She slipped her feet from her slippers, and with the shoes in her hand she tiptoed from the room. At least with Papa and Julia still in London, she’d only the servants to avoid. To her surprise the footman who was usually standing by the door was not there; nor did she see any sign of faithful Tewkes. Perhaps she would escape without being seen, and in her stockinged feet she scurried down the long hall to her own room.
At last she reached her rooms, carefully unlatched the door, and slipped inside. She’d made it; she hadn’t been caught, and she let out a long sigh of relief.
“Good evening, Miss Augusta,” said Mary, trying to cover her yawn as she struggled to her feet to curtsey. She was wearing the same clothes as last night, and had obviously fallen asleep in the armchair while waiting up for Gus to return. Belatedly she noticed the rising sun through the windows, and corrected herself. “That is, good day, miss.”
“Well, yes, good day, Mary,” Gus said, blushing furiously with her slippers still in her hand. There was no use making excuses, especially not to Mary. Even a fool could see that Gus had spent the night away from her bedchamber and in the same clothes she’d left it last evening, and her lady’s maid was no fool.
Mary looked her up and down, clearly drawing the obvious conclusion.
“Shall you be dressing for bed, miss,” she said evenly, “or day?”
“For day,” Gus said. She’d never felt so guilty in her life—but then, for the first time, she’d done something worthy of feeling guilty. “And please send word to the stable to have the carriage ready for me in an hour.”
“Very good, miss,” Mary said, heading briskly to the door to summon a footman. “Might I ask where you will be going, miss, so that I might lay out the proper clothes?”
“Norwich,” Gus said, deciding on the spot. “I wish to visit the shops.”
What she really wished to do was to go back to bed—her bed—and bury her throbbing head beneath the pillows. But she was in need of penance, and hers would be to be driven into Norwich to purchase a few necessary items for the house: upstairs candles, a larger copper wash-pot and fresh flannel for the laundry mangle, samples of broadcloth for new livery jackets for the footmen. Besides, the fresh air would likely do her head more good than staying indoors—and most important, if she was on the Norwich road, she wouldn’t have to see Harry.
“Shall I send to the kitchen for coffee, miss?” Mary asked. “Black coffee? I’m told it’s a wonderful restorative in the morning after a, ah, rich supper, miss.”
Gus looked at her sharply, her stomach roiling at the very thought of black coffee.
“Do I look so vastly sorrowful, Mary, as if I’m in need of a restorative?” she asked, then sighed as she sank onto the bench before her dressing table. “No, you needn’t answer that. I’m sure I do. Send for the coffee, if you please, and some dry toast.”
“A coddled egg will help, too, miss,” Mary said, her voice finally showing a bit of sympathy. “Leastways that’s always what Mr. Wetherby requests with the coffee after a night spent with friends.”
“Thank you, Mary, I’ll try that, too.” She sighed again, striving to keep from groaning, and prayed her brother’s remedy would help. She did feel wretched. The wine that Harry had chosen had been delightful to drink, but if this was the result of overindulgence, she could not imagine how anyone could become a confirmed drunkard. “If my brother and his friends recommend such a cure, then it must surely work.”
“They say ’tis the price of friendly companionship, miss.” Mary came to stand behind Gus and rapidly began pulling out the hairpins and tangles. “Among gentleman friends, that is.”
Gus closed her eyes and did not answer. Of all the servants, Gus trusted Mary the most, and she knew no matter how much the others would beg her maid for more information, she wouldn’t reveal that her lady had spent the night in a gentleman’s bedchamber. But she also knew exactly where Mary was attempting to steer the conversation. There was only one gentleman friend that interested Mary at this moment, and that was the one who had been with her mistress last night. Gus was in no humor to discuss Harry, not with anyone, and she’d no notion of what she’d say even if she did. How could she, when she herself still wasn’t exactly sure what had happened between them last night?
She let her neck relax as Mary pulled the brush through her hair, trying to sort out her feelings about Harry. She liked him. She liked him very much, which complicated things immeasurably. He had kissed her. She had kissed him in return, yes, but he’d started it. She still couldn’t believe it had happened, that a gentleman like Harry had wanted to kiss her. She would be willing to dismiss the first time as an accident brought on by the wine, but then he’d said he wanted to kiss her again, and he had, and that had been even better. She’d felt alive, and she’d felt desired, heady, unknown sensations for her.
Most of all, that kiss had made her feel beautiful, and he’d never be able to understand what a rare gift that had been.
Nor had that been the end of it. After he’d kissed her, he’d wanted her to stay with him, too. He’d made room on the bed for her to sit with him, and while now the very thought of such familiarity made her blush, at the time it had simply seemed perfectly right. Lying with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her, listening to the music, had been magical. That wasn’t a word that she’d ordinarily use to describe anything about her life, but because of Harry, it was.
But magical was last night, not this morning. She and Harry had agreed to be friends, nothing more, yet now—now that didn’t seem possible. Because of that first kiss, everything between them was different, and was bound to change. Would he wish to kiss her again when she visited him in his room today? Would he now expect her to sit on his bed with him when she read to him? Was she a friend that now he kissed, or was she going to be something more?
And that, really, was her greatest worry: that something more. Harry was a man of the world, a gentleman of wealth and power, and by comparison she was a thoroughly insignificant country lady. He belonged with a brilliant, breathtaking beauty like her sister, a lady who would become his duchess and wear his mother’s jewels, and make every man in the room stop and stare when she entered. Gus understood that. She had no illusions about her place in society, and she knew that Harry wouldn’t, either. She would be at best a passing amusement to him, and destined to be swiftly forgotten as soon as he could return to his friends and family in London. He might even be done with her now.
All of which meant that there must be no more kissing or anything else between them. It would be painfully difficult, but for the sake of her future, she’d have to stand firm. As proud as she was that Papa trusted her to run Wetherby Abbey in his absence, this was one of those times that she wistfully wished he were here with her. Julia wasn’t the only daughter who needed him. His presence would make everything honorable and respectable, and he’d make sure no one would ever question why Gus had spent so much time alone with Harry. She did dream of marrying someday, of having a family and house of her own, and the stolid country gentlemen that she’d likely attract would disapprove of any scandal in her past involving her and the fast and fashionable Earl of Hargreave. She might not have Julia’s beauty, but she’d always had virtue, and she could not risk losing that for the sake of a few kisses, however sweet.
Her virtue, or her heart. Because as easy as it had been to be kissed by Harry, it would be easier still to fall hopelessly, ruinously in love with him.
“What in blazes are you saying, Tewkes?” Harry demanded. “How can Lady Augusta not be at home? Where else would she be?”
“They say she has gone to Norwich for the day, my lord,” Tewkes said, maddeningly unperturbed. “She is not expected to return until late this afternoon.”
“Why would she wish to go to Norwich?” Harry continued to demand, his indignation rising. “What could she possibly want that is in Norwich?”
“Candles, my lord,” Tewkes said. “They say she was intending to
purchase candles.”
“Candles,” Harry repeated in disbelief. How could Gus go riding off to Norwich when he wanted—no, he needed—to speak with her?
He was angry that she wasn’t here, but he was also worried. He truly hadn’t intended to kiss her last night, but he had, and he knew damned well she’d kissed him back. Further, she’d curled up next to him, sweet as could be, and fallen asleep there beside him in the most companionable way possible. It had, hands down, been the best evening of his life in a good long while. So what reason could she have this morning for not just keeping away from him, but bolting from the very house?
No, he didn’t have to ask that question. He knew the answer. In vino veritas was an old Latin saying he’d learned at school, but he’d always thought it should be In vino amor: in wine there is love. Wine—and they had drunk a great deal of wine, too—made everyone and everything agreeable.
But in the clear light of day, and doubtless with an aching head as an additional truth serum, Gus was bound to see things differently. To her he must appear an invalid, a cripple, an incomplete man. How could he not? She’d seen him at his very worst, delirious with fever and pain. Gus had more kindness and generosity than any other woman he’d known, but not even Gus would be able to forget what she’d seen, and think of him otherwise. He might have kissed her last night, but he’d also been incapable of helping her up from the floor when she’d fallen. He’d had to call Tewkes.
He couldn’t fault her for having second thoughts, either. He’d assured her that all he’d sought was friendship, and to prove she believed him, she’d dressed like the lady she was. He’d told her she’d taken his breath away, and she had. She’d been a luminous, enchanting version of Gus, and so effortlessly desirable he’d been shocked by the intensity of it.
How had he responded? He’d betrayed her trust and lunged at her like some sottish tinker, and sullied the innocence of her kiss. He would ask her forgiveness, of course, and try to explain as best he could, but he didn’t have much hope. She’d be justified in wanting nothing more to do with him, exactly as her sister had before her.
And he would be the loser. To be deprived of her company, her laughter, her wit, and her compassion—hell, even the adorable freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks—that would be his punishment.
He had survived the broken leg, survived the fever, survived being jilted by her sister. But he wasn’t certain how he’d survive his days here without Gus in them.
Gus leaned back in the corner of the carriage’s seat, her hat in her lap, as at last they turned off the Norwich road onto the one that curved through her father’s land. Dusk had fallen, with murky shadows beneath the trees and mist already beginning to settle around the edges of their pond.
She had stayed in Norwich much longer than she’d intended. In the mercer’s shop, she had met an old friend of hers, a friend who was so caught up with her new husband and newer baby that she’d asked only the most cursory questions about Julia and her father, and the unusual noble houseguest at the abbey.
With relief, Gus had listened eagerly to her friend’s tales of this prodigious infant, and had accepted an invitation to tea so that she might view the baby for herself. The poor baby had not performed to his mother’s standards, being cranky with colic, but Gus had been so happy to have anything to take her mind from Harry that she’d praised the baby to the skies, even after he’d spit up on the front of her habit, much to the mortification of his mother and nursemaid.
Now she was looking forward to a light supper in her own rooms and going straight to bed afterward. It was too late to see Harry now, and besides, that conversation could wait until the morning. She slowly walked up the front steps and into the house as Royce himself held the door open for her. She was late: A footman had just lit the oil in the large blue-glass night-lantern and was carefully raising it back into place.
“Good evening, Miss Augusta,” Royce murmured.
“Good evening, Royce,” she said, barely stifling a yawn as she headed up the staircase. “Please have Mrs. Buchanan send a light supper and tea up to my room.”
“If you please, Miss Augusta,” the butler said with uncharacteristic emphasis, “his lordship is expecting you to dine with him.”
She paused on the top stair and looked back over the rail. “He is? In his bedchamber?”
“He is, Miss Augusta,” Royce said. “If you wish, I shall convey your regrets to his lordship, but I can safely say he shall be disappointed to see me instead of you.”
She bowed her head, struggling to decide what next to do. Over the course of the day, she’d convinced herself that he would want nothing more to do with her after last night. Rejecting his further advances would be easy because there wouldn’t be any to reject. She hadn’t dreamed that he’d actually expect her to dine with him again, not after last night. Why didn’t he have any remorse, anyway?
She sighed deeply. The conversation would be difficult, whether they had it tonight or tomorrow morning. He’d have to see her as she was now, though, in her plain gray woolen riding habit. She wasn’t going to go through the rigmarole of dressing again, and she didn’t plan on staying to dine with him, either. No, she had to stand firm.
She looked back to Royce, waiting expectantly for her reply. “I’ll go to his lordship myself, Royce. But I still wish tea brought to my room in, oh, ten minutes.”
“Very good, Miss Augusta.” Royce smiled, more satisfied than he’d any right to be.
With another sigh, Augusta headed up the last steps and down the hall toward Harry’s room. She paused to pull off her gloves and untie her hat, leaving them for now on one of the hall tables, and paused again to smooth her hair before one of the looking glasses.
She was stalling, and she knew it. She also knew she was being cowardly, but she did not want to see him. No, she must be honest: She didn’t want this conversation because she did want to see him, very much, and she didn’t trust herself to be strong and say what was necessary.
Be virtuous, she told herself with each trudging, reluctant step. Be respectable, be honorable, be a lady. Do what is virtuous and right.
But as soon as she passed the last footman and entered Harry’s room, she knew that all the virtuous good intentions in the world weren’t going to stand a chance against Harry himself.
He was sitting in the bed exactly as he had last night, exactly as he had for weeks now. His dark hair was once again sleeked back from his face, his jaw shaven, his white linen nightshirt impeccable over his broad shoulders and chest. Once again, too, the room was ablaze with candles, their flickering light casting dancing shadows over the hard planes of his face. She never quite recalled what an impossibly handsome man he was, and each time she saw him again she was struck by it, a visceral blow against which she had no defense.
But this time, he wasn’t smiling. His expression was serious, his blue eyes so dark and somber that she dreaded what might come next.
“Good evening, Gus,” he said, his voice warm and welcoming, but reserved as well. Patch and Potch dragged themselves awake and lumbered to their feet, ambling over to greet Gus with their feathered tails wagging sleepily. “I’m honored that you decided to join me once again.”
“I can’t stay, Harry,” she said quickly. She bent to pet the dogs, then straightened with determination, not so much clasping her hands before her as clutching them. “There are a few things I wish to say after last night, and then—and then I must go.”
“I trust you’ll stay long enough to hear what I’ve to say, too,” he said. “Then you may decide if you wish to join me for supper again.”
He gestured toward the table. Clearly he’d again planned a meal for her with the assistance of Mrs. Buchanan and the others. The table was even more beautifully set, with the Wetherby porcelain that her grandfather had had specially made in China and the Venetian blown-glass goblets that Andrew had brought home from his Grand Tour. Rising up from the center of the table like a delicate litt
le tree was Mama’s silver epergne, with a different, miniature fruit fashioned from marzipan poised on the end of each curving branch.
Gus blinked back a sudden wave of tears. If anyone else had ransacked through her family’s personal treasures while she’d been out, she would have been furious.
But Harry was different. He hadn’t coerced her servants—in fact, they seemed like willing conspirators—and he hadn’t ordered them to bring out these precious things for the sake of making an impressive show. He’d done it because he understood how much they meant to her, not as costly objects, but as extensions of her family. He understood family; she’d realized that when she’d heard him speak of his mother and father and his brothers. He’d assembled all these things on this little table just for her, a special kind of personal gift. Considering that he couldn’t leave the bed, but had been forced to create this through others made it all the more meaningful.
Harry wasn’t by nature a patient man, yet he’d waited here for her while she’d been purposefully staying away from him. No wonder seeing the little table like this charmed her, even as it made her feel guilty and selfish and utterly unworthy.
“This is beautiful, Harry,” she said softly, at a loss for more words. All the arguments, all the careful reasoning that she’d rehearsed earlier in the carriage disappeared from her head. “Beautiful.”
He nodded in acknowledgment but still didn’t smile.
“You will note there is no wine on our table tonight,” he said. “I want everything I have to say to be clear and unclouded.”
“That is wise,” she agreed quickly, relieved. “I welcome clarity, too.”
Harry nodded, praying she couldn’t tell how fast his heart was beating. He’d been waiting for her with everything ready for hours, listening for the sound of her carriage wheels on the gravel drive outside his window—not that he wished her to know that, either. This could be the last time he saw her like this, alone with him as she stood beside his bed, and he wanted to remember everything about her, in case memories were all he’d have left.
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