by Megan Bryce
George grabbed for his brother and hung on, their struggles turning into mutual support.
Sebastian hung his head, huffing. “We should have done this twenty years ago. I’m sure it would have hurt less.”
George nodded, breathless. “A draw?”
Sebastian looked around at the men circled around them and said, “We need to give them a winner or else there will be a riot.”
“Get on with it then. But make it a good one, would you? If I’m going down, I want to still be a man when I get back up. A man when I marry Elinor Rusbridge.”
Sebastian pushed his brother off him. “All the men heard that you would marry Miss Westin if I won.”
“I lied. Didn’t lie about Flora, though. This is entirely her fault.”
“You scoundrel!”
Sebastian swung with all his might and George had time to think that perhaps being an earl wouldn’t be too bad. It might be nice to believe you couldn’t lose.
And then there was blackness.
They left the next morning for London.
The coach was not so unfriendly and silent on this trip and there was light ribbing and pained groans from both sides.
Sebastian fidgeted. “We should have waited until we were healed.”
“But think how our women will fuss over us.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Resign yourself to it, dear brother.”
Sebastian eyed the bruises on George’s face. “She may take one look at you and faint.”
George laughed. “I doubt it. What of Flora?”
“I doubt she’ll even look. You were obliging enough to stay away from my face.”
George waited for more and when none was forthcoming, said, “Are you going to tell me why Flora is furious with you?”
“Do you think I know why?”
“My guess is she told you, at least. Whether you listened or not. . .”
Sebastian shifted again. “I accused her of something. . .horrible.”
“Bloody hell.”
“She’s been acting so strange, I just–”
“You forgot who she was for a moment.”
“I’m afraid I never knew.”
George laughed and shook his head. He pulled back the curtain to look out at gray skies and green pastures and white dots of sheep.
“What fools we mortals be.”
“Must you misquote?”
George smiled. “Fine, then. Lord, what fools these mortals be!”
“You don’t think she. . .”
“Never.”
Sebastian sighed. “I know. But how does one say I am completely and utterly cork-brained?”
“That’s a good start.”
“For some reason, I don’t think it will be enough for her.”
“I think, and I’m sure you are dying for my opinion, but I think you have always known who Flora is. And I think that all you need to do is ask for her forgiveness.”
“Just ask?”
“Beg?”
Sebastian’s lips pursed and his nostrils flared.
George said, “She knows you just as well and I would bet she knows asking is all you can do.”
Sebastian sighed and moved himself into a more comfortable position yet again.
“George. I won’t ask you for forgiveness, nor beg, not about Elinor Rusbridge.”
“I hope there is more coming because that was not a good start.”
“But. . .”
George waited, still looking out the window.
Then he smiled.
He turned back to his brother, saw how Sebastian was trying, trying, to say something else.
George shook his head and laughed. “But. . .is a good enough start for me, Sebastian.”
Sebastian had even went so far as to ask where George would like to be dropped off, his lodgings or the Lady Haywood’s.
George had privately thought that they should have pummeled each other ages ago but had only said his quarters.
He didn’t think Elinor would faint at the sight of him. The smell though. . .
George had to wash the country off as soon as possible and even Elinor would have to wait.
But not for long, and soon he was in front of her townhouse. Anala in his hand, not his pocket, and both of them ready to bound up the stairs and see Elinor. To smell her and feel her and forget the longest ten days of George’s life.
Perhaps take some tea with Mrs. Potts, and then retire to a bedchamber as hot as India and play with his lady’s scandalous midriff.
George stopped before one foot hit the steps. Stopped and turned, and there was her brother.
Watching.
Anala yipped. Alan Rusbridge nodded. George Sinclair nodded back.
He was an English gentleman after all.
But he stayed watching until Rusbridge turned away and walked into the darkening night.
George trudged up the stairs and knocked slowly, and when Jones opened the door, George let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Everything all right, Jones?”
“Of course, Mr. Sinclair.” Jones peered at the bruises. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Oh, fine. Had it out with my brother.” George waved behind him. “Rusbridge was here.”
Jones opened the door wider, showing the gun he’d been hiding behind it. “Yes, sir.”
“She’s all right?”
Jones nodded. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.”
George entered, handing off his coat and putting Anala down to scratch at the drawing room door.
The door opened and Elinor said, “Anala, no. Sit.”
When the dog sat, Elinor scooped the dog up and scratched behind her ears and turned to George.
She cataloged his features. His still wet hair. The bruises.
“Were you set upon by bandits?”
“A duel, of sorts.”
“. . .Did you win?”
He laughed and pulled a rumpled paper from his pocket. “I do believe I did.”
She read it slowly, and George didn’t blame her. Sebastian had penned it in the coach and it was hardly legible.
But even Elinor could tell it was a scribbled invitation to dinner.
Sebastian bathed and dressed and made his way to the nursery to see the children.
And tried not to flinch as they climbed on him and jostled his bruised body.
They talked over each other, telling him every moment he’d missed and he listened intently. So happy to be surrounded by his girls again.
When they wound down, he said to Camilla, “Would you like to join Mama and I for dinner tonight,” and her eyes got so big he thought they just might fall out.
She whispered, “Yes, Papa,” and then Sebastian had to spend the next ten minutes promising the other girls that when they were old enough they could eat in the dining room as well.
He finally was able to pull himself away when Camilla ran to get dressed for dinner, and Sebastian went to find Flora.
He took a big breath and blew it out before knocking on her door, and when she bade him enter, he pushed it in slowly. Trying to remember what he’d decided to say to her but all he could remember was beg and ask.
Flora was dressed for dinner already, her lady’s maid fashioning her hair, and she said, “Sebastian. You’re home.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve asked Camilla to join us for dinner.”
Flora blinked at herself in the mirror, then flicked her eyes to meet his. “She will enjoy that. . . She did eat already.”
“Oh. Of course she did.”
“She will still enjoy it. That was very thoughtful of you.”
He relaxed a little. He’d done something right.
But it still wasn’t enough. He knew that.
“Flora–”
She turned, stopping Sebastian with a look and dismissing her maid with a quiet thank you.
The door cl
osed and Sebastian simply looked at his wife. Waited.
And waited.
And then opened his mouth to say. . .something and Flora said, “Am I forbidden to have friends, then?”
“Of course not.”
“Lady Haywood tells me you visited her and forbade her to see me.”
Sebastian perched gingerly on a footstool. “I did say that to her. I didn’t think she was listening.”
“She was. And after telling me why she couldn’t see me anymore, refused to visit with me again.”
Sebastian folded his hands together and twiddled his thumbs. “That surprises me.”
Which was the truth but he realized quickly it would only add fuel to the fire and said, “I’ve invited her to dinner.”
“Yes, you already told me about Camilla.”
“No. Lady Haywood. I invited her to dinner.”
And if he’d thought that would be enough for his wife, he was sadly mistaken.
“Why?”
“Because. . .because my brother is in love with her.”
She fiddled with the brushes and pots on her dressing table. “It seems time in the country was just what you needed.”
“You should have seen him, Flora. He wouldn’t go within a few feet of any livestock that wasn’t a horse. But the people. . . I can’t do what he does. Puts people at ease. Listens to them. I don’t know.”
Flora simply looked at him and Sebastian wished, for the first time ever, that he was his brother. That he could put his wife at ease.
Ask.
Beg.
He said, “And I can’t imagine that he doesn’t see everything Lady Haywood wishes he didn’t. I can’t believe that she could dupe him. And if someone is blind regarding her, it is most likely me.”
Her expression softened, just enough. She looked back in her mirror and checked her jewelry and hair one more time.
“An intimate family dinner might be for the best. I can see the two of you stepping on toes– though Lady Haywood’s stepping might very well be on purpose.”
He didn’t care. Not about Elinor Rusbridge. Not about his brother.
Did he need to steal his wife away to the country for her forgiveness? Fisticuffs?
Ask.
Beg.
He whispered, “I am a complete and utter fool.”
She expression hardened again and she stood, sweeping her skirt behind her and heading for the door. “Yes.”
He grabbed her arm. Not too tight, he didn’t want to hurt her. But he couldn’t let her leave like that.
He said softly, “Flora.”
He pulled his wife to him, resting his head against her belly lightly and wrapping his arms around her waist.
He couldn’t think what to say except, “Please don’t knock.”
She was stiff in his arms, didn’t wrap her arms around him in return.
“You can rest assured, Sebastian, that I won’t be interrupting you in your library again. There. . .is no child.”
He was glad. Oh, so glad. He couldn’t bear to watch her go through another pregnancy, another birth.
But he kept his mouth shut.
And didn’t know why all of a sudden he couldn’t breathe. Didn’t know why his throat was tight and there were tears in his eyes.
He choked, “No one else. I’ll come to your bed every night, make sure you are well pleasured without the risk. But no one else.”
She tried to pull back but he held on tight.
She said softly, “There’s never been anyone but you. Never.”
He nodded and said, his voice high and tight, “I have five beautiful girls, and I wouldn’t trade any of you for a son. I won’t.”
“Sebastian–”
He pressed his face into her belly, his shoulders shaking, his hot tears soaking into her dress.
He cried. For the loss of a son he’d never had. For the wife he’d been so afraid of losing.
Flora stroked his hair and murmured to him.
When he looked up, there were tears in her eyes as well and she knelt beside him. She pressed her cheek against his shirt.
“I wanted to give you a son.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Of course I care. But. . . I love you. And that matters more.”
Flora whispered, “That is just not done. Not for an earl and his countess.”
“It will be my secret.”
She pulled back and smiled. “Our secret. It is just as silly for a woman to love her husband than it is for an earl to love his countess.”
“It’s only because you are perfect in every way. I couldn’t help myself.”
She laughed, stroking her fingers along his cheekbones. “You blind, blind man.”
“Perhaps I am. Even so, George says I’ve always known who you are, and all I need do is ask your forgiveness.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Ask?”
“Beg.”
“Beg!”
He closed his eyes and said, “For not trusting you when there is no one more trustworthy. For not believing that you could handle my disappointment.”
“Better for us to handle it together.” When he opened his eyes, she was smiling at him. “The country was good for you, Sebastian.”
“Doesn’t feel like it. I’m black and blue from my brother’s fists.”
She made a soothing sound and said, “I’d love to see.”
“Would you?”
He pulled her closer and she wondered softly, “Sebastian, how can we be together without risking a child?”
“I’ll show you.”
She put a hand to his chest, stopping him. “Wait. Camilla will be waiting for us.”
He groaned, then wiped the dried tears from her cheeks and kissed her lightly.
She murmured against his lips, “But after dinner. . .perhaps you’ll meet me in the library?”
Sebastian rose, offering his hand to help her up. “You won’t knock, will you?”
She smiled, slipping her hand into his. “Never. Never again.”
Fourteen
The morning of the earl’s dinner, Elinor sent George away, telling him she would meet him there and she wanted her dress to be a surprise.
George had laughed, wondering what she was going to wear to shock his brother.
“Who says it’s him I’m trying to shock? You would do just as well.”
He’d only kissed her, scooping Anala up with a backward, “It will certainly be fun for you to try.”
She didn’t feel too bad that it had been a lie. There would be plenty of time later to feel bad.
But Elinor knew that today she had something to do. Something that perhaps should have been done a long time ago.
Because Elinor could feel it coming. Her back was tight, her belly twisting.
This time she wouldn’t fight it.
She sent her own apology to the countess, telling her she would be missing dinner.
She ordered her carriage ready and sent a note to George, letting him know she would be gone for a few days. He could be angry with her when she returned.
She climbed her stairs slowly, locking the door behind her. Locking everyone and everything out.
She pulled a little key from her jewelry box and dragged a chest out from under her bed and when she opened it, the smell of camphor wood hit her hard.
She blamed the smell for the tears in her eyes and when she pulled out the tiny white christening gown her daughter had never worn, Elinor raised her face to the ceiling and willed the tears away.
She would not cry. Not here.
She pulled out little dresses and soft blankets, smoothing the wrinkles from them and putting them in a small pile for the maid to get rid of.
Someone would have need of baby clothing, but not Elinor. And it was time to accept. Time to admit defeat.
The tears threatened again and she stopped, swallowing how much that hurt.
She’d added to the chest during her first
and second marriage. A dress here, a blanket there.
And dear Bertie had smiled at her when she’d shown him the crocheted blanket his aunt had one day unexpectedly given them.
Pure white with pretty pink edging. A gift so full of hope and the future that Elinor hadn’t known how to say thank you.
After Bertie had been buried, Elinor had sat in her rocking chair, cradling the blanket to her chest and pretending that there was a baby snuggled up tight inside it.
Trying to believe that there was at least a small chance there could be, one day.
She pulled that little blanket out last, where it had been tucked safely at the bottom of the chest and cradled it one last time.
Cradled it as she unlocked the door and went slowly, painfully, back down the stairs to her waiting carriage.
The journey to Hertfordshire was not a long one. An easy day from London, made even easier by an occasional swig of laudanum.
Just enough. Enough so that the pain wouldn’t overwhelm her, not yet.
She remembered her first trip to Hertfordshire. A young wife, happy to be so far away from her father. Happy that she wouldn’t ever have to go back to him.
She hadn’t hated the country back then and she’d thought she would live out her life here in these green, rolling hills.
Funny how different life ended from where you imagined it.
She didn’t go to the manor and she didn’t stop in the village. In the end, she’d only been here a little over a year and had no memories to savor.
One year of her life. It hadn’t been much.
The church and cemetery, though, she was familiar with, and when the carriage stopped, she sat looking out the window at the changes ten years had made.
There were more stones, more moss. But she could still see the tall, commanding headstone of her Lord Haywood.
She could have been buried there one day. Next to her husband and child. But she’d chosen life and the future.
She thought of the merchant and Marcus and dear Bertie and the whippersnapper.
She’d lived a thousand lifetimes since the last time she walked away from this village cemetery.
She hadn’t been wrong to leave. She hadn’t been wrong to try.
And she thought of George. Happy, smiling George. Who she loved.
Who she couldn’t marry.
He needed a son, and she couldn’t give him one.
She looked down at the blanket still lying lifeless in her arms.