by Sara Ramsey
Silence fell again, preceded by several audible gasps. Lucy’s back was to him, but he could tell from the set of her shoulders that she wasn’t in the mood to be polite.
“Many of you know nothing about tonight’s festivities,” she said, in a voice that carried. Suddenly she wasn’t the quiet, perfect hostess he’d seen in the house — she could have already been the countess. “Tonight we honor all the previous Briarleys. You’re welcome to enjoy the food and drink,” she said, gesturing toward the trestle tables set up on the lawn, near a massive stack of wood that would soon become a bonfire. “You may also lay flowers at the mausoleum if you wish. But you must go around the fence if you wish to pay your respects. Only blood Briarleys and their consorts may walk through the earl’s gate.”
He felt the crowd’s interest sharpen like knives scraping across a whetstone. Beyond Lucy, Ferguson raised his quizzing glass and looked straight at Max.
Fuck.
Lucy swung the gate shut and locked it from the inside, letting the key fall back to her side. Max made eye contact with Cressida, who gave him a worried frown. He’d warned her earlier not to get too close to the men at the party — that it would be better for her to befriend the women and learn their patterns, since they were more likely to have heirlooms worth taking than the men were. But when Lucy indicated that she considered Max and Cressida to be Briarleys, and that it was only a matter of time before Cressida would be an earl’s sister — presumably with a dowry paid for by Maidenstone’s wealth — Cressida had suddenly become a target for all the men who’d come to Maidenstone looking for a wealthy bride.
Unless, of course, Lucy had intended to make it clear that Max was her consort.
Fuck.
Lady Maidenstone escorted Cressida to the mausoleum behind Max. Beyond the gate, the crowd began to move toward the tables of food — but not without taking time to look Max over as they went.
This was turning into a disaster.
Lucy returned to him. Twilight didn’t give him enough clarity to see what was in her eyes. “Shall we light the bonfire?” she asked, as though her announcement to the crowd wasn’t worth discussing. “You’re the one who should throw the first torch into the pile.”
“As the next earl or as your consort?” he asked.
There was more of an edge in his voice than he’d intended.
“As the next earl,” she said. “But the other part….”
She trailed off and looked at her feet. He touched her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Thinking to trap me, Miss Briarley?”
Turning the blame toward her was a classic technique — he did it without thought or calculation. She flinched, pulling away from his touch as though he’d scalded her. “I have more honor than that, Mr. Vale. If you don’t wish to agree to the terms we discussed, you merely need to tell me.”
“If I don’t wish to marry you, you mean.”
She took a step back. But then she set her shoulders with the same unmistakeable pride she always displayed. “Use whatever words you wish.”
“I’d rather not discuss marriage in a graveyard,” he said.
“And I’d rather not be discussing marriage at all,” she retorted. “But we’re playing the hand we’re dealt. If you plan to tell me you don’t wish to marry me, do it quickly. Then I’ll light the bonfire and toss you in it.”
He laughed. Her bravado should have annoyed him; her determination made his job harder. But there was something about her confidence that lured him in.
“Don’t burn me yet,” he said. “It would ruin the party.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” she mused. “It might finally convince Ferguson to take me seriously.”
“I’m sure he takes you seriously.”
“But he likely won’t give Maidenstone to me. So if you won’t marry me, tell me now. I’m wasting my time with you if I need to make a different match.”
No one had ever kept him quite so off-balance — or moved so seamlessly between banter and serious conversation. Lucy deserved to know that he would leave so that she could plan for a different life. It was all on the verge of spilling out….
But he couldn’t do it. For one, he needed the rubies.
For another, he couldn’t actually say he didn’t want her. Even if this deal were real, he wasn’t quite ready to say that he would marry her. But he also couldn’t say that he didn’t want to marry her.
The realization that those words would be a lie took him by surprise.
Fuck.
There was still enough light to see the war between hope and heartbreak in her eyes — enough light that he wouldn’t be able to meet her gaze if he tried to tell her that he couldn’t marry her, and that it was for her own good.
So he took the coward’s path and offered her his arm. “Let’s discuss it later. We can enjoy tonight and make our arrangements in the morning.”
She looked at his arm, then his face, then knocked his arm away.
“I’m not here for your enjoyment. Find me when you know what you want.”
He watched as she turned and walked away from him, weaving her way through the ancient stones. She touched a couple of them as though giving them a blessing — or asking them for one. When she reached a stone in the final row, in the newest part of the graveyard, she paused and fumbled in the basket she’d carried her flowers in. She poured something on the grave — and then raised the flask in a salute and took a sip from it.
Then she kept walking. She never looked back at him — not even once.
He wished she would look back.
And that’s when he realized that it was growing impossible to remind himself that he was there for a job, not for her.
Chapter Fourteen
Two hours later, Lucy stood alone, slightly removed from the crowds around the bonfire. The highest flames had subsided, leaving a crackling pile, but the embers wouldn’t die until after dawn. Some of the villagers would stay awake until then, dancing and overindulging in food and drink. The decoration of the mausoleum was always solemn, but the gathering after often turned into a party — one of the last nights of entertainment before the hard work of harvest began.
She’d already finished the contents of the flask that Emma had given her. There hadn’t been much in it, especially after she’d poured some out on her cousin Julian’s grave — just enough to warm her from the inside and take the edge off her grief. It had also blunted the worst of her rage, which was for the best. If she hadn’t been enraged, she never would have treated Max as she had.
He was somewhere in the crowd — a crowd that was eager to talk to him now that she’d indicated he was the next earl. Guests and villagers alike would want to take his measure.
She should probably feel sorry for doing that. She hadn’t planned to do that — it was pure instinct. She needed to press forward, and to take an action that would lead to clarity in their situation.
But he hadn’t given her clarity after she’d done it. He’d hesitated, and she’d panicked — and if she wasn’t so desperate to keep Maidenstone, she might have told him never to speak to her again.
Claxton appeared, holding the glass of wine she’d asked a footman for. She frowned. “John could have brought that.”
Claxton handed her the glass. “You’ve never asked for wine before. John thought I should know.”
“You don’t need to watch out for me,” she said, taking a sip. The wine was stronger than the ratafia she usually drank, with none of the sugar to mask the alcohol. It felt dangerous — almost more dangerous than the whisky Emma had given her.
She’d never had whisky while she was in London. But wine made her think of kissing, and sex, and sins she might not be forgiven for.
Claxton was unmoved. “May I escort you back to the abbey?”
She gestured toward the bonfire with her wineglass. “I’m expected to stay at least another hour.”
He watched her sip her wine again. She thought he would leave then — Claxton al
ways knew his place.
But he surprised her. “Is Mr. Vale really the earl?”
She shrugged. “His documents indicate that it’s a possibility.”
“What does your heart tell you, Miss Lucy?”
“My heart?” Lucy laughed. “That hardly matters at the moment.”
“Begging your pardon, but your grandfather wouldn’t agree,” Claxton said.
If any other servant had said that, she would have reprimanded him. But Claxton had served her family since before she was born. His father had been the butler before him; his family had as many graves in the Salcombe parish graveyard as the Briarleys had in their plot at Maidenstone. He had stood at the front of the line of mourners next to the cemetery gate earlier, exactly where he stood every year, throwing flowers at her feet.
Claxton would sympathize with her no matter what happened. But if Max was officially named the earl, Claxton would owe his primary loyalty to Max, not to her.
Lucy looked down into her wineglass. She was quickly losing pleasure in the feeling of rebellion that came from drinking it. Her head was less clear than she would have liked. She should have remained focused, rather than drinking in a fit of pique.
But it wasn’t pique. It was fear — fear that she was making the same mistake with Max that she’d made with Chapman. Fear that, for all her efforts, she couldn’t give Julia the happiness she wanted her daughter to have.
Julia should have been there tonight, even though she was too young to understand the ritual. Last year, as Lucy’s grandfather had lay dying in his room, the night of the mausoleum decoration had only been bearable because she had brought Julia with her. The only sound as the flowers had rained down on the path had been Julia’s giggles. Lucy had smelled the sweet baby scent of Julia’s hair instead of the cloying memory of roses, and, for a moment, she’d known that everything would be all right.
But Julia was at the cottage with Mrs. Pearce. They’d agreed that the nursemaid couldn’t bring her — Julia would see her mother and demand to be held, and everything that Lucy had done to protect her from her bastardy would be destroyed in a heartbeat.
Everything could still be destroyed in a heartbeat. Lucy needed to keep her wits about her.
She handed her glass to the butler. But before she could tell him to take it away, she was distracted by murmurs rippling through the crowd. She looked up, watching people shift around the dying fire.
A couple walked toward her. The man’s hand was on the small of the woman’s back in a protective gesture as they wove through the revelers. The woman’s stride was as confident as it had always been, even when she didn’t deserve such confidence — even when she was ruined, and no one respectable would speak to her.
Octavia.
Lucy took her wineglass back from Claxton.
They watched, wordlessly, as Octavia approached. Lord Rafael was with her. The pair had run away the morning before Max’s arrival, and they couldn’t possibly be married yet — there hadn’t been time for them to secure a special license, or to reach the Scottish border and the fast weddings that were possible there.
The way they moved, though, told anyone with eyesight that they were joined to each other.
It was scandalous that they had run off. It was even more scandalous that they had returned. The crowd’s whispers turned gleeful. The tenants and servants might be happy for Octavia, but the aristocratic guests could turn malicious in a heartbeat.
Octavia had apologized to Lucy before leaving. But one apology wasn’t enough to stop the sudden surge of rage.
Every year of their childhoods, they had walked hand in hand to the mausoleum. They had laid flowers there together. And they’d fashioned bouquets together for their parents, every year…until the year Octavia had run away to London and become a mistress.
Lucy had laid flowers for their parents alone that year, just before her pregnant belly had become too big to hide.
Her hand fluttered to her stomach, as though she still carried a child — as though her sudden nausea was morning sickness instead of grief. She took a sip of wine, trying to calm herself. It was so hard to remain calm around Octavia and all the wounds they’d caused each other.
“You’re late,” Lucy said when Octavia reached her.
Octavia shrugged. A month earlier, such a nonchalant reaction would have inflamed Lucy’s temper — but tonight, she recognized the bravado covering the uncertainty. “I didn’t plan to return until Rafe and I were married. But I thought you might want an ally.”
“I’ve decorated the mausoleum without you before,” Lucy said as Claxton stepped back into the shadows.
“Not for that,” Octavia said. “Ferguson sent word that someone is trying to claim Maidenstone. We came as soon as we read the note.”
Trust Ferguson to meddle. Lucy rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you didn’t need to interrupt your pleasure for my sake.”
Octavia and Rafe exchanged a glance.
“Is the man still alive?” Rafe asked. “Or did you toss him off a cliff?”
“I wouldn’t kill the legitimate heir.”
Octavia raised her eyebrows. “Julian was the legitimate heir before the duel you caused, if I recall.”
Before Octavia had left the party, Lucy had told her a little about why she had been so upset when she’d caught Chapman kissing Octavia and why she had told Julian about it — but she hadn’t told her about her pregnancy. Octavia had apologized for it, but one apology wasn’t enough to override four years of bad feelings. “If I recall, his death was your fault as much as mine.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Octavia’s face was almost more familiar to Lucy than her own, and Lucy’s temper didn’t completely blind her to the little changes the years had made. Octavia was more solemn now — more concerned. She wasn’t the girl she’d been when they were seventeen and planning their debuts.
That girl would have escalated their fight. That girl would have left Lucy to clean up any mess caused by their drama. That girl wouldn’t have even realized she’d done anything wrong — Octavia’s mistakes had all been caused by exuberance and passion, not by malice.
Lucy had loved her — still loved her — despite it all. But it wasn’t always easy to live in Octavia’s wake. And in some ways, being left behind at Maidenstone without her — feeling like the boring country cousin while Octavia lived a high-flying, scandalous life in London — had been worse.
Octavia sighed and reached out her hand. “I’m sorry I mentioned Julian. Old habits die hard. I really do want to be your ally, if you’ll allow me to help you?”
Lucy almost didn’t accept. It was a spiteful, petty reaction, and she felt bad for even thinking it. But even though she was sure that Octavia’s apology was sincere, it still felt like it had twisted around on itself until it was somehow Lucy’s responsibility to be graceful. It was now Lucy’s responsibility, not Octavia’s, to be magnanimous and accept Octavia’s return to Maidenstone.
A return that had only happened because Octavia wanted to win the estate, not because she had wanted to make amends.
But Lucy was still Lucy. She couldn’t fling her wine in Octavia’s face. Nor could she bear the pressure of letting Octavia’s hand hang in the air between them.
Lucy was barely a year older than her, but Octavia had always crawled into Lucy’s bed in the nursery when she couldn’t sleep. They had shared a room for over a year after their parents’ deaths, and Lucy still remembered biting down on her own tears, letting Octavia cry herself to sleep while Lucy held her in the dark.
It was dark now and instinct took over. She hugged Octavia, careful not to spill her wine on Octavia’s dress. “I don’t need your help,” she whispered. “But I want you to stay here as long as you like.”
It was true and false all at once. She loved Octavia. She loathed her. She was jealous of all the freedom Octavia had, and disapproving of the ways in which she’d used it. She didn’t want to let her go, and she didn’t want to
see her again.
Octavia squeezed her, as open and exuberant as she’d always been. “I’ll help you anyway,” she said cheerfully — seeming not to notice that Lucy’s feelings were far more conflicted. “Now, where is this supposed heir? Surely we can stop him from claiming the estate.”
This was not part of the plan. Lucy had been so focused on convincing Ferguson to let Max inherit — and convincing Max to marry her — that she had mostly forgotten about Octavia and Callista. They wouldn’t be willing to let Max have the estate. And even if they were willing, the men they’d agreed to marry wouldn’t be so generous.
Lucy pulled back and glanced at Rafe. She liked him well enough, although she hadn’t had many interactions with him during the party — he’d been too busy sneaking around with Octavia. But his stance was too protective — like he was already anticipating a fight.
“Does your brother know about Mr. Vale’s arrival?” she asked him.
“I haven’t spoken to him since his wedding. Do you know where he went?”
“He and Callie went to the inn at Salcombe and refuse to admit any callers.”
Rafe laughed. “Gav is rather single-minded about his goals. I’ll call on him tomorrow and drag him out of bed if I have to.”
This was going from bad to worse. Max’s documents had held up under Ferguson’s scrutiny — but Ferguson didn’t have a vested interest in keeping him from inheriting the estate.
She looked around, trying to find Max. It was nearly impossible to see anyone who lurked in the shadows beyond the fire, and her inability to monitor everyone’s comings and goings made her uneasy.
Max was somewhere in the crowd, navigating it without her. He hadn’t come back to her since they’d parted ways by the mausoleum. It bothered her more than she expected.
Was she upset that he hadn’t come back to her — or upset that she wanted him to?
“Don’t worry, Lucy,” Octavia said encouragingly. “You know more about the family tree than anyone alive. I’m sure you can find a way to disprove Vale’s claim. But Callie and I can help. Maybe she heard something from her father that we didn’t hear from ours.”