their affaire had ended felt akin to watching her heart be torn from her.
“The cardinal rule of taking lovers is that you must never fall in love with them.” Lottie told her, once more echoing Hyacinth’s turbulent introspections.
A sensible rule, that. And she had always believed herself to be a woman of common sense and reason. Until now.
She stared at her friend, dismay sinking through her. “I am not in love with Tom.”
But as she issued the denial, realization hit her.
“Are you certain?” Lottie asked, her tone ringing with disbelief. “I have just spent the past half hour talking to myself.”
“Of course I am certain,” she said, without one hint of the accompanying confidence she claimed. “No one can fall in love in a fortnight.”
“I fell in love with Grenfell in seconds.” Her friend’s tone was sad. “I saw him across the ballroom, and that was it. I knew he was the only man I would ever love. Pity he never loved me.”
Guilt skewered her, for she’d had no intention to bring forth unwanted memories. “Forgive me, Lottie.”
“You have done nothing which requires forgiveness, my dear.” Lottie sighed heavily before forcing a smile to her lips. “I have no wish to dwell upon the past. All I meant to say was that a fortnight is more than long enough for you to fall in love with Lord Sidmouth. The heart is a mystery, and unfortunately for us poor mortals, we have no control over what it wants or feels. If it had been my choice, I would have never loved Grenfell at all.”
What if Lottie was right? What if Hyacinth had fallen in love with Tom?
Impossible, was it not? Impossible in so many ways. And yet, she could not discount the suggestion. It lingered, nettling her, sinking beneath her skin.
“I am sure I would know if I was in love with Tom,” she said, but the protest lacked conviction.
“I have never seen you like this,” Lottie pressed. “Ever since your arrangement with Sidmouth ended, you have not been yourself.”
She had been tired. Spending too much time in bed. Napping in the afternoons. Hiding herself in books. Eschewing social engagements. She had canceled every one of the parties she had planned to host.
“I have been tired,” she argued. “Perhaps I have caught a lung infection. Too many late nights. Too much champagne. I have merely needed to rest.”
A slight wave of dizziness rushed over her. Had she breakfasted that morning? She could not recall. Indeed, she had not been hungry lately, spending most mornings feeling quite queasy as she lay abed. Yes, surely that was the problem affecting her. She was coming down with a malaise.
It was not love.
She had not fallen in love with Lord Sidmouth.
That was impossible.
“Hyacinth,” Lottie said, taking her hands and giving them a squeeze of sisterly solidarity. “You are making excuses, and none of them make sense. You fell in love with him somewhere along the way.”
“But…but…surely I would have noticed such a thing?” Hyacinth asked, searching inside herself for the answers. “Surely I would have felt something? Or there would have been a moment?”
Lottie gave her a sad smile. “It is different for everyone, my dear.”
“I refuse to believe it.” She shook her head, distress swirling through her. “I am incapable of love. Southwick took the ability to feel from me.”
“Just because you have never experienced love before, and just because your marriage was a cold and unhappy one, does not mean you are incapable of love.” Lottie gave her fingers another squeeze. “Indeed, I have never known anyone more deserving of love or anyone as kindhearted and warm as you are.”
Dear, sweet heavens.
In love.
With Tom.
Mayhap it was not as implausible as it seemed. Mayhap it was true.
“Oh,” was all she could say, pressing a hand to her mouth. Realization turned into dismay. “Oh no.”
“I am afraid so,” Lottie said. “You are in love with Lord Sidmouth.”
Hyacinth’s stomach gave a sudden, violent lurch.
She was going to be ill.
She began racing from the salon, but her insides were suddenly rebelling quite violently. She had two choices: retch on the tea service, or all over herself.
She settled upon the tea service, and promptly cast up her accounts.
Tom heaved a sigh as he stalked the length of his study, feeling like a lion on a chain.
Seven days. A sennight since she had disappeared from his life like a thief running off into the night.
Seven days without Hyacinth.
Seven days of torture. Of self-loathing. Of anger and outrage. Of desperate