She’d told herself that when the dress arrived in a beautiful white box, complete with a gold-embossed H and an elaborate golden mask in delicate filigree that she’d had to resist touching.
There’d been underclothes, too—silks and satins and lace—clocked stockings and perfectly embroidered chemises at once stunning and utterly unnecessary. It had been more than a decade since she’d worn such softness against her skin, and she’d luxuriated in the feel of the fabrics against her even as their purpose echoed in her thoughts.
They were underclothes designed to be seen. By men.
By Temple.
And the cloak—a stunning green shot through with golden threads to match the rest of the ensemble, lined with ermine, worth more than a year’s worth of the orphanage’s bills. Mara had been shocked to find it in the box, as it had not been discussed when she’d been at Madame Hebert’s for her thoroughly embarrassing fitting.
Her cheeks went warm at the memory of his eyes on her in that dimly lit room. And when that memory gave way to one from later that evening, of his lips on hers, her cheeks burned.
And she told herself that she was happy to meet her executioner as she stood in the foyer of the MacIntyre Home for Boys, waiting, Lydia perched on the steps to the upstairs, Mara’s case at her feet, Lavender on her lap.
Now, as she stood in the foyer of this place she’d built with work and tears and passion, she realized that she was no longer Margaret MacIntyre, and no longer Mara Lowe. No longer headmistress, no longer sister, no longer caretaker, no longer friend.
She was blank again.
Her heart constricted. And somehow, none of it mattered but one, devastating truth: She was nothing to Temple, either.
She turned to Lydia. “If my brother comes, you’ll tell him I’ve left? You’ll give him my letter?”
Kit’s message had been waiting for her when she’d returned from The Angel, requesting funds to leave the country. Promising that this was the last he’d ask of her.
Mara had written him a letter articulating the truth—that she had no funds to spare, and that they were both in a place where they had to flee. She’d thanked him for the years he’d kept her truths from the world, and she’d said good-bye.
Lydia pursed her lips. “I shall, though I don’t like it. What if he comes after you?”
“If he does, so be it. I would rather he come after me than you. Than this place,” Mara said, adding quietly. “Than Temple.”
The words brought the echo of that night, her knife high in Temple’s chest, Kit gone, disappeared into the crowd as Mara panicked. This was the solution. It would end it. It would free Temple.
Kit would never bother him again.
And after tonight, neither would she.
She sighed, desperate to resist the emotions that came more and more readily at the thought of him.
“And everything else—”
Lydia nodded and set Lavender down, coming to Mara, taking her hands. “And everything else.” They stood like that for a long moment. Friends. “You don’t have to do this, you know. We could fight it.”
Tears threatened, and Mara blinked them back.
“But I do. For you. For the boys.” She spread her hands down the smooth silk of her skirts, forcing herself to remember that tonight, he would make good on his promise. And she would make good on hers. Finally.
Tonight, it would end.
Lydia knew better than to argue. “It’s a beautiful dress.”
“It makes me look like I’m for sale,” Mara said.
“It does not.”
Lydia was right. Yes, the neckline was low, but Madame Hebert had somehow given in to Temple’s request without making Mara appear indecent. But Mara did not wish to acknowledge the fact that the dress was stunning.
“It makes you look like a princess.”
She pulled the cloak around her. It was her turn to say, “It does not.”
Lydia grinned. “A duchess, then.” Mara cut her a look, but she kept speaking, scooping Lavender up from where the piglet danced at their feet. “Cor. Imagine that. You, married to his father.”
“I’d rather not,” Mara said.
“The man’s stepmother.”
She closed her eyes. “Don’t say it.”
“Imagine that life—filled with impure thoughts about one’s stepson.”
“Lydia!” Mara protested, grateful for the distraction.
“Oh, tosh,” Lydia said. “The man’s older than you are.”
“It doesn’t mean—”
Lydia waved one hand. “Of course it does. Look at him. He’s enormous. And handsome as sin. Are you honestly telling me you haven’t had a single impure thought?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
Of course she was a liar. She’d had more than impure thoughts about him. She’d had impure deeds with him. And worse.
She loved him, somehow.
What an unfortunate turn of events that was.