She lay back down, her head on the pillow, her eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. "Does my papa know?"
Colin nodded.
"How long have you known?"
"I found out only recently, right after the ball, Lucy. Yours and Susanna's come-out. But don't you see? What Lady Charlotte saw was nothing more than a brother embracing a sister. Go to Mandeville and tell him. Then he will understand—he can set things right."
"No, I cannot. He had no faith in me. He just”—she paused to swallow— "he took her word without allowing me to explain. I don't want him to set things right. This doesn't change anything with Henry. It just means my whole life has been nothing but a lie."
"Your father loves you, Lucy. His love is no lie."
"I believe that is true, but... Oh, Colin, I need a moment alone. What I really need is a nice, long ride, but I suppose that is not possible at this hour."
He shook his head.
She settled for a long, hot bath instead. Lucy sat in the steaming water and tried not to cry, but it was useless. She had always cried at the drop of a hat. It maddened her because she felt tears were for the weak, and she wished to be strong.
But never had her heart ached so miserably. Her mother and Lord Rosemoor? How could they? She'd been so young when her mother had died, yet she had vivid memories of her, memories of a lovely, happy woman. She'd always had the notion that her parents had married for love, that their relationship had been full of warmth and obvious affection. Were her memories so flawed? She kicked the side of the tub in frustration as she tried to make sense of it all. Why else would her mother have married beneath her station, if not for love? They’d eloped, after all. Her papa was all she had, and yet they shared no blood. And what of Nicholas? Was he...was he a bastard like she was? She shuddered violently, despite the warmth of the water.
She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled the soothing scent of lavender rising up from the steam. Her whole life was in disarray. She'd come to London hoping for some veterinary training, nothing more. And now that dream had vanished. She'd certainly never meant to fall in love. Truly, she hadn't really believed it possible. She'd always secretly worried that something was wrong with her, wrong with her heart. But no, clearly her heart was in working order, and now Henry had crushed it under the heel of his boot. And why not?
She had tried so hard not to love Henry, to push aside the feelings that had crept stealthily into her heart. She had denied it, railed against it. She shook her head sadly. She would go home, go on with her life, breed her horses and try to heal what needed healing. But her heart would never be the same. She knew of no cure that would save her.
Chapter 20
Henry sprawled on the sofa, one almost empty bottle clutched in his hand. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, his shirttails pulled from his trousers. He hadn't moved from this room, from this spot—except to relieve himself—since he'd returned from the Marsden ball. He'd shut himself in the darkened study and drunk everything he could get his hands on before slipping into a dark, empty sleep. Once he’d finally awakened, he'd started all over again. Empty bottles littered the floor. He was sure he reeked, but he didn't give a damn. He didn't give a damn about anything at the moment.
He heard the door rattle and opened one eye just wide enough to see his sister stride into the room and stand before him with her hands on her hips. "What're you doing 'ere, Ella? Can't a man shelebrate hish upcoming engagement in private? Dinja hear? I’m about to offer fer Lady Helena."
Eleanor's mouth was drawn into a tight line and her eyes flashed angrily. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Wha's it look like I'm doin', dear sishter? Drinking myself sloppy, that's wha' I'm doin'.” He pushed the bottle toward her. “Wanna join me?"
"Get up this instant, Henry Ashton. Sit up and look at me." She roughly grabbed him by one arm and tugged him into a sitting position.
He slumped over and rested his throbbing head in his hands. "Whaddja go and do that for?"
"How long have you been drinking?"
"Hmmm...wha’ day is it?" He had no idea. Mercifully, he'd entirely lost track of time. One day? Perhaps two?
"Snap out of it, this minute. You're going to tell me what's going on. How dare you sneak out of my home in the dead of night like that, without a word to me? Miss Abbington came looking for you the very next morning, you know, and I had the unpleasant task of telling her that my faithless brother took off in the night. Why didn't you speak with her first, give her a chance to explain?"
Anger flooded through his veins, clearing his head with its raw intensity. The clarity was too much for him to bear, so he took another swig of the dulling liquid. Eleanor stood and reached for the bottle, swiped it from his grasp, and threw it across the room. Henry jumped as it shattered against the fireplace.
"Wha's there to explain? She made her choice and she moved on. With alarming speed, I might add. Right inna the arms of Colin Rosemoor."
"Two childhood friends sharing a tender moment, nothing more. Miss Abbington herself confirmed it. She's not in love with Colin Rosemoor, you ass, she's in love with you."
He looked up at her sharply, his heart thumping against his ribs. "Did she say that?"
"No, not in so many words, but it was obvious. Anyone with two eyes and a fully functioning mind could see it."
His stomach fell. Every last ounce of hope drained from his body. "She doesn't love me. Besides, it's no use. I won't be like him." He lounged onto his back again, one leg carelessly thrown across the arm of the sofa.
"Are we back to that again? No, Henry, you've made quite sure that you're nothing like Papa, nothing at all. He was a dreamer, a romantic at heart. He wanted desperately to believe in Mama, in her love for him. He believed he married for love and he never wavered from that love, despite the painful truths he was forced to face. But you...no, you're nothing like him. In fact, you've worked so hard to ensure it that you know who you resemble instead? Don't you see it, Henry? You're like her."
Bile rose in his throat. "Damn you, Eleanor." His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. "How dare you say that? I am nothing like her. I am my own man, nothing less, nothing more."
"Hear me out, Henry, and then if you wish never to speak to me again, so be it. But I won't let you continue to ruin your life without having my say. I know you as well as I know myself. My heart aches every time yours does. Never before have I felt your grief as I have these past few days. I've lain in bed awake at night, feeling myself pulled toward you, wishing to ease your suffering."
She reached for his sleeve, but he wrenched his arm from her grasp and turned onto his side, his back to her. He was silently seething, practically blinded by red-hot rage. He could barely catch his breath, and he refused to let her see his reaction to her words.
She sat on the chair beside the sofa. Her voice continued, gentle now. "But you must let me help you," she was saying. "Otherwise, there's no hope. It isn't what characteristics, what traits you've inherited from your parents that make you who you are. It's the choices you make, Henry, that decide what kind of person you become. You don’t care for Lady Helena Waring. Instead, you’re considering her for what she could do for you. For her connections, her father’s power, her wealth. Just like Mama, Henry, don’t you see? Papa's intentions were good, he just didn't choose wisely. But Miss Abbington is not Mama. Surely you realize that? You must know her heart is good and true. And she does love you—I truly believe that. I'm not blind. I see the similarities in her and Mama, both beautiful and a bit unconventional, and yes, both the daughters of commoners, lacking wealth and connections. But the similarities end there. Their characters are as different as night and day. You're in no danger—none whatsoever—of suffering our father’s fate."
A twisting pain shot through his heart, making him inhale sharply. Dear God, she was right. She was right. He wasn’t any better than his mother. Why hadn't he seen it? His palms felt damp and clammy, and for a moment he thought he might
be sick. He sat up, his eyes brimming. "Eleanor, what have I done? What have I become?"
Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached for him. He clutched at her desperately as he felt his own cheeks dampen. It took him several moments to rein in his emotions, to choke back the self-loathing that threatened to engulf him.
"It's not too late, Henry. Go to her, go to Miss Abbington. Tell her how you feel."
"I can't. How can I? It isn’t yet settled, but I’ve made my intentions clear to Lady Helena’s father.” He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her familiar lemony scent. Immediately he felt soothed a measure.
"You're not yet betrothed to her, you said so yourself. There's still time. There must be some way to extricate yourself. Face a breach of promise suit if you must, but you can't marry her."
"No," he pulled away from Eleanor and shook his head, wiping his face on his sleeve. "I must uphold my honor, my duty." He stood on shaky legs, and began pacing back and forth in front of the sofa.
She grasped his wrist and urged him to sit. He slumped to the sofa and took her hand in his. He looked down and studied her hand—so elegant, with long, tapered fingers. He opened her hand and pressed his palm against hers, their fingers mirroring each other's. Hers came just short of the length of his—nothing like Lucy's tiny, delicate hands. No, when he held Lucy's small hand in his, it practically disappeared within his own. He swallowed and looked up to meet Eleanor's eyes. “Lady Helena is an appropriate match,” he said at last.
"But...but Miss Abbington. What about Miss Abbington?"
"It's too late, Eleanor. I've ruined whatever chance we had."
"No, it's not too late." She pounded her palm with one fist. "Go to her at once. Find her and tell her you love her.”
"Simply telling Lucy I love her won't solve it. It's more than that."
Eleanor tipped her head back and sighed. "What now, Henry? What new obstacle have you imagined?" she snapped.
"She won't have me, not unless I promise to allow her certain freedoms that I'm not willing to concede."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"She's secretly studying at the veterinary college, did you know that?" Eleanor's face registered surprise. "Yes," he continued, "it's true. She'll only marry me if I allow her to continue running about, treating injured animals.”
"So? What's so bad about her pursuing her talents, something she loves? Don't tell me you demanded she give it all up to marry you."
"Of course I did."
"You fool. It's why you love her, don't you realize that? Take all that away from Miss Abbington—strip it from her—and what do you have left? Not the same girl you've fallen in love with. Would you really want her that way?"
He shook his head. "Of course not. I can barely imagine her without it."
"Then why would you insist on such a thing? I don’t understand.”
“I’ve no idea why. I was angry at myself for succumbing to her, for offering to marry her. I suppose I was trying to punish her. I neither care what interests she pursues nor give a damn what anyone else thinks.”
“Do you love her?”
“I do.”
“And she loves you. I’m sure of it. Then there’s no problem, as far as I can see.”
Could she possibly be right? He wanted to believe it—his whole body strained to believe it. So his marriage wouldn’t be a political alliance. So his wife wouldn’t bring anything to the union—no prestige, no wealth, no land. No beneficial connections.
He could have those things if he married Lady Helena, but at what price?
His mind was spinning, trying to grasp the unfamiliar concept. Hell, he could barely think straight, his mind was so muddled from the liquor. If what Eleanor believed was true—if Lucy did love him, if she was honest and true, if she would never betray him—would he care if he lived out his days at Covington Hall, no richer, no stronger, and no more powerful than he was at this very moment? Could he possibly feel for a lifetime the way he'd felt every moment they were together in Oxfordshire?
That humid night, gazing up at her on the balcony in her dressing gown, laughing and reciting Shakespeare... That evening in the meadow, lying on the grass and gazing up at the stars... Had he ever been happier? He felt his chest tighten. No, he'd never been happier, never felt so carefree. And those precious minutes when he’d held her in his arms, tasted her sweet mouth, felt her soft body beneath his...those were nothing short of bliss. Would he trade it all, even for a dukedom?
Not bloody likely.
He made up his mind in an instant. He rushed to Eleanor and kissed her firmly on her lips, nearly knocking her over with his eagerness.
“Thank you, Eleanor,” he said, and rushed toward the door.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“To Rosemoor House.”
“But you can’t, not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind.” She shook her head. “Give her my love,” she called as Henry raced out.
***
A quarter hour later, Henry found himself standing before the Rosemoors’ townhouse in St. James, suddenly self-conscious. He hadn’t a coat, nor had he shaved in days, and he reeked of liquor. Why hadn’t he taken the time to clean himself, smarten himself up a bit? Bloody hell, he was coming to tell Lucy he’d been wrong—to ask her if she’d have him. The least he could do was come to her looking like a gentleman. He feared her protectors would never allow him past the threshold in his present condition, and truly he wouldn’t blame them. As he paused for a moment before the door, trying to decide whether he should stay or go, the heavy oaken panel swung open and Colin Rosemoor stood before him, his face livid.
“What the hell are you doing here, Mandeville?”
Rosemoor never failed to raise his ire. “I’ve come to see Lucy.” Henry met the younger man’s angry glare with his own. He saw Rosemoor’s gaze sweep over his disheveled form, disdain and disgust evident in his haughty countenance.
“You look like a beggar, Mandeville, and you stink to high heaven. Besides, she’s not here. She’s quit London, thanks to you. She and Mrs. Stafford returned to Nottinghamshire yesterday.” He started to pull the door shut, but Henry planted one dusty boot in the doorjamb.
“You’d best get out of here, Mandeville, or I won’t be held responsible for any damage I inflict. You’ve done enough, don’t you think? You should have seen her, you bastard. She’s nothing but a hollow shell,” he sputtered. “You’ve taken a spirited mare and broken her beyond recognition. You’ve ruined her chances, sealed her fate.”
Something in Henry snapped. “You know, Rosemoor, perhaps I was right after all. Everyone assures me the two of you are nothing more than friends, but you sound more like a spurned lover to me.”
Rosemoor’s eyes blazed. A vein in his temple throbbed visibly, and he clenched his fists tightly by his sides. Henry took a step back just as Rosemoor’s hand flew out, his fist connecting solidly with Henry’s left eye. The force startled him and knocked him to the ground, where he sprawled inelegantly. He reached up to rub his smarting eye as he muttered an oath.
Rosemoor stood over him, his legs planted wide and his arms folded across his breast. The anger in his eyes was palpable. “You bloody fool,” he spat out. “Yes, I love her.”
Henry smirked. Of course. He’d been right all along.
“Like a sister,” he hissed. “Of course I love her, just as I love Jane and Susanna. You betrayed her over a brotherly embrace, a sisterly kiss. And then she arrives here amid rumors that you’re soon to be engaged to Lady Helena, and as if that weren’t enough, they’d sent word that she was no longer welcome at the college.”
“Bloody hell,” was all he could manage.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“I owe you an apology.” He rose awkwardly to his feet, brushing dirt and dust from his trousers.
“It’s not me you owe an apology, it’s—”
“I realize that.” Henry grimaced. “I c
ame here today to tell her I was wrong, to see if she’d still have me. I am a bloody fool, Rosemoor. You were right on that count.”
“She loves you, Mandeville. Damn it to hell if I know why, but she does. Her heart’s broken.”
“I’ll go to her at once.”
“Damn straight you will.” He saw Colin’s nose wrinkle. “I say, though, old boy, you could do with a bath first.”
“Where in Nottinghamshire might I find her?” He was surprised to realize he didn’t know. He’d never asked.
“Ludlow House, in the village of Hollowsbridge. If you take the afternoon mail coach, you should be there in two days’ time. But I’m warning you, if you do anything—anything at all—to hurt her, I’ll find you and shoot you myself. Understood?”
Henry reached a hand out to Rosemoor, who took it warily. “Understood. You have my word as a gentleman. I know my actions of late haven’t shown it, but I do love her, and I vow never again to hurt her. Thank you, Rosemoor. I owe you a great debt.”
“You do, indeed.”
“If she’ll have me, we’ll name our firstborn son for you.”
Henry could see the corners of Rosemoor’s mouth flicker briefly. “I suppose that’ll do.”
Henry flashed a grateful smile before turning and heading home to pack his bag. After a bath, of course, and a bit of unfinished business with Lady Helena’s father.
Chapter 21
“Dear, you must snap out of this.” Aunt Agatha patted Lucy’s cheek. “You’ve hardly eaten anything in days. Your cheeks look hollow, and those circles beneath your eyes...oh, my.” She turned her head away from Lucy, a handkerchief clutched to her mouth. “I’ve summoned your father up here to have a look at you.”
“No, Auntie. I’m fine.” Lucy had avoided her papa since her return, not yet ready to face the questions she knew she must ask him. Thankfully, he’d been quite occupied attending to the young duchess’ premature infant, born at Newcastle Abbey the same day Lucy and Agatha had returned home.
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