe me, now?" he whispered. "Do you believe me that it has only ever been for you?"

She sighed deeply. She did not answer, biting her lip.

He held her hand as they walked back towards the house. They didn't speak any more than they had when they had started on the walk through the field to the apple tree. But whereas that first walk had been fraught with tension because of Frank Blackmore's letter, this time it was different. Something had changed between them, forever.

He still didn't know if he had finally earnt her trust. He didn't know if she felt the same way about him as he did about her. But he had felt the leap of her response to him, the way that her flesh had answered his. She desired him that much was obvious. She had felt that same pull of fierce, deep attraction, that he felt for her.

And it was enough, for the moment.

He felt like he was in a dream as they entered the house. Luncheon was about to be served. They separated, to wash. Already, he felt the loss of her, wishing her back by his side.

Sitting across the dining table from her, he could barely eat. Vividly, he replayed their passionate encounter over and over in his mind. The feel of her. The taste of her. The agony, of wanting her, almost more than life itself.

It was time to take her to Warwick Manor. It was time to finally introduce her to Benjamin. He still had no idea what her reaction to his illegitimate son would be. It was risky. He might lose her forever when he had just tentatively claimed her for his own.

But he could not lie, by omission, to her any longer. He wanted her for his wife, come hell or high water, and she had to know the truth of what his life was. Hopefully, their connection was strong enough now that she would accept the situation.

They both reached for the pepper shaker, sitting in the middle of the table, at the same time, their hands connecting. She smiled shyly, pulling back, letting him take it. She flushed, looking down into her soup bowl.

His heart contracted. He had never loved a woman the way that he loved her. And he would make her his wife. He vowed it to himself, trembling with desire, once again.

Hetty was his. She had always been his. It had just taken an awfully long time for him to get to her. He thought about her desire to join a nunnery. The sheer waste of it. Hetty was made for love. She belonged in his arms, forever.

He fervently prayed that it would be possible. That they were not destined to never be together because another man had managed to put a ring on her finger before him.