There simply was no future for them. Some realities were that stark, and all one could do was accept them.

She shook her head, her eyes on her hands still clasped in his.

“No,” she said. “I would rather you did not stay.”

“Why the devil not!” he exclaimed, his voice louder and more irritable—the voice of a man unaccustomed to being denied what he had set his heart on.

She tried to withdraw her hands, but he held on, squeezing her fingers and hurting them.

“The last couple of days were very pleasant,” she said. “At least, yesterday was. But it is time to get back to normal life, Mr. Marshall—Viscount Sinclair. It is time for both of us. I will never be your mistress and you will never marry me—or I you for that matter. There would be no point, then, in trying to prolong what was merely a pleasant interlude in both our lives.”

“Pleasant,” he said, sounding more than irritable now. He sounded downright thunderous. “We spent a day in close company with each other and a night in bed together, and it was pleasant, Frances?”

“Yes.” She kept her voice steady. “It was. But it was not something that can ever be repeated. It is time to say good-bye.”

He stared at her for a long time before releasing her hands. His eyes had flattened, she noticed, so that she could no longer read any of his thoughts or feelings in them. His expression had changed in other ways too. His mouth had lifted at the corners, but not really in a smile. One eyebrow had risen. He had retreated behind a mask of cynical mockery. It felt as if he had already gone away.

“Well, Miss Allard,” he said, “it seems that I was right about you at the start. It is not often I am rejected by a woman. It is not often my lovemaking is damned with such faint praise as to be called pleasant. You have no wish for any continuation of our acquaintance, then? Very well. I shall grant your wish, ma’am.”

In one short speech he had turned into a chilly, haughty aristocrat who bore little resemblance to the Lucius Marshall who had held her and loved her through the night.

She had expressed herself poorly, she realized.

But how else could she have expressed herself when she must have said essentially the same thing? There was no point now in telling him that his lovemaking had been earth-shattering, that her heart was breaking, that she might well mourn his loss for the rest of her life.

None of those things was true anyway in all probability. They were all true today, but tomorrow they would be a little less so and next week less so again. It was in the nature of strong emotion that it faded away over time. Her own previous experience had taught her that.

They sat silently side by side until finally—it seemed like forever, and it seemed far too soon—they were entering the outer limits of the city of Bath.

“You see?” he said, his voice so normal that her heart lurched again. “I told you I would deliver you safely to your school.”

“And so you did.” She smiled brightly, though he did not turn his head to see. “Thank you. I appreciate your coming out of your way more than I can tell you.”

“Miss Martin will be relieved to find that she is not to be one teacher short for tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes, indeed.” She was still smiling. “This evening is going to be a very busy one, with classes to prepare for tomorrow and everyone clamoring to share their Christmas stories with me.”

“And you will be happy to be back at work.” It was not really a question.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” she assured him. “Holidays are always welcome and always pleasant, but I enjoy teaching, and I have good friends at the school.”

“Friends are always important,” he said.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” she agreed brightly.

And so their last few minutes together were frittered away in bright, stilted, meaningless chatter as they avoided touching or looking into each other’s eyes.

The carriage turned onto Sydney Place and passed Sydney Gardens before turning onto Sutton Street and then onto Daniel Street, where Peters drew it in ahead of another carriage, which was disgorging a few passengers, including a young girl, and a mound of baggage outside the two tall, stately houses that together comprised Miss Martin’s school.

“Hannah Swan,” Frances murmured. “One of the junior girls.” As if he might be interested.

He reached into one of his pockets and drew out a visiting card. He folded it in two, pressed it into her palm, closed her fingers about it, and raised her hand to his lips.

“You may prefer it if I remain in here unseen,” he said. “This is good-bye after all, then, Frances. But if you should have need of me, you will find me at the address in London written on that card. I will come immediately.”

Her eyes had been fixed on the button that held his greatcoat closed at the neck. But now she raised them to gaze into his—hard, intense hazel eyes. There was no mistaking his meaning, of course. His jaw too looked hard and very square.

“Good-bye, Lucius,” she said.

By that time Peters had the door open and was setting down the steps.

“If they had any more baggage in that there coach,” he said conversationally, jerking his head in its direction, “the springs would be dragging on the road. You are staying in there, are you, then, guv? Too lazy to stretch your legs? Right you are, then. Give me your hand, miss, and mind this puddle.”

She turned quickly and descended hastily to the pavement. Within a moment she was swallowed up in the bustle surrounding the other carriage as baggage was lifted down from the roof and sorted and carried inside.

She put her head down and hurried past without a backward glance.


Although there was a great deal of commotion in the hallway inside the school doors with Hannah Swan standing there and both her parents taking their farewell of her and admonishing her with all sorts of last-minute advice, Mr. Keeble, the elderly porter, found time to greet Frances with a bow and wink at her and inform her in a quiet aside that some teachers would go to any lengths to avoid returning to school one moment sooner than they must. And Claudia Martin patted her on the arm, welcomed her back, told her she was glad to see her safe, and promised that they would talk later.

But she was not to avoid a more effusive welcome, Frances found. Even before she reached the head of the stairs she met two more junior girls on their way down to claim Hannah, and they chattered and giggled at her for a whole minute without stopping, telling her something about Christmas that she could scarcely comprehend. And no sooner had she arrived upstairs in her room, shut the door behind her, undone the ribbons of her bonnet with her left hand and tossed it onto the bed, and blown out air from her puffed cheeks than the door burst open again after the merest tap of a knock and Susanna Osbourne came hurrying in to catch up Frances in an exuberant hug.

“Oh, you wretch!” she cried. “You have given Anne and me two sleepless nights, and even Miss Martin was worried, though she would insist that you are far too sensible to have risked putting yourself in any danger. We pictured you frozen into an icicle in some snowbank. It is such a relief to see you back safe.”

Susanna was the youngest of the four resident teachers at the school. Small, auburn-haired, green-eyed, exquisitely pretty, and vivacious, she looked far too young to be a teacher—and in truth she was still only a junior teacher, promoted two years before after six years as a pupil at Miss Martin’s school. But despite her small stature and youthful looks, she had succeeded at the difficult task of winning the respect and obedience of girls who had once been her fellow pupils.

Frances hugged her in return and laughed. But before she could say anything, she was caught up in another hug by Anne Jewell, one of the other teachers.

“I assured Susanna, just as Claudia did, that you are far too sensible to have left your great-aunts’ house in such inclement weather,” she said. “I am glad we were both right, Frances. Though of course I did worry.”

Anne was loved by staff and pupils alike. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, and lovely, she was also even-tempered, approachable, and sympathetic to even the lowliest, least intelligent and well-favored pupils—especially to them, in fact. If she had favorites, they tended to be among the charity girls, who made up half the school’s population. But there were always those few girls of more elevated social status who lost no opportunity to remark upon the fact that Miss Jewell—with a significant emphasis on the Miss—had a young son living with her at the school.

Even Frances and Susanna did not know the full story behind David Jewell’s existence, though Claudia Martin doubtless did. They were firm friends, all four of them, but even friends were entitled to some secrets. And as for David, he had a nursemaid all to himself as well as several unofficial teachers and was adored by the girls and spoiled by the staff. He was a sweet child nonetheless, and he had great artistic talent and potential, according to Mr. Upton, the art master.