“If you believe I have any interest in hearing anything you have to say, then you are gravely mistaken, Lady Charlotte. I will ask you to leave me at once.”
“Not till you hear me out.” She settled herself haughtily on a chair across from him, arranging her skirts neatly about her. He could only sit there and stare at her impertinence. “I will no longer play these games, Henry. You will marry me.”
“Marry you?” he sputtered, rising to his feet.
“Yes, I have all but given up on your mother. Her influence over you must not be so great after all, no matter what she says. I went to her myself, you see, in the spring, just after you returned from Scotland. You must understand how embarrassing it is, a girl like me on the shelf for so long. She promised to do her best, and I suppose you would have had me if that deplorable Miss Abbington hadn’t arrived when she did, throwing herself at your feet. But I believe you’ll have me now.”
He sat. Was she really saying these words? No woman of such breeding and position would dare say such things. She must be fit for Bedlam. “Have you lost your senses? Why ever would you presume something so preposterous?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m afraid you’re too late, Charlotte. I’ve already made an offer, and I can assure you it was not your hand I requested.”
“I’m fairly certain you’ll reconsider your offer when you hear what I have to say about your precious Miss Abbington. Truly, even I’m a bit surprised at her audacity. Lady Worthington was even more shocked than I by what we witnessed tonight,” she said with a smug smile.
What the hell was she talking about? Had she somehow seen him and Lucy together in the meadow? He rose and leaned against the desk, glaring angrily at the despicable woman. “Enough games, Charlotte. If you have something to tell me, then let’s be done with it.”
“I’m afraid she’s played you for a fool, Lord Mandeville, even here at your sister’s home. Not two hours past, Lady Worthington and I happened upon your Miss Abbington in a secluded spot in the rose garden, enjoying the intimate company of Mr. Colin Rosemoor.”
The blood drained from his face at once.
“I see you are surprised.” She arched one dark brow. “I cannot say I am. Yes, they were embracing one another quite ardently, and they kissed. Shocking, no? Your sister dragged me away and left them to their tryst, pleading for my silence. But I felt you should know the truth, before it’s too late. She’s a bit like your own mother, isn’t she? Your mother and Cecelia Layton, all wrapped up in one pretty package.”
Her words cut through his heart like a knife, but he would not give her the satisfaction, damn her. Damn her to hell. Damn them all to hell. All women were dishonorable, deceptive, damnable creatures. Even Lucy. Even his Lucy. He silently choked on his rage as he imagined her in Rosemoor’s arms.
“Well?” she asked sweetly.
“Well done, Charlotte.” He rose to his feet and applauded with a sneer. “Well done, indeed.”
Charlotte looked triumphant. She stood and moved to his side. “Well, kiss me then. I shall return to London at once and announce our engagement immediately.”
“My dear, I would rather kiss a snake. You played a good game, Charlotte, a good game indeed. But it wasn’t Miss Abbington that I meant,” he lied. “It’s Lady Helena Waring I’ll take as my bride, not you. Never you.” He watched the color drain from her face as he strode angrily to the door. He paused in the doorway and turned to face her once more, the blood pounding in his temples. “The game’s over, Charlotte. Checkmate.”
Chapter 19
After a night of fitful, restless sleep, Lucy awoke to a vague sense of incompletion. She sighed in relief as the first golden rays of sunlight filtered through the drapes. Ah, morning at last. She thought of Henry, somewhere under this very same roof, and a sudden surge of emotion charged through her veins. Love, she told herself. She was in love. She stretched languorously and folded her arms behind her head, lying back upon the pillow. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth as she realized that this new emotion didn’t change things. Could she give it all up for him—everything she’d worked so hard for? Could he truly mean to restrict her activities? He knew how much it meant to her, how unhappy she’d be without it. Surely she could convince him to reconsider.
What answer would she give him? An uncomfortable lump formed in her throat. As wonderful as this feeling was in her breast, this brilliant and dazzling thing called love, she could not tell him yes if he still insisted upon this ridiculous stipulation. Her heart fluttered. No, the price was too high—her independence, her identity, for God’s sake. But he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—unless he didn’t love her. She finally allowed herself to consider that painful possibility.
No, if he would not yield, then neither would she.
Hurrying to dress in her best morning gown, Lucy had Bridgette pay special attention to her hair arrangement. Her legs felt leaden as she walked down to the breakfast room and filled her plate from the sideboard with shaking hands. Several early risers joined her, but Henry was not among them. She found she had trouble swallowing her food and she burnt her mouth on her coffee. By the time Lucy finished her meal, the remainder of Lady Worthington’s guests were ambling into the breakfast room, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Careful to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes or solicit any unnecessary conversation, she hurried to her room to await Henry’s summons.
With a sigh, Lucy perched on a chair facing the balcony and picked up a novel to pass the time while she waited.
And waited.
After several interruptions from the Rosemoor girls and what seemed like hours, she set down her book and went to the window. The sun had risen high in the sky. It was near enough midday. Where was Henry?
She waited a bit longer, perhaps a half hour at most, and then could stand it no longer. She found some paper and a pen, sat at the small desk in her room, and scribbled a short note. She folded it and rang the bell for the butler.
The butler handed the paper back to Lucy with a frown. “I am afraid he has gone, miss. He left late last night.”
***
“Lady Worthington, I’m embarrassed to come to you like this, but I find I must inquire as to your brother’s whereabouts. We had an engagement this morning, and...well, he never showed nor sent word. I was told by your butler that he has left.”
“Oh, dear. Miss Abbington, I’m afraid my impetuous brother has left me in a most uncomfortable position. I assumed he had spoken with you, as I suggested, before he took his leave.”
“Took leave?”
“Yes. To London, I’m afraid.”
She must have heard wrong. To London? Why would he leave without telling her, without having her answer first?
“He did not give you a chance to explain, then?”
“Explain? I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Her heart began to race; her brow broke out in a cold sweat.
“Last night after dinner I was forced to take a turn in the garden with Lady Charlotte, you see, and, well...how should I put this?” Lady Worthington twisted a handkerchief in her hands, her face drawn.
“As frankly as possible, madam,” Lucy said in earnest.“Yes, you’re right. I’ll be perfectly frank. Lady Charlotte and I happened upon you and Mr. Rosemoor in, well...in an embrace, of sorts. Some sort of tender moment in the garden.”
Lucy could only gasp.
“Apparently she went straight to my brother and embellished the tale. She implied the embrace was more, well...more compromising than I myself believed it to be.”
Lucy’s legs felt weak, and she sank to the sofa. “Oh, no,” was all she managed.
“Should I get you some water, Miss Abbington? Here, let me ring for the butler.”
“No, I’m fine,” she lied. Water would not help her. What she needed was a good, stiff brandy.
“I feel terrible for the role I’ve played in this. Henry sought me out, railing furiously, asking if it were true. Not knowing exactly what he was told, I admitted that we
had witnessed you in Mr. Rosemoor’s arms, but that I was unsure as to the nature of the embrace. I begged him to speak with you, to let you explain, but I’m afraid his anger dulled his sensibilities.”
Lucy felt as though she might faint. Her thoughts were drawn back to the embrace, the kiss in question. It had been so innocent, nothing more than a sisterly kiss. Ironically, she’d been telling Colin that she was in love with Henry.
If only he’d given her the chance to explain. She rose to her feet. “I must go. Thank you for your candor, Lady Worthington, and let me assure you that what you witnessed was nothing more than one childhood friend comforting another. There was nothing untoward about it. I...I simply don’t understand why Lady Charlotte would suggest such a thing.”
But of course she understood perfectly. She wanted him for herself.
“I am sorry.” Lady Worthington patted Lucy’s arm, her mouth drawn into a frown. “He is a stubborn, prideful man, and with his past experience...well, he is perhaps a trifle too sensitive.”
She was obviously speaking of Cecelia Layton. “Perhaps,” Lucy said, but this was nothing, nothing, like that. He should have allowed her side of the story. She deserved that, at least. Could he possibly believe that she would run straight from him—from his proposal—into another man’s arms? Lucy could bear the lady’s sympathy no longer. She turned and fled.
***
"Lucy, dear, you look so pale. Are you certain you are well?"
Lucy looked up at her aunt, sitting across from her in the carriage, her brows knitted in concern. "I'm certain," she muttered, shifting her gaze to the window. The rolling countryside finally gave way to the bustle of Town, and she felt her anxiety mounting. She silently chided herself for allowing her emotions to show so blatantly. It was only her pride that was wounded, she reminded herself. She would have refused him, after all, had he insisted still on restricting her freedoms. Perhaps it was better this way.
She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. She was surprised to see that they were trembling, but then, the past day had been so trying. She'd done a fine job of pretending nothing was amiss, and Jane and Susanna had been so pleasantly occupied that they'd not even noticed her discomfort. Only Colin had seen through her ruse. He'd heard of Henry's sudden departure and come to ask Lucy what had happened. She'd been unable to tell him, unwilling to open the wound, so she'd simply said he'd been called away and ended the conversation.
At least she still had her training at the college to look forward to. In little more than a fortnight she'd have secured her letter of endorsement from Professor Williams, and she'd be well on her way to independence. Everything had turned out exactly as she'd planned. She shook her head in hopes of clearing it and attempted a weak smile.
She could barely wait to climb under the silky sheets of her familiar bed, breathe in the scent of the garden's blossoms below. When she awoke tomorrow, she'd be fully restored to her normal self.
The happy chatter in the carriage came to a halt as they finally pulled in front of Rosemoor House.
"Oh, Lady Rosemoor. Welcome home." Peering out the window in the twilight, Lucy could see Mrs. Butler standing on the walk below, her two daughters behind her. Lady Rosemoor and Aunt Agatha alighted from the carriage and the girls clambered out after them and exchanged pleasantries with the Butler girls.
"Did you hear the news?" Mrs. Butler was asking excitedly. "I’m not at all surprised, not at all."
"Whatever do you mean?" Lady Rosemoor asked. "We've been away in the country and I'm afraid I haven't heard the recent on-dits."
"Lord Mandeville," the lady said with relish. "It is said that he’s about to ask for Lady Helena Waring’s hand." Gertrude and Portia nodded in agreement, their heads bobbing. “They made quite the pair last night at the Marsden ball,” Mrs. Butler continued. “Why, they danced no less than four consecutive dances, and he held her shockingly close. I’ve a mind to bet that their betrothal will be announced by the week’s end.”
All the air left Lucy’s lungs in a rush. She could hardly remember what happened next, except that she fled silently into the front hall with Jane holding her arm.
As she approached the staircase, the room began to spin. She reached for the balustrade to steady herself, gripping the polished wood with white knuckles.
"Oh, Miss Abbington, there you are." It was Penwick, holding out an envelope to her. "Mr. Wilton brought this letter for you yesterday. He said it was urgent."
Jane looked on with a worried frown as Lucy broke the seal and unfolded the missive with trembling hands.
She scanned the lines, barely seeing the words but understanding their meaning all too clearly. She was no longer welcome at the college. The faculty had learned of Professor Williams' tutelage and forbade him to continue, under threat of suspension.
She heard herself cry out as the letter fluttered to the carpet. No, it couldn't be true. It was all she had left, after all. Now there was nothing—nothing at all—holding her here.
The next thing she knew, she was in her bedchamber packing her trunks. Aunt Agatha tried to dissuade her, but she had threatened to hire a hack herself and make the journey alone in the dead of night if her aunt did not agree to accompany her home at once. She simply could not remain in London. She had to get home to her papa. She would leave on the morning coach.
Her gowns were thrown haphazardly into the trunk, bits of silk and lace in a jumbled heap. She gathered the stack of books from her bedside table and dumped them on top of the clothing without care. As she headed for the escritoire, she became vaguely aware of an insistent knock upon the door.
"Lucy," Colin called through the heavy wood. "I must speak with you."
"Come in, then," she said tonelessly and sank down onto the bed.
He closed the door behind him and stood before her with his arms folded across his chest, his neck and face a bright, angry red. "Lucy, you must tell me what happened. I swear to you, I can barely restrain myself from seeking out and strangling the bastard."
"I cannot tell you, Colin." She refused to let herself feel anything.
"Cannot, or will not? Lucy, you must. After what I saw, after what you told me? He proposed to you, Lucy. You cannot pretend it didn't happen. Why are they saying he’s to marry Lady Helena and not you? Tell me something to keep me from calling the man out."
Lucy felt herself begin to shake and the angry tears returned with a vengeance. "Oh, Colin, you'll never believe what she's done."
"Lady Helena?"
"No, Lady Charlotte. That night in Oxfordshire, when we went back to the house, you and I, we sat in the garden and talked. We embraced, and I kissed you. Nothing more than a sisterly kiss, but Lady Charlotte saw us." She dropped her head into her hands. "She saw us, Colin, and she went straight to Henry. Whatever lies she told him made him angry enough that he left that night without a second thought."
"You mean to say that she told him that we—that you and I—Good God, Lucy, we are..." He shook his head wildly. "If she only knew the truth."
Lucy looked up at Colin. His face was white, his features drawn. "The truth?” she asked, her voice quavering. “Whatever do you mean?"
Colin began to pace, his arms stiff by his sides. "What I mean is...that is...bloody hell!" He stopped and pressed his fingers to his temples, his anguished eyes heavenward. "I do not know what to do, God help me."
Lucy shook her head in confusion. Poor Colin, his concern for her was so touching. And she did love him in her own way. But not like she loved Henry. Never, never, would she allow herself to love like that again. Colin would never hurt her as Henry had. Colin was everything that was good and true and honorable. All at once a brilliant thought occurred to her, like a shining beacon of hope.
She struggled to make her voice steady. "Colin, remember the day after the ball? You...you asked me to marry you then. I know I don't deserve you, but if you'll have me...oh, Colin, say you'll marry me." She reached for his sleeve, looking up a
t him entreatingly.
Colin stumbled back from her. "I can't marry you."
Lucy dropped her head in shame. One tear coursed down her cheek and dropped silently to the floor.
"Don't cry, Lucy. You must understand...this whole mess...it isn't what it seems."
She looked up into his tortured face. "Whatever do you mean?"
"I can't marry you, Lucy, and not because I don't love you. I do love you, as a sister."
"Can't that be enough? Many marriages start with less. You said so yourself."
"No, you don't understand." He clenched his fists and turned toward the window, his face ashen. "Lucy, I can't marry you because you are my sister." He said it so quietly that she was sure she had misunderstood.
"Your sister? Colin, that's nonsense." She stared at him in wonder.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded, tattered square of paper, and turned to face her. "I've been carrying this around, thinking I should return it to the solicitors. Perhaps you should have it instead. "
"Wha—what is it?" Her hands shook as she took the paper.
"I don't suppose you were ever to find out. Read it. You will understand." He sat down beside her as she unfolded the yellowed page and began to read.
The words on the page began to blur and, for the first time in her life, Lucy swooned.
Moments later she opened her eyes and blinked. Colin was patting her wrist, calling out her name. At once she remembered, and sat bolt upright. She saw the letter lying there on the floor like a serpent.
"Colin, can it be true?" she whispered. "Tell me it isn't true." Her heart was beating so wildly that for a moment she feared it would burst.
"I'm afraid it is. Here, lie back down. There were many letters, letters like this one. A whole packet of them. I read only two. Enough to confirm the fact that we are indeed siblings. Well, half siblings," he corrected. “We share the same father.”
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