She knew exactly where to hit her daughters hardest, but Scarlett pushed the guilt aside. Marrying Henry would only delay the inevitable. The way of life her parents clung to was disintegrating. There was nothing she could do to stop that.
“If there is ruining to be done, I’m quite comfortable saying that I am not the cause.” She took a deep breath, hoping there was something she could salvage here, a way to make them see. “I love Jameson. He is a good man. An honorable man—”
“I’ll be damned if I see this title, this family’s legacy, given to the spawn of a bloody Yank!” her father shouted, coming to his feet.
Scarlett kept her head high and her shoulders square, thankful that she’d spent the last year working in the most stressful environment imaginable, perfecting the art of remaining calm during a tempest. “You make the mistake of assuming I want anything to do with your title. I do not aspire to wealth or politics. You cling to something I have no interest in.” Her voice was soft yet steel.
Her father’s face pinkened, then deepened to a purely red hue as his eyes bulged. “So help me God, Scarlett, if you marry without my permission, I will no longer acknowledge you as my daughter.”
“No,” her mother gasped.
“I mean it. You won’t inherit a thing.” He jabbed his finger toward her. “Not Ashby. Not this house. Nothing.”
Her heart didn’t break—that would have been too simple. It ripped, straining, then tearing at the fibers of her soul. She truly meant that little to him. “Then we agree,” she said softly. “I am free to do as I wish, as long as I willingly accept your consequence, which includes not inheriting the very things I do not want.”
“Scarlett!” her mother called out, but Scarlett didn’t lower her gaze or give an inch as her father attempted to stare her down.
“And if I have a son,” she continued, “he, too, will be free of this anchor of obligation you treasure more than your daughter’s happiness.”
Her father’s eyebrows shot up. The only thing he’d ever wanted was a son. She’d never give him hers.
“Scarlett, do not do this. You have to marry the Wadsworth boy,” he demanded. “Any sons that come from that union will be the next Baron Wright.”
He seemed to have forgotten that if Constance, too, had sons, it would not be so cut-and-dried.
“That sounds like an order.” Scarlett pushed in her chair and gripped the back.
“It is. It has to be.”
“I only take orders from my superior officers, and as I recall, you have elected not to serve in a war you have never approved of.” The ice in her veins permeated her tone.
“This visit is over.” He spoke through gritted teeth.
“I agree.” She kissed her mother’s cheek on the way out of the dining room. “Happy birthday, Mother. I’m so sorry I cannot give you what you want.”
Then she removed herself to her room, where she quickly changed into her uniform and packed her dress into her suitcase.
As she came down the stairs, she found Constance waiting for her at the threshold, dressed identically, suitcase in hand.
“Do not do this to us,” her mother begged, coming out of the drawing room.
“I will not marry Henry,” Scarlett repeated. “How can you ask me to? You would see me marry a man I loathe? A known abuser of women, all to keep what?” Scarlett asked, softening her voice.
“It’s what your father wants. What the family needs.” Her mother lifted her chin. “We’ve cut the staff. We’ve sold most of the land at Ashby. We’ve economized the last few years. We all make sacrifices.”
“But in this case, you’d like to sacrifice me, and I’ll not have it. Goodbye, Mother.” She walked out of the townhouse and sucked in a shaky breath.
Constance followed her, shutting the door behind her. “So I guess we’ll need to purchase new train tickets, seeing as ours were for tomorrow.”
She did not deserve her sister, but she hugged her anyway. “How do you feel about applying for a transfer?”
Chapter Eleven
Noah
Scarlett, my Scarlett,
Tonight, I miss you more than my words can possibly convey. I wish I could fly to you, even if just for a few hours. The only thought that keeps me going here is knowing you’ll be with me soon. On nights like tonight, I escape by picturing us in the Rockies, at home and at peace. I’ll teach William how to camp and fish. You’ll be able to write—to do whatever you want. And we’ll be happy. So happy. We’re due a little tranquility, don’t you think? Not that I regret volunteering for this war. After all, it brought me to you…
She slammed the door in my face.
She actually slammed the door in my face.
I sucked in a deep breath, noting the particular burn in my lungs that always accompanied the high altitude. Of all the outcomes I pictured during the flight, this hadn’t been one of them.
The solution had come to me while I’d been rereading Scarlett’s and Jameson’s letters. He’d been able to break down Scarlett’s walls because he’d been there, holding on to that suitcase in Middle Wallop, so I’d packed mine and gotten on a plane.
I steadied my temper, lifted my hand, and knocked again. To my surprise, she answered.
“As I was saying, hang up on me—” My words froze in my throat.
There was something very wrong here. Georgia looked…off, as though she had just been delivered the kind of news you had to sit down to hear. Not that she wasn’t as beautiful as always, but her skin was bloodless, her face slack, and her eyes—those exquisite blue eyes—were empty.
“Is everything okay?” I asked softly, my chest tightening.
She looked right through me for a second. “What do you want, Noah?”
Something was definitely wrong.
“Can I come in? I promise not to talk about the book.” My chest tightened with an immediate, overwhelming urge to fix whatever had gone wrong.
Georgia’s brow knit, but she nodded and opened the door for me.
“Come on, let’s get you something to drink.” Did this have to do with Damian?
She nodded again, then led us down the hall and into an expansive kitchen. It was all I could do to keep my hand off the small of her back or offer her a hug. A hug?
I’d never been this far inside the house before, but the kitchen fit what I had already seen. It was a Tuscan theme, with tawny-colored cabinetry and darker granite countertops. The woodwork was ornate but not overdone. The appliances were professional grade. The only thing that seemed out of place were slightly discolored pieces of artwork pinned to a bulletin board on the wall.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I suggested, gesturing to the stools that lined the kitchen island.
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” she asked, averting her gaze.
“Let’s just pretend our roles are fluid for the moment.” I moved to the stove, noting the teakettle on the back corner burner. To my relief, Georgia sat down, resting her forearms on the granite.
I dropped the keys to my rental car into my right pocket, filled the teakettle with water, and set it back on the stove, igniting the gas burner. Then I began my hunt.
I opened three cabinets before I found the one I was looking for. “Do you have a favorite?”
Georgia looked past me to the carefully organized tea supply. “Earl Grey,” she responded.
There was a squeezable honey bear next to the tea, and on instinct, I brought that to the countertop, too.
“You’re not having any?” Georgia glanced toward the singular packet of tea.
“I’m more of a hot chocolate kind of guy,” I admitted.
“But you’re making tea.”
“You look like you need it.”
Two lines appear between her eyes. “But why would you…” She shook her head.
&nbs
p; “Why would I what?” I braced my palms on the island across from where she sat.
“Never mind.”
“Why would I what?” I asked again. “Why would I take care of you?” I guessed.
Her gaze flickered my way.
“Because, contrary to popular belief, I’m not that big of an asshole, and you look like your dog just died.” I tilted my head. “And both my mother and sister would kick my ass if I didn’t.” I shrugged.
Surprise flared in her eyes. “But they’d never know.”
“I try to live most of my life like my mother will always find out what I’ve done.” Corner of my mouth tugged upward. “In reality, she usually does anyway, and the lectures last for hours. Hours. And as for the other parts…well, she never needs to know.” My brow puckered as the overwhelming silence of the house hit me. “Where is your mother? Usually she’s the one making sure you’re hydrated.”
She scoffed. “She was making sure you were hydrated. She’s well aware that I can fend for myself.” She laced her fingers in front of her, and her knuckles turned white. “Besides, she’s probably halfway to the airport by now.”
My stomach sank. Given the tone with which she’d said that, my bets were on Ava being the reason Georgia looked shell-shocked. “Was it a planned trip?”
Georgia laughed, but there was nothing happy about the sound. “Yeah, I’d say it was planned well in advance.”
Before I could question her, the teakettle whistled. I removed it from the burner, only to realize I hadn’t looked for a cup.
“Cabinet to the left, second shelf,” Georgia said.
“Thanks.” I grabbed a mug, then set the tea to steep.
“I should be the one thanking you.”
I arched a brow. “Fluid roles, remember?”
She offered me a smile. It was barely there, lasting only a flash of a second, but it was genuine.
“Do you take it with milk, too?” I asked as I slid the mug and honey across the island to her.
“God no.” She tilted the honey bear on its head and squeezed a dollop of the amber liquid into her tea. “Gran would tell you that’s sacrilege.”
“Would she?” I asked, hoping she would elaborate.
Georgia nodded and slid off her stool, coming around the island to open the drawer directly behind me. “She would.” She took the spoon from the drawer and returned to her seat before stirring her tea. “She actually preferred sugar, though. The honey was always just for me. It didn’t matter how long I’d been away; she always kept it for me, kept a place for me.” A wistful look crossed her face.
“You must miss her.”
“Every day. Do you miss your dad?”
“Absolutely. It’s gotten better with time, but I’d give anything to have him back.” Come to think of it, I’d only ever heard about the Stanton women. “What about your dad?”
“I don’t have one.” She said it so matter-of-factly that I blinked. “I have one, or had one, of course. I’m not the product of immaculate conception or anything,” she said as she took her spoon to the dishwasher and put it in. “I’ve just never met him. He and my mom were both in high school when I was born, and she never gave up his name.”
Another piece of the puzzle that was Georgia Stanton clicked into place. She never knew her father. Scarlett raised her. So what did that make Ava?
“Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?” she asked. “It feels a little weird not getting you something when you made tea for me.” She looked at me expectantly.
“Not everything is quid pro quo,” I said softly.
Her spine straightened, and she turned her back on me, heading for the refrigerator. “In my experience, it’s always quid pro quo.” She took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, then shut the door. “In fact, there are very few people who don’t want something from me.” She set the bottle of water down on the counter in front of me and returned to her seat. “So please, drink up. After all, you didn’t fly all the way to Colorado because your Spidey senses told you I needed a cup of tea.”
You want something, too.
Her eyes said it even if her mouth didn’t, and damn it, she was right. My stomach fell into what felt like a bottomless pit.
I nodded once, and then we both drank.
“Why are you here? Not that I’m not thankful for the tea, or the distraction, because I am. I just wasn’t expecting you.” She leaned forward, warming her hands on the mug.
“I promised I wouldn’t talk about the book.” Book or not, I was glad to be here, glad to see her in a way that had zero to do with anything professional. The woman had been on my mind in one way or another for the past month.
“You always keep your promises?” Her eyes narrowed in speculation.
“I do. Otherwise, I wouldn’t make the promise.” It had been an expensive lesson.
“Even to the women in your life?” She tilted her head. “I’ve seen quite a few pictures.”
“Checking up on me?” Please say yes. God knew my browser history was full of Georgia Stanton.
“My best friend keeps sending me pictures and articles. She thinks I should jump you.” She shrugged.
She what? I squeezed my water bottle so hard, I crushed it. “Really?” My voice dropped, pushing every single image that sentence brought to mind far out of my head, or at least trying to.
“Funny, right? Especially given the parade of women you keep your promises to.” She gave me a sugar-sweet smile and batted her lashes.
I laughed, then shook my head. “Georgia, the only promises I make to women are what time I’ll pick them up and what they can expect while they’re with me. Days. Nights. Weeks. I find it saves a lot of misunderstandings and a lot of drama if everyone knows what they’re getting up front, and despite your thoughts on my writing, I’ve never had an unsatisfied complaint.” I twisted the top back onto my empty water bottle, keeping my thoughts far away from the things I wanted to promise her.
“So romantic.” She rolled her eyes, but color flushed her cheeks.
“I never claimed to be, remember?” I smirked, leaning back against the counter.
“Ah yes, the bookstore. Noted. So you’ve never broken a promise?” Her voice pitched in disbelief.
My face fell.
“Not since I was sixteen and I forgot to take my little sister, Adrienne, for ice cream after I said I would.” I winced, remembering the sound of the beeping hospital monitors. “My mom took her and got into the accident I told you about.”
Georgia’s eyes widened.
“Adrienne—my sister—was fine, but Mom…well, there were a lot of surgeries. After that, I made it a point to never commit myself unless I was sure I could follow through.” I’d also drafted my very first book the following summer.
“You’ve never missed a deadline?”
“Nope.” Though that might change if she didn’t start communicating with me about this particular book.
Curiosity sparkled in those crystal blue eyes. I could have written an entire novel dedicated to them. In a way, I guess I already was, given that she and Scarlett had the same ones.
“Never blown a New Year’s resolution?”
I grinned. “I never make them,” I admitted like it was a dirty little secret.
She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth.
Shit. I wanted to suck it free. The bottle crinkled in my hand.
“Never stood a woman up for a date?”
“I always say that I’ll do my best to make it, and I do. I never promise a woman I’ll meet her unless I’m already there.” Anyone who went out with me knew that if I was sucked into a story, chances were, they were getting a cancellation text. Granted, I’d send it hours in advance, but the story came first. Always. “I’m not exactly the guy you depend on during a deadline. Unless you’re my pu
blisher.”
“So you’re more about the semantics,” she argued, sipping her tea.
I barely managed to keep from sputtering. “No, I’m more about defining expectations and either meeting or exceeding them.” We locked eyes, and that tangible hit of electricity struck me again.
“Uh-huh.” She clicked her tongue. “Do you still have dinner with your mother?”
“Once a week. Unless I’m on book tour, a research trip, vacation, that kind of thing.” I gave it some thought. “Sometimes she makes me cut it to every other week.” My lips tugged at the corners.
“She makes you cut it?”
“She does.” I nodded. “She would prefer I spend less time at her house and more time finding a wife.”
Georgia startled, nearly spit out her tea. “A wife.” She set the mug on the counter. “And how is that going?”
“I’ll let you know,” I managed with a straight face.
“Please do. I’d hate not to be in the know when it comes to your love life.”
I laughed and shook my head again. She was something else.
“Gran would have liked you,” she mused quietly. “She wasn’t a fan of your books, that’s true. But you, she would have liked. You have just the right mix of arrogance and talent that she would have appreciated. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that you’re pretty. She liked pretty men.” Georgia rubbed at the back of her neck. It was long and graceful, just like the rest of her.
“You think I’m pretty.” I grinned, raising my eyebrows.
She rolled her eyes. “Out of all that, you dwell on pretty.”
“Well, if you’d said sexy, handsome, well-endowed, or body-like-a-god, I would have dwelled on those, but you didn’t, so I’m just making do with what content I have.” I tossed my water bottle in the recycling bin at the end of the island.
Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink.
Mission accomplished. She’d been so pale there for a while that I was starting to wonder if I’d get to see that fire again.
“I can hardly testify to those last two.” She took her mug to the dishwasher.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 14