The Thoroughly Compromised Bride by Catherine Reynolds Page A

but—”
    “Nineteen! Certainly old enough to know what you were about,” he said with contempt.
    “If you would stop interrupting and allow me to explain...” she cried desperately.
    “Spare me the sordid details!” he replied coldly.
    Ignoring his scathing tone as much as she could, and attempting to remain as calm as possible, she said quietly, “I see that you are far too angry—”
    Another humourless bark of laughter cut her off. “How very observant you are!”
    Doggedly she persevered. “And it is obvious that there is no point in trying to reason with you now. You are in no mood to listen.”
    “I am not a gullible fool, and I can think of no plausible excuse which you could offer—but you may try!”
    She lowered her eyes and shook her head slightly, knowing that nothing she might say would convince him or alleviate his anger.
    “No? I thought not!” He stared hard at her, taking in her downcast eyes as well as the innocent-appearing blush on her cheeks, and was furious with himself for the strong attraction she could still exert over him. “My God! To think that I was considering you as the mother of my children, when you are nothing but a strumpet!”
    She gasped, but he went on inexorably, “At least I suppose I ought to be grateful that you did not wait until I had married you before springing the truth on me! Damnation! When I think—” He broke off, slammed his fist down onto the mantel, then resumed in a quietly cold voice, “You will understand if I do not relish any more of your company tonight. Kindly be ready to leave early in the morning and do not keep me waiting.”
    Looking into his eyes, Elizabeth could see no trace of the warmth and humour she was used to finding there. They were now as cold and hard as his voice had been, and she wondered helplessly, and hopelessly, what had become of the man she thought she had come to love. Surely this angry, unbending stranger could not be he.
    But, even in her distress, she recognized that further attempts at explanation, in the face of his determination not to hear any, could serve no purpose other than to leave herself open to more insults. Besides, she was dangerously close to tears once more, and she was resolved that he would not see her weep again.
    With great dignity, and without saying another word, she turned and left the room. Surprisingly, she slept that night, but only after crying herself into that state of unconsciousness.
     

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    If this was love, thought Elizabeth, as she dressed by the cold light of dawn the next morning, it was vastly over-rated and she was well out of it. The joys that had been hers since meeting Charles Seemed scarcely to compensate for the misery she now felt.
    She faced the dismal prospect of their return drive to Bath with as much dread as she had previously experienced when she had contemplated telling him of her fall from virtue. In point of fact, she felt almost faint from apprehension at the mere thought of enduring his animosity over the breakfast table, and she knew that if there were any other way of reaching Bath, other than in his company, she would have avoided him altogether. As it was, all she could do was try to console herself with the knowledge that once that ill-omened journey was accomplished, she need never see him again. Strangely, this assurance failed to bring her the comfort it should have.
    Determined, despite her reluctance, that she would give him no opportunity to reproach her for the sin of unpunctuality, in addition to all else, she did not delay her descent to the parlour.
    He was there, already having his breakfast, and did not bother to rise when she entered the room or even when she came to take her place at the table. That, as well as the one disdainful glance he flicked her way, was enough to convince her that his feelings towards her had not softened during the night. She gave a resigned sigh. So be it: she would not grovel to him, nor would she lower