Locke awoke with his head feeling as heavy as his heart. He rather wished that he hadn’t asked Portia about her history with Beaumont, because he had a strong need to return to London and pummel the man to within an inch of his life. He’d caught glimpses of her innocence when she killed spiders, fell into the arms of a waiting footman and laughed, danced her fingers over the piano keys. He wished he’d known her before Beaumont had torn away her guilelessness, although he recognized that he’d have considered her too pure for the likes of him, would have given her little thought because she would have been likeable and the last thing he’d wanted was a woman he could fancy.

How ironic then that he’d ended up with one he could love.

He shouldn’t have come to her, should have resisted, but where she was concerned he’d had no resistance from the moment he opened the door to her. He cursed her for bringing a loneliness to his life that he’d never before experienced. He’d never had any trouble sleeping alone, and now he despised doing so. He missed her, damn it, and with enough spirits coursing through him, his determination to avoid her had weakened. Not that he needed the spirits as an excuse. She occupied his thoughts every minute of every hour. And yet she’d placed him in an unconscionable position: choosing between duty and desire, between happiness and misery, between forgiveness and pride.

Between journeying back to Havisham and lying in this bed all day, pretending that London had never happened.

Reaching for her, he encountered naught but rumpled sheets. Squinting, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the blindingly bright sunlight streaming in through the window, light that caused not only his eyes but his head to ache. God, what time was it? How long had they slept?

It seemed the gods wanted them to have a day without reality crashing in on them. He’d take it.

With a groan, he shoved himself up. His skull revolted, threatening to split in two if he didn’t move slowly. He wondered if it were possible that Portia was bringing him some strong black coffee and something to eat. His stomach probably wouldn’t like it, but he needed to get himself straightened out so he could think more clearly. Surely this situation had a solution. He doubted it would be very tidy, but he’d spent his youth living in an untidy residence. Neatness was overrated, as far as he was concerned.

He sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed like forever, waiting for Portia to return. It was in her nature to care for people, for things. Surely she recognized that he’d be suffering upon awakening. On the other hand, she wasn’t prone to drinking and she’d never seen him in such a state. Perhaps she hadn’t a clue regarding how miserable too much drink could make a man.

Gingerly, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. A quick look in the mirror caused him to grimace. He was far from being at his best. He’d feel better after tidying himself up and joining his wife for a quick bite.

Only he determined quite quickly that she wasn’t sitting at any of the tables, because the tavern was fairly empty.

“Afternoon, m’lord,” the proprietress squawked, her voice reminding him of the harsh cry of an irritating bird he’d run across during his travels.

Afternoon was it? Good Lord, he had slept in. “Mrs. Tandy, might I have some coffee?”

“Absolutely, m’lord. I’ll fetch it straightaway.” She turned to go.

“By the by, have you seen Lady Locksley?”

She spun back around and looked at him as though he were some strange new species of insect. “Aye, m’lord. I saw her first thing this morning, bright and early.”

Speaking with her was like carrying on a conversation with the servants at Havisham. Sometimes they took questions far too literally. “Do you happen to know where I would find her now?”

“Well, let’s see. It’s been about six, nearly seven hours, so I’d say close to two hundred miles away if she just kept on going.”

Staring at her, he realized he really needed the damned coffee. “I beg your pardon? Two hundred miles away? Are you saying my coaches have already left?” It didn’t matter, as he was riding his horse, but it made no sense.

“No, m’lord. I’m saying she hopped on a mail coach.”

He rushed outside for no good reason, as though he expected to see the offending vehicle on the horizon. Of course he couldn’t. He saw his coaches waiting to have horses harnessed to them, and one of his coachmen leaning against the building, speaking with a serving girl. As Locke approached him, the coachman looked guilty as hell. No doubt because he’d been caught flirting. “Did you see Lady Locksley leave this morning?”

His eyes rounded, his mouth dropped. “No, m’lord. How could she leave? The coaches are still here.”

He wasn’t going to get into it with the man. “Have you seen Cullie?”

“At breakfast. She went back to her room to await her Ladyship’s need of her.”

Damn it all to hell. Why hadn’t he noticed that his wife had packed up and left? Because her things were still there. He might be feeling rotten but he wasn’t blind. So where was she going and how was she going to make her way?

He dashed back into the tavern, up the stairs, and into the room they’d shared. Like a madman, he began tearing through her belongings.

“M’lord?”

He spun around at the sound of Cullie’s voice. She appeared horrified by his actions, was going to be even more horrified when she learned the truth of the situation. “I’m searching for Lady Locksley’s pearls. Where did you pack them?”

“She was carrying them in her reticule.”

It would be left out in the open but was nowhere to be seen. He slammed his eyes closed. She could take them to a fence, trade them for coins. Not enough to get her far, but enough to see her through for a bit. But where would she go? How would she manage? What the devil was she thinking?

And with her gone from his life, why did he suddenly feel as though he might go mad?

It was the very worst place she could come, but she had nowhere else to go. Knocking on the servants’ door, she held her breath, striving not to think about what might have gone through Locksley’s head—other than a great deal of pain considering how much he’d imbibed—when he awoke this morning to find her gone. Would he have even cared or would he have thought good riddance?

A footman opened the door, blinked at her, furrowed his brow, and she knew he was trying to place her. “I’m here to see Miss Sophie.”

“What is the nature of your business?”

“It’s personal.” In her reticule, she had several calling cards that Locksley had given her when they’d arrived in London in the event she made morning calls. He’d had such faith in her garnering the love and respect of Society, of being welcomed, of being accepted as his wife. Instead, she’d merely managed to ruin his life. And she’d ruin it further if she handed over a calling card and anyone discovered that Lady Locksley was very familiar with Mistress Row. “Just inform her that Portia has come to call.”

“Come in.”

Grateful for the opportunity to get beyond the sight of anyone peering out a window in a neighboring residence, she stepped over the threshold and into the small area where the butler, housekeeper, or cook usually spoke with vendors who weren’t allowed into the residence proper. She knew her place. That she had tried to step out of it marked her as a very foolish girl.

She’d arrived in London before dark, but had waited until night fell to make her way here, hoping to avoid suspicious gazes and lessen her chances of being discovered. With Locksley snuggled against her, his hand on her belly, she’d been unable to sleep, and had simply lain there considering the unfairness of her actions. Well aware of the ramifications if this child were a boy, she should have walked away, should never have married Locksley. Exhausted, frightened, and desperate did not excuse her actions, did not justify her tainting a bloodline. She simply hadn’t truly understood the pride in their lineage that the aristocracy held on to.

The rapid patter of footsteps had her straightening her spine, forcing a smile. Sophie rounded the corner in a pink silk dressing gown, her black hair flowing down her back, over her shoulders. She didn’t stop until her arms were around Portia and she was hugging her tightly. “What are you doing here?”

Portia leaned back, fought not to look so worried. “I’m in a bit of bother again.”

Sophie glanced over her shoulder. “Sheridan could arrive at any time.” She returned her gaze to Portia. “You can stay in a back bedroom, but you must remain quiet. He’s not keen on my having company.”

“I shan’t make a peep.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Sophie showed her to a bedchamber and had a tray brought up. Portia felt like an absolute glutton as she sat in a chair before the fireplace and dug into the beef and potatoes.

“When was the last time you ate?” Sophie asked, settling into a nearby chair, watching her fondly. She was the sister Portia had never had, so different and accepting, while her true sisters had taken after their father and constantly found fault with her.

“Breakfast.”

“That can’t be good for the bairn.”

Portia laughed. “He didn’t half let me know about it.” He’d kicked several times during day. She licked her lips. “Did Beaumont bother you when he discovered me gone?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “He was like a raging bull, wanting to know where you were. But as you didn’t tell me where you were going, I couldn’t tell him no matter how dire his threats.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

With a scoff, Sophie shrugged and laughed. “Sheridan would have killed him if he touched me and well he knew it. But recently I saw the announcement about your marriage in the paper. You married a lord!”

“And now I must divorce him.”

Clear concern mirrored in her expression, Sophie leaned toward her. “Why? You have a title, money, position. You have everything we ever dreamed of having, whenever we talked. Portia, why give it all up?”

Gently, she placed her hand on her belly. “What if it’s a boy? I can’t do that to him. I thought I could, but I can’t. His titles and estates should go to a son who carries his blood.”

“Oh, Lord, why?” Sophie hopped up and began to pace. “They don’t care about us. They’re spoiled and rotten. They think nothing of taking advantage because they consider us below them.” Spinning around, she grabbed the back of the chair. “We don’t owe them anything.”

“Nor do they owe us. He didn’t put this babe in my belly. It’s not his responsibility.”

“And how are you going to care for it?”

“I haven’t worked out the particulars yet. All of this came about rather suddenly.” Lifting her shoulders, she smiled self-consciously. “I’m very good at cleaning houses.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Sophie dropped back down into the chair. “It would be less exertion and far better benefits to find another lord to take you on.”

She shook her head. “That wouldn’t work for me.”

Sophie stared at her. “Oh, my God. You fell in love with him.”

“I did.”

“Well, that was a rather silly thing to do. That’s why you want a divorce.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Ironic, yes? I’m leaving him because I love him. I love him so much, Sophie. Ten, twenty . . . a hundred times more than I ever loved Beaumont. He married me to protect his father. He’s a good man.”

A knock sounded on the door, and a maid poked her head in. “His Lordship’s here, miss.”

Nodding, Sophie rose to her feet. “Thank you. Tell him I’ll be down in a moment.” Once the maid left, she looked at Portia. “I’m wanted.” Only she wasn’t, not really, not in the way Portia had felt wanted by Locksley. “Make yourself comfortable, get some rest, and we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sophie. I shan’t linger.”

“You can stay as long as Sheridan doesn’t know you’re here. Good night.”

After she was gone, Portia set the tray aside, walked over to the bed, and stretched out on it. She should have packed some clothes, but she’d been worried about waking Locksley, and traveling with a trunk would have made it more difficult to move about quickly and unnoticed.

She’d ridden in a mail coach going north. At the first village, she’d disembarked and waited for a mail coach headed to London. She’d known the proprietress of the Peacock Inn had seen her climb into the mail coach, so she’d wanted to leave a confusing trail, just in case Locksley awoke early and searched for her. He’d either slept late or hadn’t come after her. Probably the latter, which was just as well. It would make things so much easier going forward.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t ease the pain of her broken heart.