Regency Marriages. Elizabeth Rolls

there is nothing you can do to block the two hundred a year. With that I will be independent and can do as I please.’

      Aberfield’s colour deepened to an alarming purple. ‘You mean to have Blakehurst, then?’

      ‘That, my lord, is not your concern.’

      His teeth clenched, he said, ‘Make sure he understands you’ll not see a penny more than the two hundred before your thirtieth birthday.’

      The door opened to admit the butler.

      ‘Ah, Myles. His lordship was just leaving.’

      His face stiff with fury, Aberfield stalked out of the room without another word.

      As the door closed, Thea sank on to the sofa, all the cold fury ebbing to leave her drained and shaking. But she had done it! Stood up to Aberfield and forced him to realise that he had no power over her any longer. That there was nothing he could do to force her marriage or control her actions. That knowledge had fuelled his anger. His parting shot about only receiving the two hundred per annum until she turned thirty suggested that he accepted that she would not marry Dunhaven. Which left her free to contemplate the sort of life she wanted for herself.

      The future stretched out before her, not golden, but peaceful. Or it would be if she could only rid herself of the guilt and pain—the child had been an innocent, blameless of any wrongdoing. Had her actions been responsible for its death? At the very least she had been partly responsible for its unmourned, unmarked grave. It. That sounded so cold. So uncaring. Like Aberfield’s reference to the child as a brat or whelp. As though its very life hadn’t mattered. It again. She had no other way to think of her lost baby. A shudder racked her as she stared blindly into the empty fireplace. She was vaguely aware that the doorbell had rung. An annoyed voice echoed in the front hall, followed by the slam of the front door. It wasn’t important. Her vision blurred. She didn’t even know if her baby had been a boy or a girl … they had refused to tell her.

      For the first time in seven years someone had spoken of her dead baby—as proof of her fertility. Her hands clenched into fists until the nails dug into her palms as she looked back at the mess her younger self had made of everything. If only she had known … had realised in time … She swallowed hard. She could see now what she should have done … and it was far, far too late. She felt cold, cold all over, as though a void inside her had been filled with ice.

      The door opened and she looked round. ‘Yes, Myles?’

      ‘Your tea, miss.’ The old man looked at her kindly. ‘If I may say so, Miss Thea, you look as though a nap wouldn’t go astray. Why don’t you go on up and I’ll send one of the maids to help you?’

      Heat pricked at her eyes at the kindness in his voice. What a fool she was to feel like crying because of a simple expression of kindness when her father’s callous actions merely left her cold with fury.

      ‘Thank you, Myles,’ she said, forcing words past the choking lump in her throat. ‘I’ll do that.’ She went over to the door. ‘I’ll leave the tea for now. I’m sorry to waste your time.’

      He shook his head. ‘Not to worry, Miss Thea.’ He hesitated. ‘Lord Dunhaven called. Just after Lord Aberfield left.’

      So that was who had owned the loud, blustering voice.

      ‘You denied me?’

      Myles’s mouth flickered into what in a less well-trained butler might have been a smile. ‘No, Miss Thea, although her ladyship had instructed me to do so.’ The smile escaped its bonds. ‘Mr Blakehurst beat me to it.’

      Warmth eased the aching chill within her.

      ‘I am never at home to Lord Dunhaven,’ she told him. ‘Nor …’ she drew a deep breath ‘ … to Lord Aberfield, unless I have informed you of a prior appointment.’

      ‘Very good, Miss Thea.’

      She nodded and left the room.

      The maid answered her summons and helped her out of her gown and stays. Clad only in her shift, Thea snuggled down under the bedclothes and closed her eyes.

      When she opened them again the shadows in the room had moved. She yawned and stretched. She felt better, although she didn’t think she had slept for terribly long. A glance at the clock on the mantel confirmed this. She hadn’t slept for more than an hour and a half. But she felt refreshed, in spirit as much as body.

      It was as though facing her father had drained a poison from her, its passage leaving her cleansed. She was a long way from happy, but there was no longer the sapping despair. Her gaze fell on a carved wooden box beside the armoire. Now there was a task she had been putting off—sorting out her collection of … of what? Rubbish? Tangible memories? Ever since she was a little girl she had kept cherished mementoes in that box. Reminders of past joy. Birthday party invitations, tickets to Astley’s Amphitheatre, courtesy of a generous impulse on the part of Richard when she was ten, letters, even a few from her mother after she had been banished to Aunt Maria, despite Aberfield’s orders to the contrary. David’s letters. And some things that had given her pain … like the brief, factual note her father had written informing her of her mother’s illness and death, after the funeral had taken place.

      That had been almost the last thing she had put in apart from David’s letters. For the past year or so she had not even dared to look inside, just shoving each letter in and locking the box again.

      But now … now she had things to put in it again. Invitations. Notes from Diana—telling her that friendship could endure. There was a little pile of papers down in the drawer of the escritoire in the drawing room. She would take the box down there and sort it out. When she had glanced into it before leaving Yorkshire it had been a terrible mess. It was time to sort it all out. She rang for a maid to help her with her stays.

      She found the drawing room occupied.

      His back to the door, Richard was sitting near the window in one of Almeria’s prized Egyptian chairs, complete with gilt crocodile arms. Not odd in itself, but the chair was placed squarely in the middle of a raft of newspaper sheets. A faint scraping sound gave her the clue, and she understood; Richard was carving. He had the tea table beside him, and on it she could see several knives, a cloth and several small wooden objects on more spread newspaper.

      Silent laughter welled up. He hadn’t changed at all. Except that he obviously thought of the newspaper for himself now, rather than after Lady Arnsworth scolded him for making a mess.

      She cleared her throat and he glanced round, frowning.

      ‘Ah.’ The frown disappeared. ‘Ring the bell.’

      She did so, and then asked, ‘Why?’

      ‘Myles will bring some tea now you are awake. Did you sleep well?’

      She nodded. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

      ‘Idiot. What have you got there?’

      A blush heated her cheeks. ‘My collection, for want of a better word.’ Heavens! He’d think all this rubbish … well, rubbish!

      ‘Collection?’ He looked curious. ‘I had no idea you collected something. What is it? Sea shells? Roman coins? Max and I used to find them around Blakeney when we were boys.’

      ‘Nothing so exciting,’ she told him, and explained.

      To her complete surprise he wasn’t in the least dismissive. ‘When you’re an old, old woman, your grandchildren will find that fascinating. It will tell them something about how you lived.’

      She set the box down on the escritoire, and said dubiously, ‘I suppose so.’ Perhaps David’s grandchildren.

      He laughed. ‘Would you believe the British Museum has an extensive collection of ephemera, courtesy of old Miss Banks?’

      ‘Miss Banks?’ She lifted the lid of the box.

      ‘Sir Joseph Banks, the