White Lace and Promises by Natasha Blackthorne

her tea but the cold, hard mass lodged in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t allow her to take on much of the fragrant brew. Across from her, Grey wore that front-parlour expression, his voice kind as he asked her what she wanted him to order for her. Even though they’d already been here a few times, to Gray’s Ferry, located near the Schuylkill, Beth still felt like a fraud. Goodness—proper and polite table talk with Grey. She always grew self-conscious, a shy, shrinking creature unable to do more than nod and smile.
    She felt so stupid and insipid. This was no bedchamber, where she could seduce and pleasure and satisfy. This was the real world, where one was expected to be witty and intellectually interesting. How could she possibly be intellectually interesting? Her studies had bored her to insanity. He’d graduated from Harvard with honours. She’d been nowhere and done nothing. He’d been all over the world as a young man, as a supercargo on his father’s ships.
    Her quietness in these public and more formal settings never seemed to bother or bore him. He filled the silence with tales from Russia, India, England, France and the Caribbean. But today he seemed as reluctant to speak as she. The discord from that morning hung between them. She picked at her food, trying not to take too many glances at him. She wanted to ask him about the duel, but his distant expression and jutting, stiffly held jaw discouraged her.
    What the devil was on his mind?
    “I am going home for a few weeks.”
    His words fell over her like cold rain. Her mouth dropped open and she jerked her head up to meet his silver gaze. “But we’re getting married in a few weeks.”
    An iciness gripped her heart and held it firm, squeezing. He was returning to New York. In a week or two, maybe longer, there would come a letter—a letter explaining that he was crying off, because he’d discovered how dull and unsophisticated she really was. He knew she’d never fit into his life. The hand that held her fork began to shake slightly.
    “Beth.” He spoke sharply.
    She flinched and dropped her fork. It landed on her plate with a clatter. “What?”
    “Are you unwell?”
    “I am fine.” Acid lurched up into her throat. She swallowed it back. Oh God, don’t let her make a scene over this. Please.
    “You’ve gone so suddenly pale.”
    “I am fine.” She stiffened her spine and squared her shoulders to manage some dignity. She tried to smile but her trembling lips wouldn’t stretch.
    He drew his black brows together and his forehead wrinkled. “Beth, have some faith in me. I shall return for our wedding.”
    “Take me with you.”
    The words slipped out before she could stop them. She cringed. What a weak, pathetic thing to say. Love was turning her into a shrinking ninny. She picked up her teacup, tossed her head and tried to act as if she really didn’t care what his response was.
    But it didn’t work.
    The smile froze on his thin, well-shaped lips and he looked stunned, as if her coming with him hadn’t occurred to him. He opened his mouth but hesitated, in the way of a person who struggles for the softest way to say a hard truth.
    She stared down at the teacup in her hands. “Of course you can’t.”
    “For the sake of your reputation, Beth, I dare not.”
    “Of course,” she repeated. Oh, but she didn’t believe his reason for a moment. The truth was that he didn’t wish to be troubled with her. She sensed it in her bones.
    “I shall miss you, Beth, you know I shall.”
    The careful, gentle note in his voice made her throat burn. It was the tone of a man who wants only to be gone and doesn’t wish to deal with a tedious emotional scene. She nodded.
    He smiled, his relief evident in the way the skin relaxed over his cheekbones. “We shall be wed soon enough. And then we shall live together all of the time.”
    His words should have soothed her. They didn’t.

    * * * *

    “Sexton! Hold up.” The male voice came from behind