Secrets of the Heart

Of course. Appearances. That was all that mattered in their marriage.

She nodded her head and walked down the hall to her room. “Well…” she said, opening the door and taking a step inside. “Here it is.”

She glanced around the room, her gaze falling on the wide, high-testered bed on which she had slept all her life. She felt the treacherous blush returning to her cheeks. She thought about having to get ready for bed tonight in the same room with him. He had never seen her in anything less than her dressing gown; they had never shared a room, even sleeping in different beds. She wondered exactly how they would handle this.

“Well,” she said again, glancing at Michael and away. “I, um, I guess you would like a chance to freshen up a bit.”

Even this situation was awkward, she realized. He would doubtless like to wash off the dust of the road, and of course he would have to change for supper.

“I shall leave you alone,” she went on quickly, flashing a brittle smile. “I, um, I’ll go tell Gabriela you are here. She will be quite pleased to hear it.”

She backed out of the door and quickly closed it behind her.

For a moment she stood in the hall. How had her marriage become what it had? But even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer: she had done it. The cold, loveless state of their marriage was entirely her fault.

She had not loved Michael when they became engaged, but he had loved her, and he was a kind and patient man. Looking back on it, she thought that perhaps with time they might have found their way to at least a satisfactory relationship.

But before it even began, she had ruined everything….

Three days before Rachel’s wedding, her mother took her aside and explained in vague terms what to expect on her wedding night. Rachel was shocked and even frightened. It was somewhat difficult to understand exactly what would transpire, because her mother’s speech was so roundabout and couched in euphemisms, but Rachel came away with the impression that it was distinctly immodest and unpleasant, and Lady Ravenscar’s frequent, faint assurances that “the pain does not last long” filled her with dread.

She spent much of the next day worrying about her mother’s warnings. To make matters even worse, when she walked into the drawing room that afternoon, she found Anthony Birkshaw sitting there talking to two of Michael’s cousins. She had not seen him for four months, and the sight of him now jarred her. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was and how his thick dark hair curled upon his forehead. The smile that broke across his face when she entered the room was like a blow to her heart. In a rush, all the feelings she had had for him came back to her, and she wanted to giggle, to cry, to throw her arms around him and to run from the room, all at once. It took all her strength to greet him with some semblance of normalcy.

They said almost nothing to each other after that, but when Anthony rose to politely take his leave, he murmured as he bent over her hand, “Meet me tonight at the bottom of the garden. Ten o’clock.”

Rachel did not reply. Indeed, she did not intend to meet him. However much the sight of him had shaken her, however forcefully she had been reminded of the love she held for him, she knew that it would be foolish even to speak to him, let alone meet him in the dark of the garden. However much she loved him, she was honor bound now to Michael.

But then, that evening, Michael unexpectedly kissed her, and his kiss was deep and hungry, completely unlike the gentle, patient Michael she was used to. She had felt the twist of something dark and unknown deep within her abdomen, something almost more frightening than the sudden strong grip of Michael’s arms around her, pinning her to him. She was thrown into a panic—a panic that sent her slipping down through the garden to meet Anthony a few minutes later.

Anthony was there waiting for her, and as she hurried toward him, her heart swelled with love. Even after this time, despite all the discouragement her family had given him, he had not given up on her! He had come at the very end, like a knight in a story, to rescue her.

He turned and saw her, and he came to her, pulling her into his arms. He cradled her against him, his head against hers, murmuring, “Rachel, my love…my love. I was so scared you would not come—that they had turned you against me.”

“Never!” she cried in a low, choked voice, stepping back and looking up at him. In that moment she was sure that what she said was true: she would love him forever; nothing could ever make her stop loving Anthony. She would be married, tied for life to a man she did not love, her heart all the while aching with the sorrow she felt right now. “I will always love you.”

“Then marry me.”

“What? I cannot!” She looked up at him, horrified. “I am promised to Lord Westhampton.”

“You do not love him!” His voice throbbed with emotion. “You love me. You cannot marry him.”

“But Father would never—”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Anthony argued. “Come with me now. We will ride to Gretna Green and be married. Then you will be my wife, and your father will have no power over you. I will deal with him if he comes after us. And you and I will be together for the rest of our lives.”

“But the money—”

“I don’t give a damn about the money! Not as long as we are together. What is money compared to our happiness? Would you rather live in this huge cold mansion without love, or with me in a cozy little cottage?”

“With you! You know I want to be with you!”

“Then what does wealth matter? I will work. Lord Muggeridge told me only last week that he needed an aide. I know he would hire me. There is no shame in honest work.”

“Of course not.”

“And knowing that I would be coming home at night to you would make it all worthwhile.” His dark eyes shone down at her with love.

Rachel gazed back at him, her heart filled with emotion. She ignored the small cold voice of practicality, listening only to the pounding of her heart, seeing only the sweet love that shone in Anthony’s eyes. It was nothing like the fierce fire that had leaped to life in Michael’s gaze that evening. Anthony was sure and safe, and the warm, pure glow she felt when she looked into his face was nothing like that breathless twist of sensation that had curled through her when Michael kissed her. Love was what was important, she reminded herself. She was not the mercenary sort who would marry for money.

She thought of making that long walk down the church aisle, everyone watching her, giving her entire life over to a man whom she did not love, a man who was little more than a stranger to her. “But everyone is expecting me to—”

“Damn what they expect of you!” Anthony rejoined. “What is important is what you expect of you. You are too fine a lady, too gentle and good, to marry for money! Please…I cannot stand by and let you give yourself to a man who—”

“No, you are right. I cannot do it!” Rachel cried, panicky at the thought.

“Then come with me. We shall be happier than you could ever be immured in some castle married to a man you barely know, no matter what his title. Give yourself over to love.”

For a moment Rachel hesitated. Then she flung herself into his arms. “Yes!” she cried, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her. “Yes! I will go with you.”

He put her up on his horse behind him, and together they rode through the night. She was blissfully happy at first, clinging to Anthony’s strong back and thinking only of the joy that awaited her. It wasn’t until she stood in the courtyard of the inn in the village, waiting while Anthony tried to arrange for a post chaise for them, that reality began to sink in. She felt like a criminal, lurking out there in the dark because it would be too scandalous to let anyone see her, and the feeling tainted her joy.

They had to continue on his horse, for the inn had had no carriage to lease, and it was slow going with the double load. As they rode, she thought about what she had done and what would happen the next morning when Michael and her family discovered that she was gone. It occurred to her that she had not even left them a note. Would they think that something had happened to her? Be frightened and set out on search parties?

Her guilt and unease grew, until by the time they stopped at the inn in the next village, she was beginning to realize the enormity of what she had done. She sat huddled in the private dining room, chilled through and through from the night air and numbly tired, while Anthony tried to convince the innkeeper to have a post chaise prepared for them. She could see in the innkeeper’s eyes his doubts about Anthony’s story, as well as her propriety, and she realized how she must look to him—how she would look to everyone. She wanted to cry; she wanted to turn and flee back to Westhampton.

Then everything grew even worse, for her father and Michael walked through the door. She jumped to her feet, fear flooding her at the sight of her furious father. He began to berate her, driving home what she already had begun to know in her heart: the scandal of eloping would haunt her for the rest of her life. And the stain of it would spread to the rest of her family, too—her parents, even Caroline and Richard, though they had done nothing wrong. She had failed to do her duty to her family. Darkwater would crumble into ruins; her parents would have to live entirely on Richard’s generosity.

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