She regarded him coldly, in dead silence.
He continued softly, “You can’t make me believe you don’t care for me, Hetty. I have gotten to know you quite well, you know. You cried out in my mouth. I gave you pleasure you’ve never had before, I’ve made you feel things you want forever. Admit it.”
He would have preferred to haul her over his shoulder and get her away from this house, from her father, this very moment. But he knew Hetty. She would very likely tell him to go to the devil if he became the least bit autocratic, even if it was for her own good. Yet he hated to leave her to deal alone with her grief and sense of betrayal. She had turned away from him, presenting a board-stiff back. He had no idea what she was thinking. It scared the hell out of him.
“Hetty,” he said. She didn’t turn, so he continued addressing her back. “I don’t want you to believe that I shall continue pressing you. I’ve told you how I feel, and I would that you think about my words. I also know that you love me, that you love me deeply. However, I know that you’re not thinking clearly right now. Neither am I. We both need some time, you especially. I will leave you now and if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to come for dinner this evening. Perhaps then we can more rationally discuss what we are to do.”
“Very well,” she said, and he had the impression that she wasn’t actually agreeing with him, merely acquiescing at the moment so that she could be alone.
Rabbell entered the library, his face set in deep worry lines. “Your grace.”
The marquess pulled his attention from a sheaf of papers that, in all truth, he’d been reading and rereading and he still had no idea what the content was. “Yes, Rabbell?”
“It seems, your grace, that an odd person has arrived knocked at the front door, he did urgently demanding to see your grace. He informed me, your grace, that it was a matter of the gravest importance, concerning a Miss Rolland.”
“What?” The marquess bounded to his feet. “Don’t just stand there, show the damned fellow in.”
But a moment later, the marquess was facing a pale, out-of-breath Pottson.
“Oh my gawd, she up and skuttled the pike, your grace.”
“She’s what?”
“Loped off, gone without a word, your grace, fleeced the rod. Millie’s fit to be green with worry, begged me she did, to come to you, seeing as how you’d know what to do.”
The marquess felt suddenly quite cold. Damn, but he was a fool for ever leaving her alone. “Why does Millie believe that Miss Rolland has run away, Pottson? It has been but three hours since I left her.” Even as he spoke, the marquess found himself gazing toward the windows. It was already dusk. Night was soon coming.
“She told me, your grace, that Miss Hetty was acting oddlike, not saying a word, merely staring off when there was nothing to look at. Millie leaves her for only five minutes and when she comes back, Miss Hetty’s gone. Nobody even saw her leave, your grace, even the scullery maid, Agnes, who knows everything everyone does.”
“I see,” the marquess said. “Even Agnes didn’t see her. You’ve done right to come to me, Pottson.” As concisely and quickly as possible, the marquess told Pottson what had happened during the afternoon.
“Gawd,” Pottson said, then whistled softly. “Master Damien’s own father. Jesus, it’s well nigh unbelievable. It makes a man glad he didn’t even know which man were his father when something like this happens.”
“I know I can rely on your discretion in this matter. Even her brother, Sir John, will never know what happened. Now, we must try to determine where she would have gone.”
“Miss Hetty adored her brother, worshipped since she was a child, if your grace knows what I mean,” Pottson said after but an instant, his words making perfect sense to him. The marquess, however, didn’t understand.
“Sussex, your grace. It’s Sir Archibald’s country home, Belshire Manor, I believe is the name, near to Atelsfield. It’s where Master Damien is buried.”