“So young and yet so wise in the ways of the ton.” He looked to Edward and then back at Cecilia. “How did the two of you meet? Surely not in London, or else I would have heard something. Even Edward would admit that I’m not that far out of touch.”
She did laugh at that. “He may have said you were unlikely to be interested by or up to date on most of the ton gossip. Not that I should judge, as I have little interest in who was seen with whom or puzzling out who is referenced in the papers. Edward says it will get easier as I meet people but I still don’t see much point in it. If I need to know, I’m sure he’ll tell me.” She sent Edward a smile before turning back to Martin. “But to answer your question, you are familiar with his family’s estate near Bath?”
Martin nodded. “We spent some time there once, on break from Oxford. As I recall, it wasn’t his favorite.”
James laughed at the understatement, but Edward merely waved a hand at him. Cecilia’s eyes danced. “Yes, well, I think you’ll find he has a different opinion now. My parents’ estate sits about four miles from there. We used to cross paths occasionally when we were younger and his family was there in the summer. My older brother is about Edward’s age and they would play together. It had been so long that I hardly recognized him when he was there this past summer, visiting his mother.”
“I certainly didn’t recognize you as the hoyden who used to insist that she should be included when we were heading off to spend an afternoon fishing in the stream.” Edward grinned at his wife.
“That was clear enough!” Her answering smile was warm, like the sun breaking through the clouds, for all that it wasn’t directed at him. “You’re lucky my father didn’t catch you making that mistake.”
“True.” Edward looked unrepentant. “But I’d do it again, since it resulted in you.”
Martin shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortably aware of the contrast between their easy talk and his last conversation with Teresa. “So this is your first trip to London then?”
Cecilia looked back at him. “I suppose so. We spent a few nights here after the wedding before we left for the Continent but since we hardly left the house I don’t think those count.” A small smile stole across her lips before she blinked, bringing herself back from memory. “It’s been far different than I’d imagined.”
“It certainly is a change from the country. Especially compared to what I remember of his family’s estate in Bath.”
She laughed at that. “I can’t disagree with that. Even now things feel so much busier than life there. It can be exciting, but I also miss the time in the mornings when it’s quiet and you can hear the birds singing. I can’t imagine what it must be like during the Season. It seems the days are already full to bursting.”
Martin did his best to suppress a grimace. “Oh, it’s certainly busy.”
“You don’t like it.” It wasn’t a question, merely an observation. Martin wondered when he’d become so obvious in his distaste.
“I don’t, but that doesn’t matter much.” If his preference had mattered, he might only come to town for a month, if that. “The title brings its responsibilities and so I come to London during the Season. Normally that’s all, but I had some pressing business that couldn’t wait.”
“And your wife didn’t want to come?” The question seemed innocent enough but Martin still felt it like a fist to the gut. He wondered what Edward had said to her about their discussion at the club, if anything. With Teresa’s dislike of the city, he’d expected her to jump at the chance to stay in the country. Instead she’d been clear before he left that she would be happy to accompany him to London, because she thought she was in love with him.
Because she thought he was capable of love and just running scared.
“She wanted to, but I thought it would be better for us to have some time apart.” The words didn’t sound any better today. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time but somehow explaining it to Cecilia and Edward made it sound worse.
Of course, he’d have to be blind to miss the chemistry between the two of them. He couldn’t blame them for not understanding his point of view when it was obvious that Edward was looking forward to the end of the evening. Not that he felt unwelcome or rushed — far from it — but Edward was more centered than Martin had ever known him to be and it was clear that Cecilia played a huge part in that.
“Why?” As he expected, Cecilia didn’t understand. She sounded genuinely curious though, and that deserved honesty in response.
“Ours isn’t a love match and I thought some distance would help reinforce that. Set boundaries, that sort of thing.” The excuse sounded weak and he struggled to find words that would make it seem less so. “I’m not capable of love, not given who my father was. I want to save her the heartache of hoping for something she can’t have.”
Cecilia’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe that.”
Edward, who had clearly been paying at least some attention to their exchange, broke off his conversation with James and leaned over. “Cecilia, you don’t know all the history. Some of it’s from his grandfather, but his father-”
“His father was my father too and yet you don’t see me as incapable of love. That’s all I need to know.” She didn’t allow Edward a chance to respond as her eyes flashed, her gaze locked with Martin’s. “Blood doesn’t dictate who we are. You’re choosing to let his actions define you and haven’t once thought about what they’ve cost you.”
Martin’s response was cut off by a knock at the door. Before Edward could respond, it swung open to reveal the butler, looking apologetic. “Beg pardon, sir, but a messenger just arrived for the Earl. Says it’s urgent.”
“Send him up, then.” Martin was in no mood to leave, not before he’d made it clear to Cecilia just how mistaken she was. Stepping out of the room now would be the same as yielding the field. It was enough to have to bear the accusation from his wife. He would not tolerate it from some chit he’d just met, half-sister or not.
Thumping on the stairs presaged the appearance of one of his footmen in the doorway. Moving into the room, he bent down to speak quietly in Martin’s ear. “Milord, we’ve had a message from the estate. The Countess is quite ill.”
“Ill?” Martin felt ice creep into his chest, his anger vanishing as the ground fell away beneath his feet. “What do you mean, ill? She was healthy when I left.”
“I don’t know, m’lord.” The man’s hat was in his hands and they twisted it now, nervously. “All the butler told me was that a message arrived with the post this afternoon marked urgent.” And the townhouse staff had their instructions, which was that anything marked urgent from the estate was to be opened immediately and a messenger sent to find him. Still, he sat frozen, unable to process the news. Teresa? Ill? He called to mind the last time he’d seen her in bed, her face flushed and her expression sated as she watched him dress for the day.
Then the image shifted, her face losing its color and the spark fading from her eyes until she was nothing more than a pale shell of herself against the bedsheets, her hair brittle instead of the cascade of gold he’d run his hands through endlessly. Like his mother’s had been, in that one glimpse before the end. The chill in his veins turned to ice as his chest tightened, an instinctive denial rising to his lips before he bit it back.
“Go, Martin.” Edward’s voice broke him free from that mental image. He was standing next to Cecilia now, close enough that he had clearly overheard the message. For a moment, all Martin could see was Edward’s hand on her lower back. An easy, familiar intimacy. The kind he’d been building with Teresa, before he’d been so pig-headed and pushed her away and even now she might be-He couldn’t finish that thought. Pushing back from the table, he rose and was halfway to the door before he remembered his manners. Pausing, he offered a quick nod to Cecilia. “We’ll talk again, later.”
She raised her chin. “Of course.” She nodded toward the door. “I hope you find everything safe and well.”
“Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.” Edward spoke up and Martin raised a hand in acknowledgment even as he passed through the door and took the stairs two at a time to the entryway. Leaving his coat and gloves to the footman to carry, he hurried out the door. His butler had at least had the foresight to send the phaeton, despite the fact that Edward’s townhouse was close enough to walk.
Swinging himself up into the driver’s seat, the footman and groom barely had time to find handholds before Martin had the horses flying down the road as fast as traffic would allow. All he could see when he closed his eyes was the image of her, pale and sunken in the bedsheets. He could feel the groom’s deathgrip on the box but to his credit, there wasn’t a peep of protest even as the horses skidded to a stop behind the flurry of activity in front of the townhouse. The traveling coach was parked in front, his trunk already in place at the back. His valet was overseeing the final packing. Another groom stood by, holding the reins of a solid beast from the livery stables.
Seeing his arrival, the butler stepped forward and handed him the letter from the estate. The Countess is ill. She insists it is nothing but we have sent for the doctor. If your business in London is complete I recommend you return as soon as possible. Short, in Allsworth’s hand. No signature, but that was unnecessary after all these years. Allsworth wouldn’t have sent a note without good reason.
“We’ll ride at least as far as Edgware tonight. There’s enough moonlight that we might push on to Hatfield. Send word ahead by post that I’m on my way.” The longer days would work in his favor, letting him cover more ground. He just hoped it wasn’t already too late.
Chapter 32
The road was familiar, something Martin both appreciated and cursed.
He knew he’d made good time from London, shaving close to two days off of his normal travel time and now the entire landscape was a familiar one, versus the few landmarks he recognized as markers on the road to London. That was the reason he’d left behind carriage, groom, and valet at the inn that morning, with instructions to make their way back to the estate as quickly as possible. Ares had been waiting there, Allsworth having had the foresight to send him out to the inn along with one of the grooms.
But close wasn’t the same thing as being home and able to reassure himself that Teresa was not deathly ill.
Those thoughts had driven him on, leaving the trip feeling unbearably long, every stop an eternity. The only thing he had been able to distract himself with was the unfamiliar road, requiring concentration to maintain speed while keeping the horses from injury. A distraction that no longer worked, as he and Ares had ridden every inch of these roads over the past five years.
Hell, Ares could probably make his way back in his sleep at this point, without any guidance from Martin. So even as the landscape flew by at the fastest pace it had the entire trip, Martin found himself unable to escape thoughts of what might be waiting for him at the estate.
He’d been allowed in his mother’s bedroom only once during that final illness, the only memory of her he actually had. She’d been asleep, dwarfed by the bed around her, and the only word he could think of to describe her was fragile.
That he might arrive home to find Teresa in the same condition gave him a chill despite the warmth of the sun on his back. True, she’d waltzed into his life and upended all his routines, ignoring all boundaries he tried to set, but she’d given far more than she’d asked in return. The thought of never again sitting down to conversation over dinner with her left a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He tried not to think of the last dinner conversation they’d had. Her accusation still rung in his ears, feeling far more accurate now than before. Before, when he’d still believed that his father’s bloodline was incapable of love.
Before he’d met his half-sister. After seeing her with Edward, he couldn’t deny that they were clearly in love with each other — and unashamed of it. Which meant that he had to confront the hard truth that it was just a lie he had been telling himself, terrified of letting anyone close enough to his heart that they could hurt him like his father had hurt his mother.
Like both his parents had hurt him.
Like his grandfather had told him anyone else would do if they had the chance.
Exactly as Teresa had said.
And yet somehow she had slipped past those defenses and taken up residence in his heart, such that the thought of losing her resulted in sheer terror. Compared to that, the fear of being hurt seemed unimportant — and the realization that he had hurt her through his stubbornness something he could hardly bear to acknowledge. The only thing to do was hope that she still lived and he still had the chance to fix his mistakes.
The turn to the estate appeared ahead and he urged Ares on, his stomach twisting into a knot as his mind kept up a steady stream of images he might find, each worse than the last. Teresa ill. Teresa dying. Teresa dead just that morning, though he’d seen no messenger on the road.
One of the grooms was waiting to meet him in the courtyard and Martin practically threw the reins at him, sliding down to take the stairs up to the house two at a time. The man looked startled — no surprise, since Martin always saw to Ares’s care and stabling himself — but quickly led the horse off toward the stable, a footman following to collect the saddlebags.
The door swung open at his approach, Russell looking calm and unruffled despite the deviation from routine. “How is she? Where is she?” Martin demanded.
Russell raised an eyebrow but responded calmly. “The Countess is upstairs in her room, asleep. I might suggest that you-”
Martin didn’t wait to hear the suggestion but continued up the stairs, striding down the hallway to where Teresa’s door stood open, a maid sitting outside on a chair. She scrambled to rise at his approach but he ignored her as he swept into the room, his heart in his throat even as logic tried to argue that the servants didn’t seem nearly concerned enough for her to be at death’s door.
Teresa was curled up on her side, one hand tucked up under her chin and her hair a tousled mess behind her on the pillow. Her color was good, he noted with relief — neither flushed from fever or too pale — and her breathing was deep and even. Relief hit like a physical blow and he had to brace himself not to stagger.
“As you can see, my lord, there’s no need to panic.” Russell’s voice was pitched low, presumably to keep from waking Teresa. “Her fever broke yesterday morning and the doctor was here in the afternoon. He said she’ll be back to normal in less than a week, as long as she gets sufficient rest and quiet.”
Martin didn’t respond but simply stood there, continuing to watch Teresa’s chest rise and fall with each breath. The curtains were drawn, presumably to keep the light dim, and he had to fight the urge to go over and fling them open. Even seeing her there, looking nothing like his mother had, it still felt too much like the sickroom where his mother had died. The same dimmed light and hushed sounds.
Teresa shifted in her sleep and he found himself standing next to her, one hand reaching out to almost stroke her cheek before he realized what he was doing. He hesitated, feeling as if touching her would be a step he couldn’t take back. Then she rolled over again and her cheek brushed his fingertips, the skin as smooth and soft as he remembered and he realized the threshold had already been crossed.
Unable to stop himself, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to her and began stroking her hair. The low murmur of voices from the hall barely registered before being cut off by the sound of the door softly closing and then the only sounds he could hear were her breathing and the steady beat of his heart in his ears.
*
She was cradled in warmth, the aches finally gone after being near constant companions for several days. It was tempting to stay there and refuse to wake but something felt different and curiosity won over the desire for more sleep. Pushing her way back to consciousness, Teresa became aware that someone was stroking her hair, slow and even. Like her mot
her had done, whenever she was upset or hurt or sick.
For a moment, still half-wrapped in sleep, she thought her mother had come back and she struggled to open her eyes, eager to throw herself into her mother’s arms and cry like she hadn’t cried in years. Instead she found Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed in what appeared to be his riding clothes, covered in road dust. His gloves sat in his lap — he’d clearly removed them at some point — and it was his hand she felt running through her hair.
Teresa blinked, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes, but he was still there when she opened them again, his eyes focused on something off in the distance. She shifted her head to see what he was looking at but the movement caught his attention.
“You’re awake.” His hand stopped stroking her hair and she had to resist the urge to make a sound in protest. Hope flared in her chest and she shoved it down ruthlessly, wishing she’d had a little more time to prepare for seeing him again. She wasn’t ready. It might not have made much difference but surely it couldn’t have hurt.
At the very least, she would have felt less vulnerable to have met him awake and upright, instead of on her back and still struggling to put her thoughts into any kind of order that made sense.
“Somewhat.” Her voice was raspy, although her throat was no longer sore. At least it no longer hurt to talk. “You’re back from London. We didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“Allsworth wrote to let me know you were ill.” He looked off into the distance for a moment, as if remembering something, and then back at her. “I left the moment I received the news.”
That he had done so fed the hope that refused to die. She steeled herself against it. “There was no need. It was simply a cold. All I needed was rest. Even the doctor agreed.” Or had, once she had made it clear she was unwilling to take laudanum to help her sleep. She rather suspected the willow tea she’d had the servants steep for her, from the precious supply she’d brought with her from London, had done far more good than any amount of laudanum would have.
Entangled with the Earl (Tangled Threads Book 1) Page 28