“A very good idea,” he said. “But I don’t think you really have a headache. I’ll ask once more, and then I’ll simply start spreading rumors about possible answers: what’s going on?”
She turned her face away toward the window. “You were gone so long,” she said. Only as she spoke the words did she realize how much she’d resented his absence. She’d needed him.
He sighed. “Well, Canada,” he said, as though that were an answer. “Bloody hard to get to, and even harder to get out of. The ports freeze, the roads freeze, the snow mounts higher than your head. I was afraid, for a bit, that I’d have to dig us back to England—the long way, mind you, for we’d have emerged in China, and set sail from there.”
She smiled despite herself. “But you enjoyed it.” She could hear that in his voice.
“I certainly wouldn’t have done,” said James. “Only seeing it through Lyd’s eyes was something . . . quite new. Quite different.”
She swallowed. He was not going to be able to cheer her, not when his every promising witticism kept sliding back, so predictably, into love-struck praise for his wife.
How small hearted you’ve become.
She bit her lip. Oh, Mama. Mama had been over the moon at James’s wedding. Finally, a woman who deserves him. I knew one would come along. And so, too, with you, my love. Only wait, and he will come.
“Look here,” James said. “I should have come home. By the time I got your telegram, we were two days out of Montreal. I should have turned around—”
“No.” She made herself turn back—discreetly wiping her nose before facing him. “I mean—that’s kind of you, James. But she was gone by then. And afterward . . .”
Afterward she’d been in no mood for solicitous consideration. She’d wanted only wildness, the sweet oblivion of forgetting. Nello had supplied that very satisfactorily, for a time. “I wasn’t alone,” she said with difficulty.
James was watching her, his expression sympathetic. “Bastard was bound to let you down. You’re better off without him.”
How well he knew her, to have followed her thoughts. “So you’d told me. I should have listened.”
He tilted his head slightly, his tawny hair slipping over his eye. “But that’s not why you’ve been weeping, is it?”
“No.” She hesitated, gripped by the urge to confide in him. But if she laid out the whole sad tale of her restricted circumstances, he’d try to solve the problem for her. Pay off her debts at the expense of his own welfare, perhaps. He could not afford that. Not yet. His relationship with his father was strained, his living drawn mainly from the profits of his factories in the north. Until he came into the title, he could not play the hero.
And regardless of what he might offer to do, Liza could not imagine his wife would appreciate such a marked demonstration of their friendship. Liza had not always been at her best in front of Lydia, who had been cut from a very bourgeois cloth. Such strict notions of propriety she had!
“It’s silly,” she said finally—her voice steady, no hint in it of the ache she felt. “I’m only . . . very anxious, I suppose. First you married. Then Phin.” For Lord Ashmore, too, had been part of their summer confederacy as children, most often as James’s guest at Sitby. At the thought of his new wife, Liza pulled a face. “Married to an American, of all people! And what a peculiar girl. She’s beautiful, I won’t deny it, but the last time we met, she tried to persuade me to go rolling down a hill for fun. I was wearing a Worth gown at the time, mind you—and worse yet, so was she!”
James gave her a sideways smile. “Phin’s rather peculiar himself. Perhaps we’re the ones who seem odd to them.”
“I suppose.” And Phin could probably afford any number of Worth gowns. She sighed. “At any rate, it does seem like everyone in the old childhood gang is finding their way. And I’m very happy for all of you, only perhaps I . . . perhaps I’m coming to realize that it’s not in my fate to be loved as you are.”
James laughed, a soft sound of disbelief. “As far as I can tell, you’ve at least two bachelors downstairs hanging on your every word. Not saying that either is the one for you, but certainly you’ve no cause to despair of finding love, if that’s what you want.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Weston and Hollister? Would you really match me with either of them?”
Now his brows climbed. “Who mentioned Weston? I was thinking of de Grey.”
For the space of a moment she could not catch her breath. If only Michael were eligible for her purposes! If only life provided such fairy tale solutions . . .
“Lord Michael is a second son.” Her voice emerged roughly. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Surely you would aim higher for me! Am I not worth a prince or a king at the least?”
James studied her. “Without doubt,” he said after a moment. “Of course, I’m not blind to the way you look at him. There’s a tale there, I expect.”
Her throat closed. Do you want me to say things that can’t be unsaid? Michael had demanded on the terrace. For I will, you know. I will say them to anyone who cares to listen.
In this instant, she knew precisely what he’d meant. The urge to speak of him, to boast that he’d laid his hands on her and it had been glorious, was almost physical in its ferocity.
But the Duke of Marwick wanted for his brother a wife that nobody would criticize. That would never be Liza. Michael would lose his hospital for certain.
“Your face is speaking volumes,” James remarked.
She shook her head. “A volume of rubbish.”
“I confess, it did surprise me when I first considered it. You and Saint Michael? Always holier-than-thou, that one. And now a bloody hospital. I’m surprised he hasn’t earned a knighthood yet.”
The description startled her. “You misunderstand him. He’s not self-righteous in the least.”
“No?” James shrugged. “Well, I was never close to him at school. But he always seemed damned fierce in his convictions. Though knowing what I do of his brother . . .” He smiled, not pleasantly. “Marwick seems a fine tyrant, a man after my father’s own mold. So I’ll reverse my opinion, then, and say I like de Grey simply for having had the guts to defy the bastard—for I’m certain Marwick envisioned a more glorious path for his brother than mere medicine.”
She frowned, irked by the notion. “But the hospital is a very fine achievement! The . . . lowest death rates in the country, I believe. If Marwick doesn’t see glory in that, then he’s a fool!”
James looked at her but did not speak. In the silence, her own words rang in her ears, and she heard them as he must have—so earnest and defensive—and closed her eyes again. Who was the fool here? Not Marwick, it seemed.
“Lady Elizabeth de Grey,” James said. “Has a fine ring to it.”
She bit her lip. “James, don’t.”
“People do like him. You’ll have no trouble introducing him to our crowd. Of course, he’s a bit somber for my taste—”
“Somber!” She gawked at him. “Says the man who married a lady lecturer!”
He grinned. “But Lydia is the last thing from somber. You’ll come to see it when you know her better. Her brain, Lizzie . . . it’s a thing of beauty; I cannot begin to track how it works. That I don’t bore her is a constant amazement to me.”
What rubbish. “You could never be boring. And if she isn’t somber, then Lord Michael certainly isn’t.”
“Ah, but he works, you know. Makes the rest of us chaps look a bit lazy.” He hesitated. “And then there’s the mess with his parents. Not surprising if he always had a . . . hard edge to him.”
She toyed with the lace detailing on the blanket beneath her. “Some court battle, I recall?”
“Yes, a very ugly divorce. The old duke accused his wife of any number of sins, some of them too indecent for print. And the duke himself emerged as no prize.” He sighed. “Granted, my own recall is somewhat vague—mostly collected from stupid jokes at school. De Grey was a target from the mom
ent he enrolled—endured a good deal of taunting, as you may imagine. But he gave as good as he got.” With a faint smile, he added, “Quite a savage little beast, very good with his fists. Not that I disapprove.” His voice turned darker. “No honor in surrendering to bullies. Reply in kind, I say.”
Now it was Liza’s turn to divine where his thoughts had led him. Much of James’s hatred for his father was owed to that man’s abandonment of James’s sister, Stella, when her husband had turned abusive.
Stella had killed her husband. She now remained in an asylum in Kent.
“She doesn’t answer my letters,” Liza said softly. She and Stella had been very close, once. But all her overtures were rebuffed with silence. “You said she was . . . better. But she doesn’t reply. I wonder why that is.”
He shrugged. “Can’t say. I’d spring her free tomorrow if only she wished it. But she seems to be waiting for something. Our father’s death? I wouldn’t blame her.” His mouth flattened. “But she doesn’t belong there, Lizzie. She’s as sane as you or I.” He laughed without humor. “Saner, in fact. I saw her—right before the wedding. Did I tell you that?”
“You did,” Liza murmured.
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you how well she looked. Only she insisted she must stay—locked up there, like an animal—” He exhaled, a violent sound. “Lydia says I must leave her be; that I mustn’t try to persuade her. That I must wait until she’s ready.”
Liza put her hand over his. The pain in his face broke her heart a little. “Lydia is right,” she said softly. “Give Stella the choice. She’ll come back to us in her own time.”
His hand turned underneath hers, his fingers squeezing hers briefly before he withdrew them. “So, the devil take it,” he said. “I’ve nothing but admiration for de Grey. Fight back when struck. Rage against injustice. Hell—burn the place down. Far better than making nice.”
She drew back, slightly alarmed now. If he had decided that Michael somehow resembled his sister, then nothing would stop him from championing Michael’s case to her. “James, I have no designs on Michael.” For his sake as well as her own, she mustn’t.
He nodded once. “You’re a jaded little pessimist, and I adore you for it. But take it from one who has learned: love may make you into an optimist yet.”
Her smile felt brittle. “That is not optimism but idealism speaking through you, James. Why, even if one were to find love . . .”
He waited a moment, then said gently, “One such as you, perhaps?”
Her heart felt as heavy as a stone. “Even if one finds it, that does not mean one can keep it.”
“Oh?” He smiled as he rose, a smile that was far from reassuring. “Then prove it,” he said. “Come down and flirt with Weston for me.”
• • •
In Liza’s absence, the dynamics of the party had grown complicated. Katherine Hawthorne had developed an inexplicable interest in Weston. Jane was sulking. And as soon as Liza entered the observatory for high tea, Hollister pulled her aside to request a private conference.
Looking into his calm, handsome face, she felt, all of a sudden, very annoyed. To propose marriage after such a short acquaintance seemed insulting. Could he not at least pretend to care about what she was like as a person? Or, at the least, to seem a small bit nervous around her! Clearly he assumed that with his money, his looks, and his new title, she was his for the taking.
She turned down his invitation by pleading a hostess’s obligations, and then did her best to avoid him by making sure that she was constantly in conversation with someone else. Anyone else, save Michael. Michael, she avoided.
And in this effort, he seemed determined to aid her. As they drifted into the drawing room at half past seven, she mistakenly approached a group before spotting him in it—realizing her mistake only when he turned away and moved onward to join Jane and the Forbeses. And illogically, his tacit cooperation wounded her. Like an arrow through her heart, the sight of his retreating back left her crushed and breathless.
This had to stop. It must.
Through an interminable dinner, she mustered quips to trade with the Hawthornes and Tilney, managed persuasive laughter at the guests’ recounting of the clairvoyant’s predictions, and issued mysterious demurrals when pressed for details of the night’s particular entertainment. She did not intend to drink so very much, for there was no point to it; she felt light-headed already, her wits benumbed. But keeping up with the toasts was only polite, and the food on her plate could not interest her. When she rose from the table, the ground seemed to tilt beneath her. She had to catch the edge of the table to steady herself.
“Goodness!” She managed a laugh, high and bright, and said something about the carpet—tripping on the carpet; how ridiculous! But it was no good. She saw that in Lydia’s quickly averted gaze. Lydia had a gift for looking away in the most judgmental manner possible.
The next second, Hollister was at her elbow, solicitously offering his arm. Had she not dispensed with the formalities the very first night, he would not have had the chance to escort her; the women would have retreated into the drawing room while the men enjoyed their cigars. But as soon as she’d risen, everyone had come to their feet as well, and now they were filing out of the room, chattering excitedly about the next spiritual demonstration. And her head was spinning and she could not pull away from Hollister’s grip without risking her balance again. Not yet. Her heart felt as though it were trying to knock straight out of her chest. Too little food; too much wine.
“Perhaps a brief rest before you join the guests,” Hollister was saying, and now he was urging her away from the direction of the others, and when she tried to tug free, the dizziness assaulted her again, freezing her in place. For the first time in her life, she felt truly panicked. For the first time, she truly wished she had not drunk at all. Her body was not responding properly to her commands. A wave of panic, irrational and overstated, swept through her. She was in her own home. She was perfectly safe.
“I’m fine,” she said, but the room spun again, and Hollister laughed and said, “Before the fifth glass, you were.”
The laughter in his voice held no unkindness, but her panic seemed to swell larger yet, for what woman would welcome the news that a man had been tracking her liquor consumption with an eye to privacy? She planted her feet. “I don’t—”
“I only mean to see you to your rooms,” he said. “I shan’t take advantage.”
“No, you won’t.” This level statement came from Michael, his voice washing over her like a cooling relief. He stepped up and slid his arm around her waist, in the process knocking away Hollister’s grip.
He turned her a little, and blurrily she grew aware that the Hawthornes had paused in the doorway to watch—James now stepping up to urge them onward.
My God. She wanted the earth to open. She wanted to sink into the ground. It was one thing to drink to excess deliberately, and quite another to discover oneself overset by accident. She had a sudden, vivid memory of the Stromonds’ ball last year—her most vicious fight with Nello; far too much champagne, like oil on the flames of her rage—and James rescuing her from the water closet, where she’d woken sometime later, flat on the floor.
How had that not frightened her? How had she laughed about it the next day? Now, suddenly, she wanted to weep over the memory. What had happened to her this year?
Who have you become? Mama whispered. You never dreamed of this for yourself.
She made herself straighten. “I’m fine,” she said. She would not collapse tonight. “Lord Michael will escort me.”
Hollister looked between them. “Are you certain?” At her nod, he retreated a pace. “Very well. Until later, Mrs. Chudderley.”
When he walked away, she would have followed, but Michael held her in place. “In a minute,” he said.
He stood beside and slightly behind her. She did not want to look at him. This was not who she was when she was with him. When she was with him, she did no
t enjoy this spinning feeling; she did not need it. “I’m fine,” she said. And truly, the dizziness was passing.
“Good. But take a few deep breaths. And some water. Here—” His arm still around her, he leaned over to snag a half-drunk glass from the table. “Mine,” he said as he handed it to her, as though she would not have known that; he was the oddity at the table, the guest who asked for water along with his wine. His hand closed over hers to keep her grip steady as he directed the glass to her lips.
Like a father with his child. It should have mortified her. But the tears that pricked her eyes felt born of a different emotion. Will you—would you always look out for me so?
Would you never lose your patience?
She sipped hesitantly, fearing for a second that her stomach would reject the libation. But as soon as she’d swallowed, she realized it was exactly what she’d needed. Only then a drop went down wrong, causing her to cough.
His arms closed fully around her, pulling her back into his chest, crushing her bustle between them. “Finish it,” he said into her ear. “Lean on me.”
For a moment, though, she could not bring herself to obey. The feeling of his arms around her was more than a revelation. It was relief in its purest, physical form. Lean on me.
This, her mother whispered. This, here.
Her throat was so tight that she was not sure she could swallow. Had the Hawthornes popped back in to see this damning tableau, she would not have cared.
“Finish it,” he said, his curt voice jolting her back to the moment.
She did, quickly. And then twisted in his embrace to return the glass to the table—becoming aware as she did of the footmen clustered in the doorway, obviously uncertain of whether this scene would bear their intrusion.
She nodded to signal her permission, then used her study of the table to compose herself. Dessert plates and crumbs. Ivy twined cunningly around the silver candelabra.
She could not bear to look into his face and see contempt.
“Better?” he asked.
Reluctantly, she stepped free of his embrace. His face was grave in the candlelight. She could not tell what emotion might underlie his sobriety.
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