“No, you are wrong, Colonel.” She finally looked at Creighton. “And you are as well, my lord.”
“I frequently am,” Creighton murmured.
“Amen.” Fitzhugh added and then grunted in pain. Creighton had probably kicked him. Sebastian didn’t know, nor did he care. He was the one who needed to be kicked. He’d lie down on the library floor and invite Minerva to do so if he thought it might do any good.
He watched her, his Minerva, his golden-haired goddess. He drank her in – her face pale once more, her hands stretched and pressed to the skirts of her pretty peach dress. Those hands had caressed his skin, explored his body, rested over his heart in sleep.
“Lady Creighton was wrong, though she does not yet know it. I was wrong as well, but fortunately my mistake can be corrected.” She backed away from Sebastian and gave Creighton her full attention.
“Am I to understand you will honor our betrothal so long as I show up at the church, my lord?”
A tiny tear pierced Sebastian’s chest.
“Of course,” Creighton said softly. “I may be a scoundrel, madam, but I am still a gentleman.”
“I am counting on it,” she said, her voice so brisk as to sound painful. “You and your friend have played your ruthless game with no thought to my wishes and sensibilities. That stops today. The day after tomorrow we will marry. You will set your solicitors to fighting Mr. Faircloth. You will also instruct your mother and her maid and any retainers loyal to her to take up residence in the dower house immediately after the wedding. She will set foot in this house by my invitation only.”
Fitzhugh gave a long, low whistle. A brief flicker of amusement lit and died in Minerva’s eyes.
“Lord Fitzhugh, you are welcome to visit anytime you wish.”
Fitzhugh started to say something. Sebastian silenced him with a glance.
“Colonel Brightworth.” She turned to face him. The veil she’d draw over her emotions rose. For a few brief moments, she allowed him to see her, all of her as he’d seen her last night in his arms. Today she revealed only pain and bewilderment – all at his doorstep, his doing. And all the good intentions in the world would not change it.
“In one thing you are perfectly correct, sir.” Her voice broke. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin a notch. Her eyes shone with incendiary reproach. “Forgiveness is a weakness. One I shall never again suffer for you. Friend of the man I am to marry or not, I never wish to set eyes on you again.” She fumbled to raise the door latch.
“Min.” Sebastian’s legs refused to move.
Her breath shimmered, like wind on the water, in a long exhalation. She pressed both hands against the six-paneled oak. Her next attempt met with success. She raised the latch, pulled open the door, and floated out in a cloud of peach muslin, golden hair and the faintest scent of wisteria.
“Min,” he repeated. She pulled the door closed behind her. The mantel clocks ticked, their rhythms off just enough for a man to count them. Tick-tick-tick. Tick-tick-tick. The rain picked up. The wind blew it against the stained-glass with a force that made distinguishing the drops impossible. Thunder rumbled endlessly now. Sebastian counted his heartbeats and marveled that instrument worked at all.
“Go after her.”
“Fitzhugh, stubble it,” Creighton ordered.
“I won’t stubble it. Go after her, Brightworth.” Fitzhugh crossed the carpet and took hold of Sebastian’s elbow.
Sebastian managed a weary smiled and pried his friend’s hand away. Creighton collapsed against the front of the desk, the fingers of both hands curled under the lip. Fitzhugh goggled from one to the other, mouth agape.
“You will do right by her, Creighton?” Sebastian forced the words past his numb lips. Robbie needed to pack his things. Tibbles must be told to saddle Lovey.
“Of course I will. You have my word.”
“You’re mad, the both of you.” Fitzhugh stomped to the library doors and flung them open. “Go after that woman and beg her forgiveness, Brightworth. She is the best thing to ever walk into your miserable life and you’re simply going to leave her here?” He flung his hand towards the desk. “With Creighton?”
“You make it sound a fate worse than death.” Sebastian took in the room. He allowed himself to memorize the towering shelves of books, the comfortable armchairs, the stained-glass window. He’d spent some of the happiest hours of his life here. That wasn’t why he sought to burn it into his mind. Here was the last place he had seen Minerva. Once he rode up the yew-lined drive and passed through the crested gates he would never see this room, this house or Minerva ever again.
“Are you certain?” Creighton asked softly.
“No. She is,” Sebastian replied. “And I fear there is nothing I can do to change her mind.”
“Fear,” Creighton mused. “Yes.”
He meant it as a barb. And had Sebastian even an ounce of feeling left in his body it might have hurt. He wanted to go after her, to kiss her until she knew how much he regretted it, all of it. What he wanted didn’t matter. She knew him better than anyone. She’d seen the demons that refused to let him go, and she’d finally admitted defeat. That hurt worse than anything. He’d broken her trust and broken any desire she’d ever had to take him on, weaknesses and all.
“Creighton, talk to him. Tell him you won’t marry her.” Fitzhugh paced between them. “Is your damned fortune worth so much to you, you’d lose a woman who loves you?”
“Fitzhugh,” Creighton warned. He came to Sebastian and shook his hand. “You still don’t understand. You think you do, more’s the pity, but you don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ll take care of her. And the boy.”
Edward. In a few short weeks, he’d allowed himself to grow fond of the boy. Only to leave now without saying goodbye. He didn’t have the right.
“As I said.”
“Take him riding, Creighton. I promised him a pony.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Something had begun to pare pieces off Sebastian, inch by inch. Soon there’d be nothing left. He needed a few pieces to make the ride to London and his barren house with too little furniture and no books at all.
“Coward,” Fitzhugh muttered as he shook Sebastian’s hand.
“I’ll see you in London. I expect a full account of the dowager’s removal to the dower house.”
“God help me.” Creighton raised a hand in a weary farewell.
“Don’t count on it.” Sebastian forced himself to walk into the corridor.
“White feather,” Fitzhugh called after him.
His boots rang a bone-chilling tattoo on the marble floor as he crossed the entrance hall and started up the stairs.
“Chuckle-head,” Fitzhugh exhorted from a few steps outside the library.
Sebastian drew in a ragged breath and continued up the staircase.
In less than three-quarters of an hour Sebastian turned in the saddle one last time to watch the stairs and terraces leading to the front portico of Creighton Hall. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. Nothing and no one stirred. What had he expected? He turned Lovey back down the drive and urged her into a brisk trot towards the gates. Robbie had packed Sebastian’s travel bag in baited silence. The rest of his luggage would make the trip back with Fitzhugh after the wedding.
After the wedding.
Money had given him purpose. It had given him safety and certainty. It had returned him to his place in society, the place his father’s mother had taken from him. And in all these years he’d never counted what it had cost him. Until now.
He’d offer it all to her, every farthing. It was too little, too late. Security and position were cheaply bought compared to the purchase of a woman’s trust. That particular article was beyond price. Like a woman’s heart.
Sebastian reached the road and pulled Lovey to a halt. He dared not look back. Already some invisible force pulled at his shoulders in an attempt to turn him around. He bowed his head
to touch his forehead to the white mare’s unbraided mane. She stood perfectly still, made no attempt to bite or sidestep. A breeze jingled her bridle a bit. The smell of horse and leather mixed with that of the dusty road filled his lungs.
Since the death of his mother he’d done what he had to do to survive. Seventeen years of stripping life to only those elements essential to keeping body and soul together had honed his financial skills to razor sharpness. And had left all other skills to grow dull and useless. He was beholden to no one and had the care of no one save himself, a few servants, and a disagreeable horse.
“You still don’t understand. You think you do, more’s the pity, but you don’t.”
“A girl must have a heart to love someone. Mine was stolen before I married Roger. The thief never gave it back. And after all this time it has simply withered away in his keeping.”
He took up the reins and looked to the left, where the road led to London and the home and life he’d made for himself. To the right the road led to the home he’d not set foot in for over twenty years. And behind him, in one of the many rooms of Creighton Hall, Minerva, for the sake of her son, prepared herself to marry a man she could never love. She never wanted to see Sebastian again and it was exactly what he deserved. Perhaps all he’d ever deserved. The courage to sacrifice his body in war had been easy. The courage to sacrifice the demons that drove him took a bravery he did not possess.
“Coward.”
“Damn,” he muttered. “Damn, damn, damn.” He dug his heals into Lovey’s sides and with a snort and a half rear she sprang into a gallop.
Stealing Minerva: Chapter Thirteen
Minerva blinked against the auspicious sunlight invading her bedchamber. After a day and a night of pernicious rain, the morning had decided to herald her wedding with a beautiful day. Which proved without a doubt, God was a man and His was a dubious sense of humor. She’d pull the drapes, but Aphrodite had gone to a great deal of trouble to burst into Minerva’s chambers armed with maids, and a hairdresser, and a nauseating dose of wedding day joy.
The entire house was in ferment, no thanks to Lady Creighton, and Minerva had spent the better part of her time since the awful scene in the library fighting the urge to cry one minute and scream the next. The preparations were all in order. The guests had been entertained in spite of the sudden indisposition of the dowager countess. Indisposed meant closeted in her suite of rooms. Sulking. One of the few things Minerva and Creighton agreed upon was the satisfaction afforded by routing his mother.
They’d not said a word about wagers, payments or Colonel Brightworth. The agreement had been tenured without a single word between them. They spoke of the preparations, the guests, Edward’s riding lessons, and even the impending fight with Faircloth. Which boded well for a very civilized marriage between them. A very long, and civilized, and congenial marriage. But no further discussion of what he and Sebastian had tried to do ensued. Almost as if it had never happened at all.
All she had to remind her were a few tender spots on her body, the scent of Sebastian’s cologne on her dressing gown, and a stabbing sensation where her heart used to be every time she took a breath. Fortunately, she had an entire lifetime to recover. Which, she feared, was exactly how long it would take. A stinging sensation pushed behind her half-closed eyelids.
“Mama, you look very pretty,” Edward announced from the door leading into her sitting room.
“She does indeed, Master Edward.” Ditey put an arm around Minerva’s shoulders and steered her away from the window. “But she must don her bonnet and her pelisse or we shall be late to the church.” She gave Minerva a squeeze and waved over her maid with the garments in question.
“You look very handsome, Edward.” Minerva bent down to adjust his little neckcloth. “What do you have in your hand?”
“My riding crop.” He slapped it against his new boot. “Colonel Brightworth gave it to me. Lord Creighton said I am to ride my pony to the church.”
“He sleeps with the blasted thing,” Sally announced as she moved around the room and collected the clothes Ditey had scattered about in the mission to prepare Minerva for the wedding.
“Language, Sally,” Ditey warned primly. She nodded towards a very attentive Edward.
“Yes, my lady.” Sally bobbed a saucy curtsy. “Come along, Master Edward. His lordship will be looking for you to ride with him and Lord Fitzhugh to the church.”
Edward stood on his toes, Sebastian’s gift gripped in his little hand, and kissed Minerva’s cheek. “I shall see you at the church, Mama.” Minerva watched him limp out behind Sally. His confidence had grown in the last few weeks. She did not want to admit the cause.
Ditey’s maid gave Minerva’s charming little bonnet a final flourish and pronounced her ready to wed.
Ready to wed.
Minerva stepped in front of the cheval mirror. She wore a silvery blue dress with delicate blue and lavender flowers embroidered along the hem. Her pelisse of periwinkle silk matched the silk rosettes on her slippers. Her abbreviated straw bonnet sported a silver ribbon and a sprig of lilacs and violets. She looked every inch the proper bride. Save for the ridiculous pallor to her skin and the overbrightness of her eyes. She smoothed her hands down her lovely pelisse. In a few hours, she’d be a countess. And Edward would be safe. Any doors she’d accidentally, not to mention foolishly, opened to the past would be closed to her forever. Minerva closed her eyes.
“Would you believe me if I told you all will be well?” Ditey asked softly from just behind Minerva’s left shoulder.
“Of course it will.” Minerva took the bouquet of violets, white hedge roses, and lavender Ditey handed her. “I am marrying your handsome, wealthy, titled brother and acquiring the very best of sisters.”
The went into the corridor arm in and arm and made their way to the stairs.
“Will your mother be in attendance or dare we hope she is still indisposed?” Minerva asked once she and Aphrodite were seated in the open barouche and the coachman started the horses towards the tree-lined drive.
“Oh she is probably still indisposed, but she and Melghem left for the church half an hour ago.” Ditey waved at the servants who lined the steps to see off their master’s bride. “I extracted a promise from Lord Fitzhugh to muzzle her should she raise any objections or otherwise disrupt the service.”
“I almost wish she would, simply to see Lord Fitzhugh attempt it.” A glint of light across the lake drew Minerva’s gaze to the temple. The image of Orpheus reaching for Eurydice rose in her mind. Perhaps that was all she and Sebastian were ever meant to be, two people reaching for each other, unable to escape the pull of life’s demons. At least this time she would not be left waiting at the village church for a bridegroom too wounded to take a chance. She would marry Lord Creighton and Edward would be safe. And Sebastian would be safe as well, with his money, and his guilt, and the life he chose over her.
John Coachman managed to direct the barouche right up to the lynch gate at the parish church attached to the Creighton estate. The road before the church was lined with village folk and Lord Creighton’s tenants. A cheer went up when Minerva was handed down from the carriage. After all, she was the first of Lord Creighton’s brides to actually make it to the church. Ditey waved madly, as if the adulation was entirely in her honor. The footmen cleared the way and before she knew it Minerva stood in the nave of the church and watched Ditey make a great production of walking up the aisle.
“I do appreciate you doing this for me,” Minerva murmured as she took Mr. Darcy’s arm. “I would have asked Lord Bottleby, but the wedding breakfast would be spoiled by the time he made it to the altar.”
“It is my honor, Mrs. Faircloth.” Mr. Darcy’s lips twitched and then settled into his normal staid visage. The opening bars of a solemn church anthem echoed through the high ceiling of the church.
Once they reached the place where Creighton and Lord Fitzhugh stood waiting, Darcy bowed over Minerva’s and moved to take hi
s seat next to the dowager. Poor lady looked distinctly dyspeptic.
“Don’t look at her,” Fitzhugh muttered from the other side of Creighton. “You’ll spoil your appetite. Mrs. Applegate made meringues.”
“Will you be quiet?” Creighton rolled his eyes and placed Minerva’s hand on his arm.
The vicar cleared his throat and gave Fitzhugh a disapproving stare. He opened his prayer book and commenced to read the service. Creighton gave her a pained smile. Her first wedding Minerva had been too unhappy and stunned to pay attention. This time she knew perfectly well what she was getting herself into and why. It didn’t help. It didn’t help at all. She glanced back at the congregation, every pew full with haughty lords and ladies and disappointed young women barely out of the schoolroom. She found Edward sitting uncharacteristically still between Peel and Mrs. Peel. Clasped in his hand was the riding crop Sebastian had given him. A tremulous smile curved Minerva’s lips.
“Therefore, if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” The vicar’s prosy voice drew her attention back to the task at hand.
Ditey hiccupped. Lord Fitzhugh coughed. Creighton elbowed him. A goodly portion of the congregation turned their heads towards the family pew where the dowager countess sat. Minerva’s first wedding was akin to a funeral. This one was one giggle away from a farce.
“Get on with it,” Lord Creighton muttered.
Minerva had the sudden urge to burst into tears.
“Bloody hell,” a male voice cried from the back of the church. “The demmed horse bit me!”
A lady shrieked. And then another.
Horse? There’s a horse at my wedding?
Minerva stared at the vicar for all she was worth. The vicar, however, had dropped his prayer book and looked ready to swoon. The ever-encroaching clop-clop-clop of hoofbeats rang like church bells. She still refused to turn around. She didn’t have to as Creighton, Fitzhugh and Ditey stood gawking up the aisle, three thunderstruck, well-dressed idiots.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 75