Page 87 of Tender Blackguard

She’d love him.

She did love him.

The realization was raw and new and utterly overwhelming. Besides Harriet, she’d never loved anyone. For a time, she’d wondered if she were even truly capable of the emotion. But she knew with undeniable certainty that the feeling squeezing so tightly in her chest as she thought of Alastair was love. Love and the unrelenting desire for him to believe—deep down and truly—how worthy he was of the sentiment. How utterly deserving he was of the admiration and trust and tenderness she felt for him.

Just as suddenly as the revelation of her true feelings had filled her with joy and purpose, in the next breath, the crushing weight of reality took it all away.

Though she wanted nothing more than to express every bit of what she feeling, she knew with a sudden, stark, and painful certainty that nothing could come of it.

He was a titled lord while she was his housekeeper and a former thief. A love affair of any kind between them would be troubled and short. He’d resisted his attraction and pushed her away so many times already. And though he’d implied he wanted more of her after the wonderous night they’d shared in his bedroom, their time together was destined to end painfully. Her position in his household would constantly remind him of his father’s sins and make him doubt his own honor.

She couldn’t allow that.

And someday he’d need to marry and have children.

The pressure squeezing her heart intensified a hundredfold at the thought. She couldn’t fathom being around for that. Just the pain of imagining him with some lovely lady at his side was nearly too much to bear. She couldn’t put herself through that.

With a heavy, hollow feeling in her center, she acknowledged that she had only one choice to make. When she’d gone to him in his room, he’d begged her not to torment him. Her need for him had been too great to heed him then. But she could do it now. She had to.

Rising from the chair, she swallowed down her heart-aching grief. She was doing what needed to be done. Just as she always did. For his sake. And undeniably for hers. The longer she stayed with him and allowed herself to feel all that he inspired, the harder and more painful it would be when it finally ended.

It was better this way.

She repeated the thought over and over in her mind as she swiftly changed clothes and gathered her meager belongings. It didn’t take her very long, and the sun was just starting to lighten the sky as she left a note for Gideon then slipped from the house unseen.

#

AFTER SEVERAL HOURS at the magistrate’s office, Alastair returned home with only one desire in mind. He’d almost reached the hallway to Lark’s room when Gideon stopped him with a harshly cleared throat.

“A moment, my lord.”

Not even trying to disguise his frustration, Alastair turned to his butler. “What is it?”

“I apologize for bothering you with bad news the moment you return from your...ah, evening,” the elderly servant noted with a curious glance at Alastair’s undeniably rough appearance.

“Out with it, Gideon,” Alastair prompted as the butler took a rather pointed interest in the bloodstain Alastair had intently avoided acknowledging for the last hours.

“Yes, ah, it seems Mrs. Evans left us early this morning.”

Alastair stiffened sharply as a chilling sensation claimed him from head to toe.

“She left,” he repeated, the words forming with difficulty from his tightly clenched jaw.

“Yes,” the butler said again as a look of concern crossed his weathered face. “Her note referenced a family emergency of some sort. She offered sincere regrets but indicated she would not be returning.”

“Like hell,” Alastair muttered beneath his breath. Though fierce and terrifying emotions were coursing through his blood and he was tempted to run back through the door and search for the woman himself, he instead turned to take the stairs two at a time, tersely giving orders to Gideon as he went. “Have a bath sent up immediately and a horse saddled.”

“Yes, my lord,” Gideon acknowledged. “Shall I post the open housekeeper position?” he called after.

“I don’t give a damn.”

Fifteen minutes later, Alastair was banging on the door at the address Turner had given him the night of Lowndes’s party. The door was opened by a small-statured man in his later years who glared back at him with a pinched expression of annoyance.

“I’m looking for Mr. Turner.”

“Ain’t no one here by that name,” the man retorted as he started closing the door.

Alastair planted a heavy hand against the wood, stopping the man short. “He gave me this address himself. I saw him just a few hours ago and must speak with him immediately.”

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