As if his strength alone could keep the ravening world at bay, he wrapped her tight in his arms. Yearning to take her pain on himself. Yearning to shield her.
Of course he couldn’t. He’d flirted with damnation too often to pose as anyone’s savior.
Within too short a time, she withdrew, dashing at her eyes with unsteady hands. “If Johnny sees me here, everything is lost.” Shakily she stepped back to lean against the desk. “He must continue to believe I’m dead.”
She was right. She had to leave this house. Before encountering Benton. Before anyone saw her so obviously distraught. This at least Ranelaw could do for her.
His mind clicked into practicalities. “I’ll fetch Cassie and have your carriage brought around the back.”
“Won’t that cause speculation?” Her voice was dull and her gaze skittered away from his.
“Even if your absence is noted, everyone knows Cassie’s been ill.”
Her face was still drawn although she wasn’t crying anymore. He almost wished she would. Tears might be an improvement on her trembling desolation.
She raised her chin with a resurgence of the pride that had always struck him as completely unsuitable in a woman of her station. Whereas he discovered that the pride wasn’t unsuitable, it was the station. He swore that before much longer, he’d find out exactly who she was.
“My lord, I’m grateful for your trouble. There’s no reason you should aid me.”
He laughed shortly and with a hint of grimness. Surely she knew by now that they were in this together. “Don’t be a complete goose, Antonia.”
He strode behind the desk and rifled through the drawers until he found what he wanted. He dipped a pen in the inkwell and passed it across, sliding a sheet of paper before her.
“Ask Cassie to meet you in the retiring room. It’s the one place you’re safe. Although Benton’s such a milksop, he probably uses the ladies’ facilities.”
To his surprise, she released a choked laugh. “Poor Johnny. He never was a tower of strength.” Then she sobered. “I hoped I wouldn’t see him again.”
If Ranelaw had his way, she wouldn’t see the bastard again. Even if she wanted to. He extended the pen. “Write. We’ll work out a strategy tomorrow.”
She arched an eyebrow, reminding him of the woman who had fought him every step. He sent up hosannas of gratitude. He wanted her strong. Her wretchedness made him want to kill someone.
“We?” She took the pen and bent over the paper. She had slashing, quite masculine handwriting, he noticed.
“Yes. You and me.” He waited for her to sign the note and seal it. His voice lowered into urgency. The need to be with her was a rushing torrent in his blood. He had an absurd fancy that he could keep her safe. Absurd when safety was the last thing a rapscallion like him could offer her. “Will you meet me tomorrow?”
A faint line between her blond brows, she stared at him. “Nicholas . . .”
She sounded uncertain rather than hostile. She must feel like her world disintegrated, leaving nowhere to hide.
“I can’t bear to think of you facing all this alone. I want to help you.”
“You want more than that,” she said with a return of familiar wariness.
Just what did he want? The answer became more complicated by the day. He began to believe nothing less than all of her would satisfy him. God help her.
“Yes, I do. And so do you.” He caught her arm with a gentleness that acknowledged her vulnerability. She stiffened but didn’t pull free. “Antonia, don’t come because you’re afraid. Come because you want to. Come because you can’t stay away.”
Her eyes were troubled. “You think I’m too weak right now to say no.”
Cupping her cheek, he fought the urge to kiss her within an inch of her life, until she forgot Benton and the threat of scandal. He ached to snatch her in his arms and steal her away to a place where gossip and old pain couldn’t reach her. “I’ll meet you at noon in the mews behind the house.”
Already she shook her head. “Someone will see. And what will I tell Cassie?”
“You’ll think of something.” Suddenly he found himself smiling at her. Even with her cheeks sticky with tears and her beautiful eyes red and swollen, she was utterly glorious. “The woman who invented that story about a wager for a waltz can concoct a tale to satisfy a silly chit like Cassie.”
“She’s not a silly chit,” Antonia said automatically. She paused, biting her lower lip. Her face was pale and set, as though she contemplated a death sentence instead of untold rapture. Suspense bunched his belly into knots until she nodded briefly. “It will have to be later. I’ll meet you at six in the churchyard of St. Hilda’s. It’s near—”
His heart leaped with triumph. “I know it.”