Page 82 of The Heart of an Earl

What did Lady Hewton’s crest look like?

She stumbled along the carriages, looking at crest after crest under the row of torches on the drive—looking for something she recognized. She hadn’t taken close enough notice at the carriage when she’d gotten into it with her Aunt Eliana and Lady Hewton.

She squinted, looking back and forth along the horses and black carriages, panic squeezing her chest. So very opposite from the fun—true nonsensical fun—it had been with visiting her aunt’s friend, Lady Hewton, these past two months. Fun she hadn’t experienced in the last eleven years.

Jules had become quick friends with Lady Hewton. Her aunt and Lady Hewton were both widows and they were of similar age as Jules, as Aunt Eliana was several years younger than Jules—born of her grandfather’s second wife when Jules was three years old. And they were akin to Jules—women with no need for men in their lives.

Damn that fun. The three of them had been laughing as they had stepped up into the carriage earlier in the day to come to Wolfbridge Castle.

Laughing instead of looking at the bloody crest.

“Lady Julianna?”

Her head whipped to the left.

A carriage driver approached her.

She nodded. Thank the heavens the driver recognized her, for she only partially recognized him.

“Are you looking for the Hewton carriage, m’lady?”

“I am, thank you.” Her right hand lifted, wrapping around the front of her neck to help squeeze words from her throat. “I am not feeling well and Lady Hewton bid you to take me back to her residence, then return for her and my aunt.”

A lie, but her aunt would understand and would make Lady Hewton understand if her missing carriage became a problem. The driver could be back at Wolfbridge well before the festivities ended. Eliana enjoyed these events until dawn, and Lady Hewton was of the same inclination.

“As you wish, m’lady.” The driver nodded to her and led her to the Hewton carriage. “Did you have a wrap, m’lady?”

Jules’s fingers went to her bare shoulders. She shook her head. “I did, but it is fine. I would just prefer to leave, please.”

He inclined his head to her as the footman pulled the stairs for her then held out his hand to help her up into the carriage. “There are two lap blankets inside to warm you.”

“Thank you.”

Jules collapsed onto the cushioned bench in the dark confines of the coach. Her legs, her body giving out, all sense of muscle and solid bones leaving her body.

The well-sprung carriage started to move and she dragged the red wool blanket onto her lap, curling her bare forearms under the warmth of it and closing her eyes.

Des.

Des alive.

Alive and here in England. In Lincolnshire.

Des at a bloody ball.

Alive.

Alive and with a damned wife.

Years—years she had closed herself off from the world, to everyone around her for how hollow her chest had become, for her heart that had shattered when she’d learned Des was dead—never to be put back together.

And he’d been alive, moving on. Moving on with a wife. A young, beautiful wife that could give him children.

Tears spilled over her lower lashes and her hand darted out from under the blanket, her thumb wiping away fat droplets. Her fingers still smelled like him. Smelled like the heat of him.

She jerked her hand away, driving it under the blanket and scrubbing at it with the wool cloth.

No. No tears. No thinking of him.

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