Page 21 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

“When we met so briefly in London?” A bitter smile twisted the scarred side of his mouth into a sneer. “I am astonished you remember, Miss Stafford. It is so much ancient history to me.”

She understood then that he meant to hurt her. That hurting her had been the goal of nearly every word uttered from the moment he entered the gallery. “I will not believe that you have forgotten,” she said.

“Believe what you will, madam.”

“At the very least, you must remember that we were friends once. That we—”

“The only thing that I remember about our former acquaintance,” he interrupted coldly, “is that I had a fortunate escape.”

His words cut straight to her heart, laying it open with the clinical skill of a Harley Street surgeon. She felt the humiliating sting of tears in her eyes. “Oh…” Her gaze fell from his. “Yes. I…I suppose that you did.”

She turned away from him. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to be back in London, safe and secure in her attic bedroom at the Dinwiddy’s modest house in Cheapside. At least there she knew which end was up. But running away would not solve anything. Especially not with so much unfinished between them. Besides, how was she to leave? Lady Harker would have to order the carriage. Either that or she would have to find a way to the railway station in Apsley Heath. Once there, she could purchase a ticket on the next train to London.

It was not impossible. Indeed, if she put her mind to the matter, she could probably leave as early as tomorrow morning.

In the meanwhile, she would have to settle for putting some distance between them.

“Miss Stafford,” Sebastian said.

She imagined she heard a note of regret in his deep voice, but knew she was mistaken. It was only her treacherous heart hearing what it wanted to hear. Goodness knows it had led her astray with Sebastian before.

Ignoring him, she walked the short distance across the picture gallery to one of the tall, deeply set windows. It was framed with heavy curtains pulled back to reveal an unobstructed view of the stark, north lawn. For all that it was cold outside, the sun was shining brightly. She stepped forward into its warm rays and looked out across the park.

He might have left the picture gallery then. Part of her hoped that he would. But he did not leave. He came to stand beside her, his large presence casting a dark shadow over the sunlit alcove.

She folded her arms across her midsection, feeling cold and utterly bereft beneath the staid propriety of her dark silk gown. Why would he not go? Why could he not leave her in peace? She hated him in that moment. Hated him for remaining at her side, for forcing his presence on her when she was at her most vulnerable.

At the same time, there was something unbearably intimate about the two of them there, so close in the window embrasure. It was an illusion, she knew, but it nevertheless compelled her to speak.

“I have often found myself wondering where it all went wrong between us,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you were merely amusing yourself at my expense. Or perhaps…perhaps it was something I said in one of my letters.”

“What?”

“I always suspected the latter,” she admitted, “but I did not want to believe it. Now it seems that I owe you an apology, my lord. When I wrote to you as I did, I was under the impression that you and I…That we…That we had a mutual regard for each other.” She swallowed, forcing herself to look up at him. He was staring down at her, white faced and still. His scars stood out in stark relief. “I am sorry if I shocked you or gave offense. And I do hope you have destroyed those letters. If not, I…I would ask that you give them back to me.”

It was the most mortifying speech that Sylvia had ever made. She could only imagine how deeply she was blushing. She turned away from him to look out the window once more, fixing her gaze on a cluster of trees in the distance. After a time, she heard him clear his throat.

“What do you suppose there was in your letters that would have offended me?” he asked.

She gave a choked, humorless laugh. “Oh, where to begin?”

“Tell me.”

“Let me see…Might it have been that I doused them with my perfume? Or perhaps it was that I closed each letter by sending you one thousand kisses?”

Sebastian said nothing for a long while.

A long while during which Sylvia fervently wished she had never come to Pershing Hall. She pressed her cheek to the window embrasure, closing her eyes in mortification.

“It was neither of those things,” he said huskily.

“Oh. I see.” She could say no more. For now she knew, beyond all doubt, what it was that had given him such a disgust of her. She supposed that she had always known. That dashed first letter! Was it any wonder he thought her a conscienceless flirt with an eye toward matrimony? She made herself look at him again. “I should never have written it.”

Sebastian did not say anything. He merely looked down at her, as white faced and immobile as he had been before.

“It was three years ago,” she said. “I was very green. Very stupid. And I daresay I thought…But that does not matter. It was a foolish thing to have written to you. And in my first letter, too. I hope we might agree to never think of it again. Indeed, I am deathly ashamed every time I do.” She exhaled an unsteady breath. It was done. It was over. She had always wanted to know what it was that had ended their romance and now she did.

She could, at last, let him go.