Page 40 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

He caught her hand in his as she walked past him. “Do you like it?”

She stopped and turned to face him. It was there again. That faint hint of almost boyish uncertainty lurking behind his eyes. It moved her deeply. “It’s more than I ever dared hope for.”

Justin held her gaze for several seconds. “I’m glad it pleases you.” His voice was deeper than usual, if that was possible. For a moment, it looked as if he wanted to say something more. She waited, but in the next instant he released her hand. “We dine at seven. Shall I come and fetch you?”

“Do, please. I’ll never find my way to the dining room otherwise.”

Justin inclined his head to her and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

Helena exhaled heavily. She looked around the bedchamber again, trying hard not to compare it to her luxurious room in Grosvenor Square. Was Jenny still there? Was she, even now, sitting in front of the marble fireplace and knitting a pair of mittens for one of her charity cases? She’d promised she would remain. That she would wait to hear from Helena.

“Once you’re married, you send a note to Mr. Finchley. He’s an enterprising sort of fellow. He’ll see I get it. And then, my love, if you need me, I’ll be on the next train to Devon.”

But what if Jenny had already gone? What if—after Helena’s disappearance—they’d cast her off into the street?

Or worse.

Much subdued by her thoughts, Helena returned to the bathroom.

A half hour later, she emerged from the tub in a much more positive frame of mind. Tonight, after dinner, she would tell Justin everything. She wouldn’t let another day pass without him knowing the truth. And if he was angry or disappointed…

Well, then, she would just have to bear it, wouldn’t she?

She unpinned her hair, giving it a half-hearted brushing as she made her way back into the bedroom. The rain sounded far lighter than the deluge that had marked their drive from Abbot’s Holcombe. She drew back one side of the heavy damask curtains and peered out the window. Raindrops streaked down the glass in haphazard squiggles. Through their watery blur, she could see out over the drive and down to the stable beyond.

It was still muddy, gray, and miserable, but the rain had lessened, even if only by a small amount.

Perhaps the road to the Abbey wouldn’t be impassible after all?

She propped her hip on the window embrasure and, through sheer force of habit, stared out at the view a little longer. It was stupid to continue keeping such a vigil. No one would dare come here in pursuit of her. Even if they knew where she was, they wouldn’t brave the roads. Not in this beastly weather.

Besides, she was a married woman now. The only man who had any legal rights over her was Justin Thornhill. No other man could compel her to do anything. They simply hadn’t the power. Not to hurt her—to confine her or to lay hands on her. And certainly not to force her to return to London.

She moved to rise.

And then she saw it. Lights blinking unsteadily at the bend of the cliff road.

She squinted, trying to make them out. It wasn’t necessary. They grew brighter before her eyes, coming closer and closer still. They were advancing toward the Abbey at an unrelenting pace.

An icy cold trickle of fear skated down her spine.

They were carriage lamps. And they were attached to a coach that was, even now, turning into the drive.

She watched, frozen where she stood, as it came to a halt in front of the entrance to the Abbey. A footman leapt down from the box and opened the door to the coach. He lowered the steps and then stood back as a man in a heavy black coat descended. Another man followed close behind. A hulking and all-too-familiar figure. He lifted his head to scan the face of the Abbey and—

Oh, God!

Helena backed away from the window, her heart in her throat.

And she didn’t think. She couldn’t. All rational thought seemed to have fled in the face of so much terror. Nothing was left but instinct.

So, she did what she had always done.

She ran.

Justin leaned against the fireplace mantel, arms folded across his chest. Things would have been so much easier if Helena had consented to remain at the hotel. He’d had it all so carefully arranged. The comfortable room. The champagne. The complete absence of interruption. Now, instead of enjoying privacy with his new wife, he was standing in a slightly damp library, contemplating two equally damp men.

One of whom was the local magistrate.