Never Too Late

The coach was ready. There was nothing to do but leave. She’d already said her good-byes to Lady Devin. And she didn’t want to see the face of that snake, that Judas, that devil ever again. I love you, he’d said. Marry me, he’d said. She’d known it was a fiction; she just didn’t realize it was blatant, self-serving, despicable manipulation. He hadn’t just built a fairy tale; he’d built a trap. If she saw him, she couldn’t account for her actions or for any appendages he might lose. She needed to get back to her home, back to her shop, and get her things in order. And now she needed a long, scalding bath to wash away the tainted memory of his skin against hers. She’d tried so hard to be cautious, suspicious, but he’d broken her anyway.

Once safely inside the coach, ensconced in its dark, close interior, she allowed herself to reflect on the conversation she’d overheard. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. On her way to tea, she’d intended to see if Lord Devin—Lord Pisspot!—was available to escort her. She just wanted to see him. Oh, how girlishly foolish she’d been. The door had been slightly ajar, and she’d been taken aback by the voices within, sharp and unfriendly. Unwilling to impose or interrupt, she’d been just about to continue downstairs when she heard her name.

“Mr. Withersby insists that you terminate the threat Mrs. Duchamp poses and that you do it immediately. We now know she is responsible for these publications, and we are prepared to take more serious steps if you do not. But these delaying tactics are insufficient. She must not be allowed to continue her investigation, and she must be immediately discredited.”

Honoria thought the visitor’s voice sounded familiar but couldn’t place it. She couldn’t hear the content of Alex’s response, either, only the timbre of his voice. It was angry but not affronted or indignant. It was damning.

She slouched back into the coach cushions and thought about her first few meetings with him. His inquisitiveness, both in her and in the shop, made so much more sense now. She’d known all along he couldn’t genuinely be interested in either, but it hurt viscerally to know how thoroughly he’d deceived her, how completely he’d seduced her.

Her stomach clenched as her memory of their encounters unfolded behind her eyelids. Even last night, his declaration of love was all part of an elaborate falsehood. Her skin crawled as she thought of his caresses, of every kiss, of every stroke, of every damned thrust that now made her want to turn herself inside out. She’d guarded herself so carefully for so long. To be so easily fooled and so thoroughly debased made her want to skin herself alive. He’d made her feel valued, made her feel desirable, made her believe he just might . . . possibly . . . love her. She gripped at the leather of the seat, wanting to tear it apart, wanting to destroy something.

As the carriage put more miles between her and Sharling Worth, she forced herself to focus on what to do next. She would have to dismiss the Devin workers and complete the repairs herself. The Needlework ladies could perhaps be of some assistance, but she hated to ask. Perhaps most importantly, she would have to figure out how to replace the press.

All she could think of were problems upon problems needing attention. He’d made her believe he could help solve them. Little did she know he was the problem, incarnate. Resting her head back against the squabs, she fought back tears. Weakness would not do. She needed to be strong, needed to find the Mrs. Duchamp that she once was and reestablish her position of safety and reliability. That was a life she knew and trusted.