Chapter Eighteen

She wasn’t like her mother after all then.

As it turned out, she was even worse.

Because Mama had at least been established in the Earl of Batten’s life. Or on the outskirts of it, at least.

But she was nothing to Caleb. He’d made no promises, and she’d asked none of him.

Ophelia cast her mind back to that first meeting with her brother.

He’d hated her mother, that much was evident by his treatment of her. But their father, at least, had loved his mistress, Ophelia was sure. In a selfish, self-serving way granted, but it had always seemed enough for Mama.

She felt her eyes smart with tears.

She’d wanted better for herself. So much better.

Her life had been lonely, yes. She’d had little money and no love. But she’d had her pride and independence. Mostly, she’d had the knowledge that she’d never exist at the whims of a man.

Being a bastard was a cross she’d been forced to bear her whole life. Now, she would inflict that same cross onto a babe.

Her stomach roiled as it had been doing now for a week.

At first, she’d ignored the feeling. Then she’d put it down to her nervous excitement at her illicit affair.

She prided herself on her intelligence, yet it hadn’t dawned on her.

But then her courses were late. And that had never happened to her before.

Once she realised that, the other pieces fell into place like an awful, nightmarish jigsaw puzzle.

The sickness, the fatigue, the sensitivity.

Lovesick. That’s what she’d told herself.

She’d berated herself for falling completely and hopelessly in love with her wicked marquess. But this was worse. So much worse.

A hysterical sob burst from her lips, and she clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to keep her emotions within until she could figure out what to do.

She couldn’t stay at the school. Miss Fisher would be ruined by association with a fallen woman, and Ophelia owed the woman more than that.

And she absolutely would not, could not tell Caleb.

He might just give her money and send her away without ever wanting to see or speak to her again.

But, no. He was a man of integrity, despite the outward image he presented to the world. No doubt, he would want to see her looked after much like Mama. But she couldn’t give him the chance to offer her such an arrangement. Because she was too in love with him, too weak when it came to him, to refuse.

And to end up like her mother would be the worst thing in the world to Ophelia.

She had a little money. Not much. But perhaps enough to get her to Mama’s cottage.

If it wasn’t in complete disrepair, she could live there. Perhaps find enough work to feed and clothe her child.

Work at what? A derisive voice inside of her asked. You only know how to teach. And who will allow you to do that?

Oh, it was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster.

A wave of nausea gripped her, and Ophelia placed her hand delicately on her stomach.

Fast on the heels of sickness came a surge of protectiveness.

She had ruined her life. Condemned an innocent child to a life similar to hers.

And yet…

She couldn’t help but love the life inside her already. She’d never thought she’d be a mother. And to have Caleb’s child – to have a piece of him with her, forever. There was a part of her that couldn’t help but feel joy at the prospect.

She would have to leave, Ophelia knew. The cottage was her only option if she didn’t want to throw herself at the mercy of Caleb.

And she couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t withstand his rejection or his pity.

The earl.

The thought came to her, unbidden and not entirely welcome.

Her brother had offered her a dowry that she’d refused. But if she could convince him to part with at least some of it…

Ophelia could already imagine the scorn she would suffer at the earl’s hands.

He would more than likely throw her from his home without so much as a farthing.

The idea of having to go to him at all made her sick.

But she had no choice, not really.

Her pride was all well and good, but it wouldn’t feed a child. It wouldn’t keep a roof over their heads or clothes on their backs.

Ophelia slumped onto the bed.

Allowing her tears to fall freely, she dropped her head into her hands.

If only she’d never chased after Eliza.

If only she’d never taken Caleb up on his scandalous offer.

But, no.

She could not regret their time together. Could not regret meeting him. Could not regret falling in love.

She looked around the modest room that had been her home for so long.

She’d miss it. Miss her charges. Miss her friends.

But none of that would compare to how much she would miss her marquess.

***

The townhouse belonging to The Earl of Batten was uncomfortably close to the Marquess of Guilford’s, but Ophelia kept her head down as she hurried along Mayfair.

She couldn’t look at Caleb’s house. Even that would cause her pain.

The idea of never seeing him again – never hearing his laugh, or seeing that smile, or feeling his lips on her own, his body pressed against hers – it was devastating.

She would have plenty of time to fall apart and grieve when she got out of London. Now, she needed to beg for the means to do so.

It had taken only minutes to pack up her entire life at Miss Fisher’s. The letter she’d left had taken longer, and she’d had to start over more than once because her dratted tears made her scribblings illegible.

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to admit her predicament to Miss Fisher, and so she’d simply thanked her friend and begged for forgiveness.

Then she’d snuck out as she’d been doing every night for almost a month.

Hurrying up the steps of the earl’s residence, Ophelia tried to calm her breathing.

How pathetic that she’d told him with so much pride how she didn’t want his Season, didn’t want his dowry.

How different would her life have been if she’d taken him up on his grudging offer?

But then, she told herself, she wouldn’t have met Caleb, wouldn’t be carrying his child. She wouldn’t, she thought with a small smile, have entered The Inferno.

Knowing that if she hesitated much longer she’d lose her courage, Ophelia reached up and rapped at the door.

The footman who opened it looked down at her with ill-disguised disdain.

He was about to send her away, Ophelia knew, and so she spoke quickly.

“I need to see the earl,” she said hurriedly. “I am his si— his cousin.” She remembered the lie just in time.

She could tell that the servant was contemplating slamming the door on her, and a fluttering of panic reared up in her.

“My cousin won’t be best pleased if he hears I was turned away,” she said, trying and probably failing to sound haughty.

Mercifully however, her threat did the trick and within minutes, she was brought into a drawing room and told rather sternly to stay put.

Ophelia had no idea how long she’d been standing in that tastefully decorated drawing room but eventually, she heard the sound of footsteps and then – there he was, facing her across the room with eyes the same colour as her own.

“I thought I was rid of you,” he said by way of greeting.

Ophelia felt like casting up her accounts, but she knew what was at stake and so pushing aside all of her pride and self-respect, she lifted her chin and prepared to appeal to her brother.

“You will be soon,” she assured him in a voice that was far less steady than she would have liked. “But – I’m in trouble. And I need money.”

He raised his brows slightly before an unpleasant smirk crossed his face.

“Your mother’s daughter, then,” he sneered. “In the end.”

Ophelia had nothing to say in her defence, and so she kept her silence and prayed that she would survive this ordeal and everything that was to come.