Page 8 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

M r. Ashcroft stopped at the portico. He started to jump down and Meredith touched his arm. “Don’t bother, sir. I’m saturated through. I’ll manage.”

“Hurry, then,” he said. “I shall see you tomorrow.” He helped her down without letting go of the reins but waited until she was under the portico before driving off.

She knew he would drop the carriage at the stables before making his own dash for the steward’s cottage on the far side of the grounds.

Meredith was met at the door by a surprisingly efficient Mr. Verity. The number of times he’d opened the door for her could be recounted on one hand in the three years she’d been in residence. “Have Agnes fill the tub with hot water,” she told him, stripping off her spencer, gloves, and bonnet.

The portly man cleared his throat. “Mayhap you would care to change first, milady.”

She started for the stairs. “Of course, I’m going to change. I’m freezing.”

“Er, you’ve a… er, the, ah, master is waiting in the library, milady.”

“What?” Blast. How could she have forgotten—easily, of course. Her own misfortunes were nothing compared to what the Trenwiths were facing now with the horrifically tragic event they’d just endured.

With a squelching spin of her half-boots, Meredith changed direction and stormed her favorite chamber.

Lucius Oshea, Viscount Perlsea, Earl Pender stood at the windows with his back to her, his hands in the pockets of his finely cut trousers.

“Well, if it isn’t the specter of my long-lost husband,” she said.

He turned slowly. Unperturbed. Unrepentant. Unwelcome. The depth of his gray eyes swirled with seething fury.

Meredith caught herself from stepping back, instead straightening her shoulders, though her skin rose in gooseflesh, not all due to the chill.

“I see your memory has returned. Two-fold. One, that you have a wife, and two, that you were able to find your way back to Perlsea Keep. Was it a sudden aberration?” she asked in a speculative tone.

The fire failed in warming her and she stepped closer, rubbing her palms over her upper arms.

His eyes narrowed but he didn’t speak. He went to the corner cabinet where she kept the decanter of brandy and poured out two glasses. He strolled over and handed her one. With an indication of his head, he said, “What a handsome alteration you’ve affected.”

“What else was I to do?” she muttered. “Lest you forget, it has been three years.”

“So it has.” He shook his head, his expression one of abject disgust. “A countess wallowing in the mud with the locals no less. Hugging a man who was not her husband, I might add. For all of God and sundry to witness.”

Suddenly, she was no longer cold. Her skin burned from the inside out.

A raging fever that, if bottled, could heat the entire castle.

A hate so intense, it seemed to rise from her body and tint the air with a steaming red haze.

The contents of her brandy sloshed the sides of the glass, nearly spilling over.

She gripped it with both hands to steady it, stared down into the amber contents too furious to speak momentarily.

Slowly, she raised it to her lips and took a cautious sip.

Liquid fire singed all the way down. She took another.

Meredith lifted her eyes to his cold, cold, cold ones. “How dare you?” she gritted out in a harsh whisper.

“Who is he?” How good he was at banking his anger, she noted with a surreal detachment.

“The steward, of course. He’s been here almost from the moment of your desertion,” she bit out, wishing she could manage the same sense of detachment.

“Do you know how it felt to learn that my father-in-law had been murdered? From a London broadsheet?” Her voice sounded almost shrill.

With an inhalation through her nose, she let it out slowly and tried again.

“The townspeople have been kind enough to inform me that I am now countess to the Earl of Pender.”

His flinch was minute, but it was a crack in the calm facade he presented. “I came here to inform you that I will be petitioning for an annulment.”

Shock rendered her speechless and she stared at him, quite aware her mouth hung open yet with an inability to close it. A second later, the statement hit her with an unexpected bout of hilarity and her laughter erupted. “On what grounds?”

“Your lover. He is the one who fathered the child you carry, I take it.” His hand came up and flattened against the lapel over his heart—rock. Rock she envisioned as his heart.

A chill iced away the fire in her blood even as outrage at this bunk had her sputtering.

She slammed her glass down on a low table and rubbed her arms again.

Then confusion hit. “Mr. Ashcroft is not my lover. He is our steward. I have no lover, and I am not with child. Who on earth would say such a thing?”

“Your father. He announced the thrilling occasion the night before my father’s services. Regardless,” he went on, reaching inside his frockcoat. “It changes nothing. I wish to apply for an annulment.”

Again, she laughed at the absurdity. “Any child I bear will be considered yours, my lord. It would also negate any fact that our union was unconsummated. Besides that, Rathbourne will never allow it. He will kill you first.” Meredith moved to the settee and sat. Her teeth chattered.

*

Shock pulsed to Lucius at her words. He pulled his hand away from the drafted letter he’d had every intention of presenting her and ran a hand through his too-long hair; looked at this slip of girl he’d met only once before—on the day of their nuptials.

She was right. If she was with child, it wouldn’t matter who had sired it. He would be considered the father.

Long locks of her gold-burnished hair hung in tatters, gleaming in the fire’s glow, her skin dewy from the rain. He shrugged out of his coat and dropped it around her shoulders. “Why were you sitting in the mud?”

She stared into the blaze and shivered. “I’d just carried a ten-year-old child from the mine.

” The husky resonance was nothing of what he remembered all those years ago, standing before the bishop.

“I watched his father dig him out from the rubble with his bare hands. I’ve never seen such fierce determination in my life,” she whispered.

He waited for, yet knew, the words to follow.

“Dead,” she choked out. “His little chest… crushed.” She dropped her face in her hands and silent sobs shook her slight frame.

Lucius couldn’t remember a time he’d been affected by a woman’s tears.

Docia never cried. Women of the night never cried.

He and his cronies laughed about the debutantes who’d tried and failed to manipulate them into marriage shackles with such antics.

But this display was not an antic. “You must get warm,” he said gruffly, shoving a handkerchief in her hand.

A hand so delicate, it could break if he looked at it too harshly. “I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”

His countess didn’t raise her head, just nodded and stood where his coat slid off slender shoulders, exposing the letter he’d brought for her to sign.

She started toward the doors but turned back, her glistening eyes reflecting the firelight.

“There is a reason our fathers wanted this union. They planned it for years. Do you ever wonder why?”

At the door, she clasped the knob. “By the way, your chamber…” she fluttered out a hand. “Has not been updated. I had no reason to expect you, you see.” With that, she left on silent steps, leaving him with the conundrum of a very pointed, very good question.

Why had their fathers wanted this union so badly? The deal had been struck when he was but thirteen and she… five. It was curious and the question deserved an answer.