Chapter Fourteen

 

Hugo put the finishing touches to his cravat, and Trent held up his coat with a knowing grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this cheerful, Captain. Not since I’ve known you.”

“Not Captain anymore, Trent, remember? And what the hell do you mean?”

“You were whistling.”

“I was?” He hadn’t noticed.

Trent eased the tight-fitting black evening coat over Hugo’s shoulders with a grunt. “Yes.”

His mood was light. Carefree. Coming to such a momentous decision ought to give him pause, yet he felt only the excitement of anticipation. He’d found the perfect answer to the mistakes of the past. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked different, younger. He smoothed his hair. He’d get a haircut in London.

“Looking forward to this ball, then, sir? It’s about time you did more than worry about the estate.”

Hugo groaned. He was so focused on the future that he’d almost forgotten why he was getting all dressed up. “It should be a pleasant enough evening.” He noticed his voice lacked the enthusiasm of moments before. Damn Trent and his poking and prying.

Trent picked up two ruined neckcloths from the floor and headed for the pile of wet towels and dirty linens by the tub. “It’s the widow-woman, isn’t it? Mrs. Graham?”

Tucking a small square of fine lawn into his tailcoat pocket, Hugo couldn’t resist a small smirk. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Trent bundled the dirty laundry in a towel, his usually lighthearted expression turning somber. “You want to be careful with that one. She’s probably got family somewhere waiting to pounce.”

The niggling doubts he’d harbored scurried from a dark corner of Hugo’s mind out into the light. He really knew very little about Lucinda’s family. He shoved it back into the shadows, unwilling to examine it too closely. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Something strange about her,” Trent said with a flick of the washcloth. “Albert closes up as tight as an oyster round a pearl if I so much as ask a simple question.”

Pretty much as Lucinda did. Hugo knew as much about her background now as he had after their first chess game. He didn’t need to know about her past. He knew her. It was enough.

At his lack of response, Trent shrugged and carried the bundle of laundry to the door. “Will you need me any more tonight?”

“No. Where are you off to?”

“I thought I’d call in at the village dance. The miller’s daughter is reputed to have a roving eye.”

The thought of Trent cavorting with a willing wench while Hugo did the pretty to the coy young ladies at the Hall dampened his spirits.

“Just watch your step, Trent. These are my people. My responsibility. Get a lass into trouble, and you’ll find yourself wed before the froth is off the ale.”

Trent paused in the doorway, a taunting grin lighting his fair face. “Afraid I’ll cut you out with Mrs. Graham?”

He shut the door before Hugo could lob the hairbrush at his head.

A faint buzzing sound filled Hugo’s ears. He wasn’t afraid that Trent would cut him out. He had proved his loyalty in blood, but there would be other men at the village dance. Brown and the local farmers. One of them might tempt Lucinda with an offer of marriage before Hugo had a chance to firm up his own proposition. Why the hell she had refused the invitation to the squire’s ball, preferring instead to remain at the fête, he didn’t understand. She seemed happier rubbing shoulders with the villagers than mixing with the Dawsons and their guests. Stubborn do-good woman.

A wry little smile crossed his lips. He wouldn’t have minded avoiding the Dawsons’ ball himself. He should have said no as he wished, instead of doing his noble duty.

 

• • •

 

Supper over and the remains of the meal cleared away by the village ladies under Miss Crotchet’s watchful eye, the men moved the trestles and benches to the perimeter of the tent.

As one of the few single ladies present, Miss Crotchet had latched on to Lucinda at supper. Now they chose a table in the shadows farthest from the ruffians at the bar. Lucinda forced herself to lean back and watch the fun. Mr. Peddle was doing a roaring trade at the other end of the tent, while couples in their Sunday best and some of the older generation took their ease at tables. Beside her, a farmer with a nasal voice jabbed a pipe at the air for emphasis as he expounded on the attributes of his bull to his neighbor.

The orchestra had arrived as supper was ending and now played a merry country dance. Lucinda’s foot tapped in time to the music. She’d forgotten how much she liked to dance, repressed it really, because the Duke of Vale despised dancing, and therefore so did Denbigh. And besides, the last time she had joined a set, her elegant husband had likened her to a heifer in a fit. She almost laughed. In this company, she’d look right at home.

Despite her smile, she could not help but recall how hurt she’d been at the time, how mortified and small inside she’d felt. A horrid sensation. Only now did she recognize how far she had retreated from public life after that day. A fortunate thing, apparently, or she might have met Miss Dawson, or one of her friends, in London. She had been right to flee, to take back her life, even if she had caused a scandal. And besides, a scandal only lasted until the next one came along. The only thing needed to make her happiness complete was to be able to see her family occasionally. A hopeless dream.

Miss Crotchet leaned close to make herself heard. “We were lucky with the weather today, Mrs. Graham.” The lined face beamed and nodded, the little feather in her hair looking surprisingly jaunty. “And the vicar was so gracious in his thanks to the committee at supper.”

Lucinda smiled. “Yes, he truly is a gentleman.” Her gaze wandered to the lanky vicar chatting with a group of parishioners.

“I’m going to miss all the planning,” Miss Crotchet said

In those wistful faded eyes, Lucinda glimpsed her future. Seemingly a widow, but not free to wed, she would also be required to view other couples’ enjoyment from a distance, like an outsider peering through a window. Once Sophia grew up and left home, Lucinda would be on her own. After growing up in such a large family, it seemed odd. Feeling kinship for the frail elderly lady, Lucinda reached over and gave her papery hand a squeeze. “I am sure the vicar will have lots more fund-raising ideas.”

Miss Crotchet cheered instantly. “It was fortunate you managed to convince his lordship to let us use his land.”

“He really didn’t take much convincing.” At least, not of the kind Miss Crotchet had in mind. A little burst of heat trickled up from Lucinda’s abdomen. To cover her discomfort, she drummed her fingers on the tabletop in time to the Roger de Coverley now in full swing.

“Good thing he’s more like his grandfather than his father, I’d say,” Miss Crotchet continued in a conspiratorial voice. “Mind you, the old earl had his troubles, poor man.”

Hugo had never spoken of his father. “Troubles?”

The elderly spinster lowered her voice and put her lips close to Lucinda’s ear. “Women troubles. The countess. A prettier lady you couldn’t hope for, but so delicate. According to her maid, he made her cry every time he went nigh her, the brute. She used to drive about the estate, bringing comfort to the poor and the sick, a regular saint.” She nodded sagely. “After her death, I heard the old earl was thinking of marrying again.”

Gossip. Lucinda put it down to fiction based on very little fact. It had been the same at home, the tenants always watching the inhabitants of the big house, putting their lives under a microscope and drawing their own, often wrong, conclusions.

“I am sure there are two sides to every story,” Lucinda said firmly.

Mr. Brown, looking serious and just a little diffident, approached their table. He offered an awkward bow. “Will you do me the honor of a dance, Mrs. Graham?”

Miss Crotchet trilled a laugh. “Go on, Mrs. Graham. It’ll be Christmastide before we see another celebration.”

Wishing neither to hurt Mr. Brown’s feelings nor give him untoward encouragement, Lucinda hesitated. She had gone into half-mourning, but would the villagers be shocked if she danced?

His serious brown eyes pleaded his case.

The band struck up a cotillion. “Very well,” she said, rising to her feet and taking his warm, moist hand. She towered above the steward and made two of his slight frame, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself. He led her to the bottom of the first set. The numbers being even, they waited for the first couples to complete their steps, and then it was their turn.

Brown proved to be an accomplished if ponderous dancer and a little too enthusiastic in the turns. Still, not once did he tread on her toes or go the wrong way, as happened with a couple of the men further up the set.

Breathless and laughing, she let him return her to her seat. “Thank you, sir, that was most enjoyable.”

He bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Graham.” His neck flushed brick red.

“It is warm, isn’t it?” Miss Crotchet said with a sly little smile.

Brown swallowed. “Yes indeed. Thank you again, Mrs. Graham.” He turned and strode off, clearly laboring under some strong emotion. Oh, dear. Perhaps she should not have danced after all.

“My, oh, my,” Miss Crotchet said. “You are charming them out of the trees today. First his lordship, now Mr. Brown.”

A flush as hot as Mr. Brown’s flooded Lucinda’s face. Some of the delight seeped out of the moment. Did Hugo boast of the conquest of his widowed tenant? She didn’t want to believe it. She cast around for a distraction. “Look, there is Trent, his lordship’s valet, at the bar. I wonder if he enjoyed the day? He certainly worked hard enough.”

The handsome scoundrel had one booted foot on a bench and a flagon of ale in his hand. He leaned forward to whisper something in a pretty village girl’s ear. Trip’s daughter. A young lady with a less-than-spotless reputation.

“Oh, my,” breathed Miss Crotchet. “There is his lordship. Talking to the vicar.”

Hugo? Here? Lucinda’s body quickened at the mere mention of his name. She drew back into the shadows, afraid others would notice the intensity of her reaction.

“My, doesn’t he look fine?” Miss Crotchet cooed. “Such a handsome figure of a man, such military bearing. How kind of him to drop in to see how we are going on.”

The older lady cast a speculative glance in Lucinda’s direction. She kept her expression blank and watched the lord of the manor visiting his peasants. She repressed the unkind thought. Hugo had done a great deal for his tenants and dependents today. He had no need to show his face to curry their favor, yet here he was mixing and mingling. More evidence that he no longer needed her to get him involved. Her heart contracted, even as her mind took pleasure in her triumph.

In deep conversation with the vicar, Hugo allowed his gaze to sweep the room. The moment it alighted on her, she knew for certain he’d been looking for her. He didn’t single her out or dash to her side, but his lingering glance contained so much warmth, she could almost feel it on her skin. Her eyes drifted half closed with pleasure, her lips curved in a welcoming smile. Swiftly, she caught her unconscious response, straightened her shoulders, and fixed her gaze on the dancers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the two men shake hands. Good. He was leaving. If she was glad, why did her stomach dip in disappointment and then rise again as he circled the tent toward her?

Casual, bluff, and extraordinarily attractive, he traversed the tent, shaking a hand here, slapping a back there. The villagers in their turn greeted him with respect. The charming smile he bestowed on Mrs. Peddle at the bar didn’t sit so well. Especially not when Mrs. Peddle actually simpered. He also had a few words with Trent.

From beneath her lashes, she watched him accept a mug of ale from the blacksmith anchorman on the squire’s rope-pulling team and down it in one draft. The other man, who matched Hugo in breadth, looked as pleased as punch.

The man had turned from sullen bear into charming man-of-the-world. If only fate had been kind and they had met earlier. It would be wrong to continue their meetings and not tell him the truth. His anger at Denbigh’s vile treatment had been palpable. What would he do if he knew Denbigh still lived? Might he think it his duty to send her back? A chill ran down her spine. Hugo would never betray her to her husband. Would he? She daren’t take the risk.

The sadness she’d been ignoring all day welled up in her throat, clogged her nose, and burned at the back of her eyes. It didn’t matter what she wanted or how she felt about him; she had to end it before it developed into something meaningful. The wave of pain that hit her heart told her what her mind refused to believe. For her, it had already gone too deep.

A sense of loss seemed to fill her with a strange sense of detachment.

She forced herself to watch the dancing instead of his progress through the room, not sure she could hide her grief.

And then he loomed in front of her.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said with a flash of white teeth and a small bow. “I trust you are enjoying yourselves?”

“How good of you to ask, my lord,” Miss Crotchet gushed. “I was just telling Mrs. Graham, it is just like the old days.”

He turned the full power of his penetrating gaze on Lucinda. Her heart clenched. She could not breathe. It was as if he held her close against his beautiful hard body. Her heartbeat thundered loud in her ears. “I didn’t expect to see you here, my lord. I understood you were to attend the Dawsons’ ball.”

He stiffened slightly at the edge in her tone, an edge she really hadn’t intended to show, but he retained his pleasant expression. “I thought this might offer more entertainment.”

Was he mocking her? Farmers and laborers in homespun trousers cavorted on the dance floor. They were all hearty laughter and red faces, sweating in the confines of unaccustomed cravats and partnering women in outdated gowns. And there he was, magnificent in the finest black evening clothes, eyes glinting a challenge.

“Will you honor me with a dance, Mrs. Graham?”

She drew in a quick, surprised breath at the sensation of longing and the quickening of her heart before common sense took command. She opened her mouth to refuse.

A mere flash of bleakness darkened his gaze, but she caught it, even as he braced his shoulders and schooled his face into bland unconcern.

What harm would one dance do? She’d sat in the shadows all through her marriage, and now she wanted to dance. Her feet could barely remain still.

She placed her fingers lightly on his large warm palm, feeling the shock of his touch all the way to her toes. The hard line of his mouth softened as he brought her to her feet, his gaze one of warm approval, as if she’d done more than agree to dance. Her heart fluttered. Much more of this and she would lose what was left of her mind and her resolve.

He led her to the orchestra dais as the set drew to a close, his military background apparent in the set of his shoulders and the precision of his stride perfectly adjusted to hers. “A waltz, if you please,” he commanded of the conductor.

A waltz? How shocking. Only the raciest of hostesses allowed the dance at their balls. Geoffrey had taught her one rainy afternoon while Denbigh had been off on a hunting trip. It was scandalous. And fun. Surely a country band wouldn’t know such a thing? But after barely a moment’s pause, the orchestra struck up the music.

Hugo pulled her into his arms and guided her into the steps as if no one else existed, just the two of them. It dawned on her, looking at his smug expression, that he had planned this in advance. The man was impossible, as irresistible as a cavalry charge. And against her will, against what she knew to be right, she found herself loving every moment.

A smattering of exclamations rippled around the room. Some of the younger members of the party joined them on the dance floor. None of them danced as smoothly as Hugo. He had the grace and control of a warrior. Held firm in his embrace, her bones absorbed his strength.

Since this might well be her last chance to feel his arms around her, she would make the most of it. Indeed, she ought to be grateful they were in full view of the rest of the village. Given the way her heart was beating and the fire low in her belly, heaven alone knew what would happen if they were alone.

Liar. She knew only too well.

She glanced up at his harsh face, at the polite expression and the fire in his eyes, and knew he felt exactly the same. “You dance well,” she said.

“As do you.”

“You took a chance that I knew how to waltz.” She glanced around at the handful of couples on the floor, one of them Trent with the boisterous miller’s daughter, who seemed more inclined to polka.

He rumbled the rare chuckle that always caused her inner muscles to squeeze in a most pleasurable fashion. “After today’s display at the butts, I am not in the slightest surprised at your many talents.” His intent gaze fixed on hers contained a question she would never answer. “And besides,” he went on, “Wellington insisted that all his officers dance. I could have got you through it, if required.”

She glanced at Trent. “Did the same order go for batmen?”

“No. Trent’s is a whole different story.”

Lucinda didn’t care about the valet. The music lulled her mind while her feet moved with the joy of dancing, and her sinful body simmered with sensual longing.

Hugo was a good and kind man, and he had come here tonight to dance with her. More important, he had given her the gift of her femininity. Her marriage hadn’t failed because she was frigid. If her body’s lustful demand right at this moment provided any indication, the case was quite the opposite. Making love to Hugo had become an addiction. The fact that she’d lost a piece of her heart in the process was, as Father would say, another of life’s little tragedies.

The rhythm in his stride broke the tiniest bit. He winced.

“Is your leg strong enough for dancing?” she asked.

“Always concerned for someone else, aren’t you? You worry about the villagers and the vicar’s new roof, not to mention Sophia. Have you added me to your list of responsibilities?”

If only she could. “You need to see a doctor.”

“Who cares for you, Lucinda?”

She jumped at the sound of her first name and looked around, but no one seemed to notice. “I am perfectly content. I have my home, my work in the parish, and my child.”

“You deserve so much more, you know.”

Not so long ago, she had started to believe she deserved nothing. And now she had taken all she dared, indeed far too much, but she would not regret one moment, not tonight.

They danced in silence She could not help but be aware of his desire, the heat from his body, the feel of his hand at her waist—firm, strong, protective, the warmth in his gaze when his eyes met hers. And yet the forced restraint gave her the sensation that they communed on a different plane, not bodies, but hearts and minds. The music ended all too soon.

Hugo bowed his thanks, and she swept a curtsey.

“Walk with me outside,” he murmured.

Her mouth dried. Outside in the dark, where no one could see them, was a very different prospect than dancing before a room full of people. Her pulse raced and her insides clamored for attention, for his touch in her most intimate places, for the joy of mutual fulfillment. She swallowed in an effort to regain control of her voice. “Very well. I will meet you outside by the tree where we picnicked.”

He escorted her back to her table and bid good evening to Miss Crotchet, who, far from seeming shocked by their dancing, looked, well . . . misty-eyed.

Lucinda watched him greet a few more people as he passed by their tables and saw him acknowledge the vicar’s farewell before disappearing into the night. Should she join him? Or would it be best to slip away home? And what then? He would only search her out. There really was no avoiding him.

She gathered her shawl and her reticule.

“Leaving already?” Miss Crotchet asked with a sly little smile.

“I have to collect Sophia,” she said, trying to repress any sign of anticipation, the patter of her heart, her shallow breathing.

Miss Crotchet’s pale blue eyes danced with curiosity. “I’d offer to go with you, but John Cawfield asked me to dance the next Scottish country dance.”

“Oh, please don’t think of leaving on my account. As you said, there will not be another celebration like this for a while.” Lucinda patted her bony shoulder. “Good night.”

Miss Crotchet smiled. “I will see you in church in the morning. And there will be a few thick heads sitting in pews alongside us, I’ll be bound.”

On that note, Lucinda slipped out of the tent and into the starlit night.

With no moon, the shadows beneath the trees thickened to impenetrable. She peered into the dark, seeking a different and more solid shape, yet she jumped when his arm went around her waist and pulled her close.

The scent of bay and the smoke from a wood fire filled her nostrils. His lips, warm and velvet and very inviting, claimed her mouth. When he broke away to inhale, she leaned her cheek against his solid wall of chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart, relishing his protective embrace, committing it to memory.

“I wanted to do that at the end of our dance,” he said. “I started to think you would not come after all.”

“I had to take my leave of Miss Crotchet.”

“I hoped it was something like that. I’m glad you agreed to meet me.”

It would never happen again, once she gave him her decision. After tonight she’d have only memories. Regret hung over her like a shadow.

A couple emerged from the tent giggling and laughing.

“I don’t think we should stay here,” she whispered. “Someone might see us.”

A sigh wafted past her ear. “Dammit. I hate this skulking around.”

Soon he wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. A sense of urgency sent blood flying around her body. There was so little time left. “Do you have to leave for the ball soon?”

Another faint sigh in the dark. “It starts at eleven. The ladies need time to change their gowns. I must leave in a half hour or so.” So little time, Hugo thought. Tomorrow he left for London.

The way she relaxed inside the circle of his arms sent his elation spinning out of control. She trusted him. God, he needed that from this woman. “Walk with me a little way.”

She nodded.

He took her hand and guided her along the riverbank. Enveloped in warm night air, they strolled beside the starlit ribbon of water.

Walking hand in hand beneath the arching universe with Lucinda. Could anything feel more right? A mantle of peace descended on his shoulders. A willow tree leaning over the chattering stream trailed fronds like fingers against the flow. Music wafted on a light breeze, fading in and out of hearing as if Pan darted back and forth to tease them with his merry pipes.

Thank God he’d decided to drop in on his way to the Hall. Decided? Hell. He couldn’t stay away. He swung her around.

She tipped her chin in question, cupped his cheeks, drew him down, and kissed his parted lips, soft and sweet.

He thought his heart might burst.

As she nibbled his bottom lip and swept his mouth with her tongue, reason fled. Blood, hot and heavy, pooled in his groin. Lust, never far below the surface in her presence, gripped him in iron claws.

He grabbed her bottom, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh. She pressed against him, her breathing impatient, her hands caressing his neck, kneading his shoulders and his back. She burrowed against his chest, widened her thighs to take his leg between hers. He growled his pleasure.

His woman. The savage need to brand her as such boiled in his brain and his veins. He wanted her. Now. He caught himself up, hard. He must not take her here on the ground like some rutting beast. He pulled back, inhaled, struggled to think.

Her hands went to the buttons of his coat. Her breathing sounded ragged, desperate, wanting.

Undone, he backed her through the screen of willow and pressed her against the tree trunk.

The music of her whispered laughter clutched at his heart as she glanced around. “It is like a fairy bower.”

And did he play Bottom to her Titania, an ass who would awaken and find it all a dream? He felt more like a starving lion. He nibbled her ear.

She sighed and tilted her hips, offering him heaven on earth. He took her mouth, hard, savage, and hungry.

She kissed him back and fought him for control, sweeping his mouth with her tongue. Her hands clawed at his back as if she would pull him inside her body. The desperate urgency in her kiss heated his blood to steam and fried every thought in his brain.

He fondled one delectably full breast through her gown. She whimpered her approval.

His cock hardened to rock.

With a groan, he slid his hand down her ribs, spanned the hollow of her waist, and caressed the swell of her hip, her buttocks, the thigh pressed against his so sweetly. He needed to die inside her.

He must not let it go that far. One small taste of heaven, no more. He dragged her skirts up to her hips, skimming the butter-soft flesh above her stocking.

Her hand went to his erection and traced the ridge of its length through his satin breeches. He hung by a thread to fragile control.

Control. He must keep control. He hauled in a breath and raised his head, staring through the dark into a face full of shadows, inhaling the scent of lavender and peat moss and summer.

Her fingers petted his swollen cock. Too gentle, not nearly enough, he wanted to growl. He pressed her fingers against his hard flesh, closed them around his shaft through the fabric.

“Hugo,” she whispered, “Can I . . .”

“God, yes.” He ripped open his falls.

Cool fingers burrowed beneath his shirttails. Nails scraped his scrotum, a chilly palm closed around his heavy balls and squeezed. He couldn’t breathe for the agony of pleasure.

Her leg lifted, hooked around his good thigh, leaving her open, vulnerable to his questing fingers. Wet, hot, her narrow passage welcomed his touch, pushed down on his fingers, tightened.

She wanted him. He needed to be inside her. All the way. To the hilt, just for a moment.

In one motion, he lifted her high, resting her back against the tree. He guided the head of his cock to her entrance, felt her heat and the wet. He could not go any further without protection. He bathed the head of his cock in her generous moisture.

Goddamn it. He might not see her for weeks. Taking a couple of minutes of pleasure for himself would not hurt before he saw to her need.

She gripped his shoulders, threw her head back and lowered herself onto his straining cock. Shocked, he couldn’t move for pleasure. Heat enveloped his shaft. Flesh slid and joined, and thrust and squeezed. She’d driven him to her womb, deeper than any woman before.

She was the light in his darkness.

She nuzzled his neck, licked his ear, captured his mouth.

Waves of pleasure rocketed outward from his balls. They tightened to unbearable hardness. But bear it he must. He would not lose control. He would not risk anything so dangerous, not with his woman.

He shielded her back and head from the rough bark with his hands and drove deep.

She opened, accommodated, took his length with a murmur of encouragement. He pressed harder, deeper, faster, barely withdrawing before the next stroke, pounding into her, and she onto him, setting a pace with the clench of her tight muscle around his yard.

Blissful agony held him on a tight rein.

Death beckoned.

Not yet. Not inside her and not until she met her end.

His hips pumped and drove; his cock begged for release. He denied it. Fought it. Held on by the shred of a primal need to conquer.

She took him and gave back hard, raising and lowering her hips until his vision darkened to one small pinpoint of light in his mind, his only awareness, the place where they joined.

A soft moan sounded in her throat. The sweet sound drove him mad with desire. He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her cries, and was rocked by the trembles quaking through her body. Heat poured from her center as her climax shivered and pulsed in her limbs and around his shaft. Her insides sucked at his cock.

He exploded. He filled her to the womb with his essence, his life force spurting, his body pulsing and vibrating. He swallowed his own cry of triumph against her lips.

They subsided in bliss and clung together against the tree, weak, panting, empty except for a deep languid heat. She kissed his neck and drooped around his shoulders, a heavenly burden.

It took all his strength to remain standing. He had never reached so high so fast or spilled with such force. His mind sharpened. Oh, dear God. He’d lost all sense of honor. He’d filled her precious body with his thrice-damned seed.

For all he knew, he’d killed her.

“Lucinda,” he said. And stopped, his mouth full of nothing. What the hell could he say?

She rested her head against his chest. “Hugo, we have to talk.”

Her regretful tone rang a faint warning bell deep in his unconscious mind. A more important anxiety filled his thoughts. Should he warn her of the danger? Would she hate him for what he’d done? Surely one slip would not do the deed?

“Mrs. Graham,” a high-pitched voice full of panic called from back toward the music and the lights. “Mrs. Graham. Where are you?”