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By mutual agreement, Lex and Henry visited the park each of the next two days, spending an hour or two playing cricket, walking the paths in search of creatures great and small to inspect, and naturally, spinning until they were dizzy. On this late afternoon, as Henry had slowed down considerably from fatigue, the walk back took longer than expected, but the pair did finally exit the gate. Outside, the hustle and bustle of the street jarred the senses. Peddlers and newsboys crowded the pavement, all shouting to make their products known above the others.
Lex spied a small girl holding a basket. He bent down to Henry. “Would you like an orange?”
Henry smiled and nodded, perking up at the offer of a treat. Lex guided him over to the girl and let him pick one.
As Lex handed over payment, Henry pointed to flowers also nestled in the basket. “Mama would like those.”
“She would?” Lex asked. He had his doubts—the blossoms were rather small and wilted. Most women did like flowers, though, and they would make a nice token along with the sketch of Henry he’d drawn today. Still, he could send a footman to buy something much grander from the Covent Garden market.
The orange girl sniffled and said, “Jus’ a ha’penny a posy, m’lord.”
Then again, a bunch of small posies gathered together and freshened up with water might look sweet. Lex pressed a shilling into her hand. “I’ll take all of them.”
She scooped the flowers up without hesitation and handed them over. Lex thanked her. He’d have bought all the oranges, too, if they could have carried them. Instead, he’d send back a footman.
Henry followed suit and thanked the girl for the orange.
Despite all the items they bore, Lex made Henry take his hand before they crossed the street. They made it without incident and soon entered the house, where a footman relieved them of their sporting equipment.
Behind them, Bickley closed the door. “My lord, her ladyship wished me to tell you she has gone to visit Mrs. Robson.”
Henry’s mouth turned down. Lex, too, had wanted to see Eleanor, but he hoped his face didn’t look the same. He wasn’t that disappointed by her absence.
He held out his hand. “Thank you, Colonel, for another splendid adventure.”
“You too, sir,” the boy said, returning the handshake enthusiastically. “Will I see you at bedtime?”
“Given your propensity for sleeping in a bed other than your own, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
Clutching his orange and grinning madly, Henry raced up to the nursery.
Turning, Lex held out a half crown to Bickley. “There’s an orange girl across the street. Send one of the footman to buy what she has left. The servants can share them.”
Bickley nodded and took the coin. He opened his mouth once then closed it before any words came out. He tried again. “You have visitors, my lord.”
Lex tried to hide his surprise, though Bickley obviously hadn’t. The Robsons were occupied elsewhere, and no one else was likely to visit after that disastrous scene the other night. Drummond was due to come later this evening, an invitation Lex still regretted making.
“Who?” he asked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dryden.”
Eleanor’s parents? Not again. They called on him every few months, and the three of them would stare awkwardly at each other for five minutes. While Lex had noticed that Mrs. Dryden never mentioned Eleanor, Mr. Dryden always spoke fondly of her, and Lex had mastered the art of avoiding outright lies while still hiding the disastrous state of their marriage. Knowing full well her daughter lived apart from Lex, but not why, Mrs. Dryden would eventually pounce and not-so-subtly urge her husband to ask Lex for money. To cut the visit and their questions short, Lex always agreed without hesitation, even though he knew he shouldn’t support Dryden’s irresponsible spending habits.
Bickley held out his hand. “Shall I take those flowers for one of the maids to arrange?”
Lex stared at the limp blooms in his hand. “No, thank you, I’ll attend them myself. Please inform Mr. and Mrs. Dryden that I will be with them shortly.”
He needed to change his coat and breeches, at the least, as half of Hyde Park seemed to have come back with him. And if Eleanor returned in the time it took him to freshen up, all the better.
––––––––
ELEANOR ACCEPTED THE footman’s assistance and alighted from the carriage. Her second visit to the Robsons’—to Portia really—had gone much as the first. Meaning, her sister-in-law refused to hear her brother’s name and had no plans to return to Lexden House. How had Portia said it? I might return to Somerset on my own. There is nothing here for me now except humiliation and shame.
Bickley anticipated Eleanor’s arrival and threw open the door. She nodded in thanks, but her thoughts were as yet with Portia. She feared the girl might do something rash. More rash than returning to Somerset on her own. Of course, Justine had vowed to be extra vigilant, and Eleanor had faith in her friend, so honestly she should put Portia aside and focus on the upcoming confrontation with William Drummond, which was ignominiously planned for that evening.
“My lady.”
She was halfway up the stairs when Bickley spoke. Slightly embarrassed that she’d handed him her hat and gloves and not said a word, Eleanor spun around on the ball of her foot. “Yes?”
“Lord Lexden asked that you join him in the drawing room as soon as you returned.”
The drawing room? Immediately? That sounded formal and ominous. She and Octavius had been in a state of uneasy stasis, keeping their conversation on neutral topics such as Henry or the weather. Drummond wouldn’t be here for hours yet, so this probably was not about him. What had Henry done? Or, what had Octavius done?
She continued up the steps, though not nearly as enthusiastically, and turned down the corridor toward the drawing room. There she heard multiple voices.
Visitors? Surely not.
Then she heard her mother’s strident voice.
“Imagine my surprise when I heard from Mrs. Litton that your countess had made a rare appearance in London. One should hear these things from one’s own daughter, especially as we saw Eleanor not four weeks ago and she mentioned not one word of traveling to town.”
Oh dear God. The last thing they needed was a visit from Eleanor’s parents. She peeked into the room. Her mother sat in a wing chair looking sour. Eleanor contemplated turning around and marching upstairs, but a movement opposite her mother drew her eye. Her father had come too. If only he were the kind of man who could provide a buffer between mother and daughter...
“Eleanor? Is that you?”
She must have made a small noise. Drat. Why did Octavius have to sound so desperate?
Throwing her shoulders back, she waded into the deep. Sunlight shimmered through the window that faced Hyde Park. The trees beyond, their leaves that deep green of summer, created a colorful mural for the pale room. The cheerful ambience did not suit the awkwardness permeating the room.
Octavius, resplendent in black breeches and a burgundy superfine coat, lounged against the mantel. She could have sworn his eyes brightened at the sight of her.
Her father had just settled his large frame into one of the armchairs. When he saw Eleanor, a delighted smile broke upon his face and he heaved himself up once more, arms open. “My dear! It has been too long.”
She didn’t hesitate to step into his embrace. Her father had many flaws, but Eleanor still cared for him. As the only parent who’d ever shown her any affection or attention, how could she not? “Papa, I’ve missed you.”
Over her father’s shoulder, she spied her mother, spine straight, every grey hair accounted for in her meticulous chignon, occupying one of the cream-colored velvet sofas. Eleanor stepped back and nodded.
“Mother.”
She didn’t know what else to say. Though her marriage to the wealthy Earl of Lexden had somewhat tempered her mother’s bitterness over the birth of a mere daughter, Eleanor could never forget all the times her mother blamed her for the deplorable state of the family finances.
Her mother gave her the barest of nods, and then her light brown eyes quickly strayed back to Octavius. His face had settled into its usual scowl, and Eleanor turned away.
“I hear you’ve brought your sister to town, Lexden,” her mother said, as politely as could be, but Eleanor saw a gleam in her eye that was not to be trusted.
Apparently, Octavius sensed the trap, too. He hesitated overlong before saying, “Yes, Portia has joined us. Eleanor, won’t you sit down?”
She would so much rather run off and find Henry. Blast it, she would rather run off and take the scullery maid’s place.
Blushing, she backed up until her calves hit the other sofa and she sank onto it. Usually social calls only lasted a short time, but these were her parents. They could, and would, stay as long as they liked, whether it was socially acceptable or not. It wasn’t as if she had invited them to visit, but her mother, well-attuned to gossip, would have known the minute her daughter and Henry arrived in London.
“It’s a pleasure to see you in town, Eleanor,” her father said, his hands resting on his belly.
“Is there an auspicious occasion we are unaware of?” Her mother smiled up at Octavius.
“Not at all. I...I simply wished to have my family with me.” More twisted words had surely never been spoken by Octavius, but he surprised Eleanor by skirting the sofa and lowering himself beside her.
As surreptitiously as possible, she slid closer to the other end.
He narrowed his eyes.
She faced her parents, waiting for her mother to blame her for the debacle at the Ardmores’, for Eleanor was always the one to blame. How grand would it be if, just this once, Octavius accepted responsibility for their troubles? But, Eleanor almost laughed at herself. Her husband was not going to defend her to her mother.
It was her father who ended up speaking, addressing Octavius after shifting in his chair. “And you never wished it these past six years?”
Eleanor looked up, surprised. Her father was known as the exact opposite of confrontational.
“Now, Mr. Dryden,” her mother interjected with a hint of derision. “A man can only find solace in familial connections that provide warmth, consideration, and comfort. Who are we to question the rejection of the very opposite of those qualities.”
This last was not a question at all, but both a cut at Eleanor and an admonition her father accepted with his usual meekness. He seemed to sink further into his chair as he nodded in agreement.
Octavius stiffened and looked from Eleanor’s mother to Eleanor, surprised. Of course, in the early days of their marriage, her mother had been ecstatic about the connection to the title and wealth of her new son-in-law; so ecstatic that she buried her lifelong bitterness toward her daughter and deigned to treat Eleanor with a dollop of appreciation. That brief interlude would have been all Octavius saw of their relationship.
It had indeed been brief. Once Eleanor was cast away and the connection to the Lexden prestige and fortune nearly severed, her mother’s resentment had returned in even greater force. For, naturally, Eleanor was to blame for the disintegration of the marriage.
“I am most grateful that Eleanor returned to London to help me entertain some acquaintances from America,” Octavius offered in a quiet yet firm voice that brooked no disagreement. “I’m especially glad she brought our boy Henry. She has done an exceptional job of bringing the child up. He’s a sharp lad who enjoys cricket but not, to his late surprise, fishing.”
Eleanor must be in need of an ear trumpet, but the phrase “our boy” caused a prickle of warmth to bloom in her chest. Just a fortnight ago Octavius had called his son a by-blow, and now he sounded—dare she think it—proud?
“You are blessed indeed to have a son,” her mother proclaimed, then slumped in her chair and put a hand to her bodice in a display of profound melancholy. “Mr. Dryden and I were denied that beautiful and bountiful gift. If I had but known that the birth of one child would preclude the blessing of more... Well, I know it is useless to dwell on the past, but I can’t help but daily mourn the loss of comfort and support a son could have provided. Oh!” A grievous sigh. “And poor Mr. Dryden with no heir to his name...”
At this, Octavius turned and stared at Eleanor, his eyebrows attaining a grand height. Had her mother truly never bemoaned the lack of a son to him? She knew her parents occasionally visited Octavius here in London because her mother always made mention of it in her letters and generally underlined the words three times. Eleanor had always wished those visits to be as painful for her erstwhile husband as possible.
She bit her cheek, wishing she had not come back from the Robsons. She and Portia could have huddled there together, basking in the compassionate care of Justine. But no, Eleanor had wanted to see Octavius and Henry, to hear how their most recent grand adventure had gone.
“Eleanor, you are not attending me.” Her mother’s voice cracked across the room. “You know, my dear, if you’ve brought Lady Portia here to find a husband, you are going to have be more circumspect in your behavior. I’ve heard the most disturbing piece of news....”
Eleanor’s stomach clenched, and only the footman’s timely entrance with refreshments stopped her from saying words she might—or might not—regret. As the servant eased the heavy tray onto the table, she popped upright and said, “I’m sure we would all love some tea after that robust conversation. And look, Octavius, Cook has sent some of that plum cake you love. And you too, Papa. Let me just get everything ready and then...”
She was babbling, but it was either speak inanities or screech at her mother in frustration. She hurried to the other side of the room.
Surprisingly, Octavius jumped up and strode toward her. His eyes burned with anger. “Let me assist you,” he said loudly, but once he was close he lowered his voice so only she could hear. “I wish you would have warned me you’d invited your parents.”
Of course. She was to blame for this too. “If I had invited them, I would have told you.”
She dashed tea into each of the four cups. Octavius splashed sugar into each one.
“My mother doesn’t take sugar.”
“What a shame.” He deliberately dropped more cubes into one of the cups. “Is she trying to blame you for the scandal the other night?”
“Trust me, it would be the least of my sins.”
“Eleanor...?”
Intent on slicing the cake, she didn’t immediately look up, but Octavius whispered her name again and it was as if the murmured syllables physically lifted her chin. Those brown eyes were still fuming, but his mouth was turned down in concern. The knife slipped out of her hand and clattered on the plate as she realized he wasn’t angry with her. He was angry on her behalf.
Oh. That was a delicious feeling. She wanted to drink in that look on his face for an eternity, let it fill her up and sustain her lifeblood.
No. This was a dangerous feeling. It could suck the very lifeblood out of her.
Somehow, she tore her gaze away from his face and carried two cups of tea over to her parents. Then she sat. “Here we are. Now, Father, how has your health been?”
“I am quite well. A nagging cough every now and again. Oh, thank you.” He broke off when Octavius offered him a slice of cake and tucked into it without another word.
Handing her mother a plate as well, Octavius returned to sit beside Eleanor, much closer than before. As she had sat close to the sofa’s arm, she regrettably could put no distance between them. She could feel the heat of his thigh through her muslin gown and racked her brain, trying to think of a way to convince her parents to leave so that she might escape both them and her husband. With them pressing her from both sides she could barely breathe.
Octavius broke the silence. “Eleanor is refurbishing the sitting room. It truly was shabby and in need of new decoration. Tell us what you plan, Eleanor.”
He couldn’t possibly want to hear her ideas on redecorating. She stole a glance at him to see if he was teasing, but he looked genuinely ready to listen. This was a safe topic after all. “Well, I—”
“Speaking of decorations,” her mother interrupted, “Mr. Dryden and I have decided that our bedchamber must be re-carpeted. The current one is so threadbare and I dread the cold winter days to come. I fear Mr. Dryden will suffer another terrible illness as he did last February if we don’t ensure the room is adequately insulated. Indeed, I’m sure the curtains should be replaced too. These things are just so expensive.”
Her father grunted an “Indeed.”
Her mother nodded and opened her mouth, but Octavius spoke first. “Eleanor is also planning a ball. I cannot imagine what an undertaking that must be, but I don’t doubt that the whole affair will come off smoothly.”
Eleanor stared at him, or at his profile, for he was giving her mother the famous Mayne scowl. She felt as if she were flushing from the inside out. This wasn’t her husband. He would never do this, be so lavish with praise and interest.
Her mother, back as ramrod straight as ever, looked down her nose at Eleanor. “Are you certain that’s wise? Please tell me your departure from the Ardmores’ soiree the other night was not as rude and scandalous as some have made it out.”
Octavius bristled like an enraged cat, surprising Eleanor further, and he slipped his hand into hers. His breathing grew shallower. Through a clenched jaw he said, “I am not certain exactly what gossip you have been listening to, Mrs. Dryden, but the incident at the soiree was entirely my fault. I made an ass of myself and embarrassed my wife, my sister, and my friends. Eleanor did her best to minimize the damage, for which I am most grateful.”
She wanted to kiss him. Pin him to the sofa and kiss him. He was battling her mother. For her.
Instead, Eleanor managed to rise steadily to her feet and face her parents. In all the turmoil caused by their arrival, she’d forgotten the perfect pretext to get rid of them—Drummond’s impending call. Granted, he wasn’t due for a few hours and she wasn’t keen to exchange one for the other, but it would do for an excuse.
“Mother, Papa, we have a previous engagement we need to prepare for. We very much appreciate your visit and are pleased to see you in good health.”
Octavius stood just behind her, silent but overwhelmingly present. Eleanor caught herself leaning back and jerked upright.
Her father got to his feet, tidying his mouth with a napkin. “Pleasure to see you both again.” He squeezed Eleanor’s hands and kissed her on the cheek.
Her mother’s tea cup was set aside with precision. “Of course your other appointment takes precedence. We are only your parents....” She stayed seated, continuing, “If you care to see us maintain our good health, it is imperative we redo the bedchamber. I don’t suppose you would help with the expense?”
Eleanor’s mouth fell open at her mother’s shamelessness, but before she could even think what to say, Octavius crossed to the door and said, “We certainly do not want either of you to suffer a health crisis. Funds will be transferred to your bank immediately.” Then, waving, he added, “The footman will see you out. Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Dryden.”
Eleanor’s mother curtsied as she passed, smiling smugly. “Thank you, Lexden. We’ll be sure to keep an eye out for the invitation to your ball.”
Eleanor had to give Octavius credit for stoically refraining from replying.
Once her parents had exited, her husband closed the door, securing the latch with care. She was only surprised he didn’t lock it. The words “I’m sorry” were nearly formed on her lips before she came to her senses and bit them back. She had nothing to apologize for—she hadn’t invited her parents and she certainly hadn’t made her mother the woman she was. Though, if you asked her mother, you would receive an entirely different story.
Octavius turned, his fingers cupping her elbow. “How can she treat you so? I thought her sly requests for financial assistance were abominable but that was... That was...”
Eleanor shrugged, conveniently easing her arm away from his touch. His outrage was a beguiling thing, but the parallels between the way her mother treated her and the way Octavius had treated her for so long renewed her vulnerability. Could he not see the similarities? So she strove to remain dispassionate as always, though a twinge of sadness penetrated her heart.
“She has always been this way. I’ve learned to ignore her.”
Ignoring her was easy enough to do when not in her presence, but this afternoon her mother’s contempt had once again sapped Eleanor’s confidence. She’d not been able to say much in her own defense. “I invite them to Mayne Castle twice a year out of duty. The unfortunate thing is that I cannot invite my father by himself. Much as I would like to see more of him, he won’t be separated from my mother.”
Octavius drummed his fingers along the top of the sofa. “They call here at least quarterly, though I have never issued a direction invitation.” His gaze snapped to Eleanor’s face. “Did you give them your pin money?”
Just a few days ago she would have interpreted his words as an accusation, but now she couldn’t convince herself criticism existed beneath them. Octavius was making conversation; he was attempting to connect with her in a manner that didn’t involve blame or scorn. And they were talking in broad daylight, not in the dark of night where the shadows hid much. Her heartbeat thrummed faster than usual, as this was a new and frightening situation. Almost pleasant.
“My mother always badgers me for money, even via letter.” She lifted her gaze to Octavius’s. “You paid my father’s debts when we married, but that hasn’t stopped him from accumulating more. He is a spendthrift and can’t be trusted with so much as a shilling in his pocket. My mother, too, has always been intent on rising above her friends and neighbors, so she’s always wanting something new. Mostly I give her the pin money so she’ll stop hounding me. Though, I can’t believe she so brazenly solicited those funds just now.”
Octavius furrowed his brow. “She does it every time they visit.”
Eleanor sighed. She should have known her mother wouldn’t settle for pin money when there was so much more to be had. “She’s been bleeding both of us for six years?”
Her husband paused. “I would hesitate to call it bleeding, as I don’t miss the funds at all.” His gaze strayed to Eleanor ever so briefly. “I gave them the money in the hopes they wouldn’t question our marriage too closely.”
So, a bribe of sorts. Eleanor wasn’t surprised, and honestly she couldn’t quibble with his actions since she had succumbed to her mother’s requests for equally less than stellar reasons. But, their marriage, that wretched state that had arisen out of his asking and her agreeing... Why had he asked for her hand? She peeked up at him through her lashes. Hands on the back of the sofa, shoulders stretching his burgundy coat wide, he waited for her to respond. So, here was her chance to ask for the truth. But was she ready for the answer? Did she have the courage to hear it?
Flattening her hands over her stomach, she took the plunge. “Octavius, why did you ask me to marry you?”
His eyebrows climbed in surprise as he straightened. “‘Why?’”
She nodded.
“I...” He took another step back and then turned to pace toward the fireplace. Obviously he wasn’t quite ready to look her in the eye while discussing their marriage, or more rightly so, his feelings, but Eleanor found she didn’t mind; she simply wanted an answer. An honest answer.
Head bowed, he stared into the low-burning fire. “I had to marry you.”
“That’s absurd. It isn’t as if you compromised me. We barely knew each other.”
He pivoted to face her. “It’s over and done with, Eleanor. It’s not important why we married. We have to live with the consequence anyway.”
Eleanor steeled herself against the defensive reaction which instinctively rose up and connected with his gaze. “It’s important to me.”
“I’m certain I explained it to you at the time.”
Why was his jaw burnished that deep red? Eleanor mustered some patience. Keep the words flowing. “No, you never asked me directly. You relayed the message through my father. Remember? He handled the negotiations, as it were.”
“Well, yes. It was a straightforward deal. I paid off his debts.”
“But what did you get in return? Why did you even initiate this deal, Octavius?”
He threw up his hands and stalked to the window. The sun shining through the panes reflected off his polished Hessians. “You are a true plague, do you know that?”
But, there was no heat in his words. Eleanor flashed a grin that she quickly hid lest he turn around. He was avoiding the question, which meant the answer was important to him too.
She repeated herself. “What did you get in return?”
“You.”
That one syllable snatched the very breath from her lungs. Enthralled, she took a step toward him. Then another. At the third step, her shin hit the rosewood occasional table.
The pain was negligible but enough to rouse her from her reverie. Now wasn’t the time to be led by her heart or other dubious organs. Now was the time for discovery, so she tried to focus her thoughts. “But why did want me?”
She hated how pleading that sounded.
“For St. Bartholomew’s sake!” Her husband’s face flushed a dark, mottled red, and as he pressed both hands to his temple Eleanor wondered if she really would kill him with her need to talk. He stared out the window for the longest time. She herself said nothing, afraid to prompt him. Afraid he wouldn’t answer. Afraid he would.
At last he turned toward her, his color returning to normal. “I apologize if anything I’m about to say wounds you. It is the truth, and I can only surmise from your persistence that you want the truth.” He blew out a breath while Eleanor held perfectly still. “I never had any intention of marrying. Not after witnessing my parents’ destructive attempt at the state. Then I ran into you that day in Bloomsbury.” He looked up at the coffered ceiling. “You were so pretty, so...full of life. I never would have guessed your circumstances to be as wretched as they were. I told myself to walk away. Commanded it, actually.” He tipped his head back down, finding her gaze. “Next thing I knew I was asking you to walk in Green Park. I wanted you desperately. I won’t deny that. I...I also despised myself for it and never wanted to see you again. I’d made a vow not to marry, for very good reasons. The debate—no, war—raging inside my head nearly felled me. I realized marriage was the only option: You were an honorable, respectable woman. I also knew any marriage of mine would be disastrous.”
Eleanor waited. She’d expected much worse, had braced herself not to flinch. Instead, she’d had to tighten her muscles to keep a shiver from lancing through her. Octavius Rupert Henry Mayne had complimented her. Had wanted her. Desperately. Had called her honorable and respectable.
A giddy feeling spiraled through her stomach.
“Please, proceed.” Somehow, she said the words with a touch of primness, though she dearly wanted to shout them with unseemly eagerness despite knowing exactly how this story ended. So did he, for reluctance flashed across his face, though he drew in a breath and continued.
“I told myself ‘no’ a thousand times, and yet still I found myself sitting in front of your father negotiating the marriage settlements.” His gaze flicked to her and then away again. “I made certain you were out. I was too much of a coward to ask you directly, so I asked him for your hand. I wanted you, Eleanor. Against all wisdom and sense. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to marry you.”
How she kept herself from rushing into his arms at that moment, Eleanor didn’t know. But at his next words, she was grateful to have refrained.
“I regretted marrying you the minute we signed the register. I’ve regretted it every day thereafter.”
This wasn’t news to her. She’d lived with his regret, after all. And her own. Still, her heart flinched and that earlier giddiness dropped like a stone into her stomach. Eleanor slid to the left and dropped onto the sofa, unmindful of how she was creasing the skirt of her dress. But there seemed to be no stopping Octavius now. He kept talking.
“That regret intensified day after day until I saw how much time you spent in Drummond’s company. And then he made that sly remark about bedding you, and you announced you were increasing soon after. I was reliving my father’s life firsthand.”
The hoarseness in his voice cut through Eleanor as all the days of their marriage resurfaced in her mind. Now knowing his past, she couldn’t quite blame him for what had transpired. She wished he’d thought otherwise, taken other actions, spoken different words, but she couldn’t fully blame him—not for the past or for his honesty.
“Thank you.” She hated that the words tumbled out unsteadily. “For answering my question with such frankness. I wouldn’t have wished anything else.”
Ha. Liar.
She wished for far more: a tender embrace while he softly apologized for every horrible thing he’d done and every caustic word he’d spoken, a gruff plea for forgiveness, a kiss to wipe out every memory.
“Eleanor...” He stepped around the sofa. His black, wool-clad thighs came into view. She could feel the contrition radiating from his core, from his heart, and it unleashed a panic in her so fierce it snatched her breath away. She was so afraid to take the next step.
She jumped up and nearly ran to the door. “I must...” No excuse came to mind, so over her shoulder she said, “I must go. Thank you again.”
Then she gathered her skirts and escaped, running up the stairs with unladylike speed.