While hastily stuffing his flaccid shaft into his breeches, he did up the buttons of his frontfalls as he moved to the door, sloppily dodging the broken crystal on the floor. Grasping the latch, he wrenched open the panel and then strode into the corridor beyond. Halfway down the hall, the sound of her soul-deep sobs reached his ears. Hot guilt collided with white-hot anger to twist with the mocking anxiety in his chest, tightening, squeezing, pressing until he could scarcely breathe. Approaching his fury-filled wife now would end in folly, and she’d probably throw something at his head.
With good reason.
Still, his heartbeat thudded fast. He wanted to see her, was prepared to grovel at her feet if necessary if only she’d reassure him that she hadn’t made a mistake in marrying. Softly padding along the corridor, Drew paused at her door. From the other side, the sobs cut through his chest with all the accuracy of a sharp knife. He laid a hand on the wood panel, and to his mortification, moisture welled in his eyes.
I did that. I made her cry, undoubtedly hurt her, and broke her trust.
For the first time in his adult existence, he realized that what he said, what he did had consequences beyond the usual hurt he caused. What the ramifications of this action would be, he couldn’t say, but terror froze his heart at the thought of her leaving Derbyshire after being wedded for less than a day.
How the deuce can I fix this without losing face?
Perhaps he couldn’t, and that was the problem. Sooner or later, he’d need to set his ego, his pride aside and dirty his hands while taking a good, hard look at himself. For the moment, there was no recourse. Blinking until the tears cleared from his eyes, he turned and, gasping for breath, stumbled back down the hall to his room. Once inside, he slammed the door, his body shaking as guilt and regret joined the seething mix in his person.
“I deserve her ire and her loathing,” he told his room at large. “I’m truly a prick.” The admission did nothing to alleviate the churning tide within him, and he let it rage.
The candleholder followed the fate of the water decanter. Soon the acrid scent of candle smoke filled the room, but his rage wasn’t spent.
Drew tore the curtains from around the bed, pulled the counterpane off and threw it about, took his pillows and ripped them open. Goose down feathers showered the bed and the floor, floated into the air. With a cry of rage and desolation, he shoved the mattress to the floor, and when he couldn’t draw enough breath to remain upright any longer, he collapsed onto it and covered his face with his hands.
Too late he’d realized that he’d had the hope of Sarah in his life as well as the calm that she could bring, but now that dream dangled farther and farther away, left him floundering in the nightmare he constantly battled. The chance to woo or even win her if he were of a mind had been in his hand, but he’d tossed it away like so much rubbish. Beyond that, how could he push aside the demons that haunted him in order to become the man he needed to be?
There had to be more to life than the endless struggle, the always allowing anger to guide him, to drive him into hiding.
“Why can I not find balance and control over these feelings?” The silence of the room mocked him in the absence of an answer.
Damn this title that has cursed my life.
The chime that proclaimed the midnight hour from the longcase clock drifted to his ears, but Drew didn’t stir; he couldn’t. No, it wasn’t the fault of the title that had torn up his life. He had done that himself, for he was broken and didn’t know how to heal. Anxiety held him frozen while fear punched him repeatedly in the gut.
“I’m going to lose her before I’ve won her.” But didn’t he want that over everything?
Again, the dratted moisture welled in his eyes. At least if he were to cry, no one would see him. God, what would his father say? No doubt he’d lecture and say how disappointed that he was. I never could please the man. Black spots flirted with his vision… not that he could discern that darkness from the inky blackness currently filling the room. He labored to breathe, his lungs aching, his chest weighted, his throat tight and choked with unshed tears as well as emotions he dare not utter aloud. Please, Sarah, forgive me.
Then his pride slammed to the forefront. Why should he feel bad? He’d bedded her as he’d said, as the betrothal contract demanded. What did it matter how he’d accomplished the task?
The sound of his wheezing, struggling breaths rasped loudly in the quiet. She deserved better and he knew it. No woman should have been treated to the display he gave tonight.
Pounding started in his head. He pressed his brow to the mattress and cursed himself into oblivion. Silently, he cried, stopped short at sobbing for everything he’d lost in his life due to his crushing emotions.
When he raised his head, his gaze landed on a hint of feminine, lace-edged fabric that peeked out from under the bedding’s destruction. Drew snagged it in his fingers and pulled it toward him. Sarah’s nightgown, the one he’d torn in his haste to bury himself in her heat. As he brought the fabric to his nose, her lingering clover and violet scent assailed him. Once more, his chest squeezed so hard, he nearly lost consciousness.
Sagging back into the mattress with the delicate finery clutched in his hand, he struggled to draw breath. He had to beat this; he had to remain alive, for there were some things in life that had the potential to be… more.
If he could, he would find a way to make things right between him and Sarah.
Or die trying.
Chapter Thirteen
July 3, 1817
Sarah glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle of her sitting room. Half past eight in the evening. Dinner would be served soon, and no doubt she’d take the meal alone. She’d been a married woman for a week but hadn’t seen her husband since their disastrous wedding night.
Though her anger with Andrew had long faded, she hadn’t sought him out, neither had she actively avoided him. He was either out of pocket or keeping to his rooms, for she hadn’t come upon him during meals or while wandering the corridors. Even walking the grounds hadn’t produced him.
No doubt he assumed he wasn’t in the wrong. Muscles in her stomach knotted. She pushed her spectacles onto the bridge of her nose. Or had the mysterious attacks he suffered gotten the better of him? Was he even now in need of medical attention but pride kept him from asking for help? Yes, she wanted to talk with him. If he were suffering, she wished to assist him, for she couldn’t stand to see anything in pain.
Perhaps that makes me doubly foolish or stupidly hopeful. However, it wasn’t in her nature to avoid confrontation or live her life in frosty silence.
No sooner had she settled into her novel than a soft knock sounded on the sitting room door. Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Had her husband finally come to his senses? She stood and laid her book on the chair. The silk of her gown whispered about her legs. During the week, she’d had a whole new wardrobe ordered, and this frock had been delivered earlier in the day. The bright coral bodice, trimmed with delicate lace, with an ivory and coral striped skirt had rapidly become a favorite. The lace on the hem made her feel deliciously decadent. At least if the earl were absent, she could look the part of a composed countess.
When she swung open the door, instead of Andrew, her gaze fell upon Barton, his valet. Cold concern coiled through her insides. “What is amiss?” For he wouldn’t have come to her if the earl were well.
“You are as intelligent and forthright as he said.” A faint grin touched the man’s lips. “The earl is having a fit.”
Sarah snorted. Her eyewear slipped down her nose. “When is he not?” Then she sobered. “Though I’m sad to hear he remains in a temper.” That disappointment snagged in her chest. It meant he hadn’t learned anything.
I had hoped—
“No, my lady.” The valet shifted his weight from foot to foot. “He’s suffering a mental break, I fear. As the week progressed, he’s grown worse. Since he wed, the earl hasn’t been himself.” He met her gaze, speculation brigh
t in his. “It’s different from what he usually has.” Concern rode heavy in his hushed tones.
Oh, dear. His anxiety was besting him. A tremor of unease pushed down her spine. She shoved her spectacles back into place. “Where is he?”
“At the moment, I’m not certain.” Barton shrugged. “A half hour past, he had been in his rooms. Rarely has he left his rooms this week, but my worry hit the breaking point when he went unconscious not long before he disappeared. When he came to, I told him I intended to fetch you. The earl became agitated. He fled.”
That didn’t bode well. Sarah’s compassion flared as well as her concern. “Did he go riding?”
“He wasn’t dressed for it, so I assume not.”
“Is there somewhere on the estate that might be special or meaningful to him? Somewhere he might hide himself away from others? Perhaps to think?”
Barton cocked his head to the side. Strain lined his forehead. “When the earl was a younger man and his family annoyed him, he enjoyed his mother’s roses found at the center of the hedge maze. It’s on the south lawn.”
Though Sarah wasn’t familiar with the feature, she nodded. “It’ll be dark soon.” She bit briefly on her bottom lip and brought up a hand to clutch her ever-present locket. “Have you been inside the maze?” In her time at Hadleigh Hall, she’d not had an opportunity to explore it, for she would dread becoming lost and needing to rely upon Andrew to rescue her.
“Vaguely. It’s been a few years, but I think I remember the turns well enough to see you through.” The valet cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “That is, if you wish to go after him.”
Did she? It was one thing to be married to him, but quite another to summon enough patience and fortitude to stick with him for as long as it took until he healed.
If at all.
“Is he in a bad state?” No longer did she wish to argue with her husband. It simply made him more stubborn, but if his mind were truly plagued and his life would soon be forfeit, she had to try and bring him back. Not only for his sake, but for their marriage. Regardless that he had a tendency to act like an arse and his temper was horrid, she rather liked the man he was when not struggling with his problems.
Barton nodded. Fear flickered over his face. “It’s worse than any of his previous attacks, my lady.”
Sarah nodded. “He needs help.”
“Desperately.” The valet rubbed a hand along the side of his face. “I fear we might lose him if nothing is done soon.” His voice wavered and he cleared his throat. “I’d rather not see my friend fall to his own thoughts.”
“I feel the same.” She heaved a sigh. “I shall go after him. Please write down the instructions for the maze while I find a wrap and my slippers.”
Relief rolled through the man’s eyes. “At once, my lady. And thank you.”
“You are most welcome.” Finally, she had a chance to be of use to someone. The life of leisure was grand for a day or two. After that, she’d grown bored and wished for a purpose.
Barton stepped away from the door but paused. “And, Countess?”
“Yes?”
“The earl is a good man deep down beneath his current… difficulties. He merely needs to believe it for himself.” Then he strode down the hall, presumably to find paper and pen.
Oh, Andrew, what is happening to you? Sarah pondered his mental state while she slipped her feet into a pair of coral stain slippers. The golden embroidery winked in the candlelight. Afterward, she retrieved a lightweight ivory shawl. How far gone was the earl, exactly, and could anything bring him back? By the time she’d thrown the garment about her shoulders, Barton had returned.
He stood at the open door with a scrap of paper in one hand and a frothy garment of moss green in the other. As she eyed it, he offered it to her. “This belongs to you.”
Wordlessly, she fingered her nightgown—the one she’d worn on her wedding night. “I feared he would have tossed it out for rubbish. Or burned it.”
“The earl mended it, my lady.”
By rote, she gave her spectacles a shove. “Please thank the maid who did so.”
Barton shook his head. “There was no maid. The earl did it himself, my lady. Asked me for needle and thread days ago. Horrible stitching, but he wished to make the repair himself.”
“Oh.” She inspected the delicate gown, saw the rudimentary work, ran her fingers over the basic stiches. “I don’t know what to say.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Why would he do this?” He certainly had no skill in handiwork, but the fact he’d tried sent a tremble into her heart.
“Who can say, but I’ll wager he wanted to try and make amends with you even if he couldn’t find the words.” Barton gave her the scrap of paper. “Here are the directions as best as I can recall.”
“Thank you.” Sarah moved into the room and placed the nightwear on the bed. “Would you like to accompany me, Barton?”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “I suspect you’re the one to retrieve him.”
“If he’s unconscious, I can’t carry him.” Or if she found him dead, if his anxiety had driven him to take his own life… well, she refused to finish that thought.
“Come and find me at that point, but I don’t want to interfere in what needs repaired between the two of you.” He flashed her a knowing glance. “Now is as good a time as any.”
Heat jumped into her cheeks. Was it obvious to the household? “Very well. I’ll see what can be done.” Disinclined to linger for more probing conversation, she swept past him and moved down the corridor as her mind spun with horrible possibilities. The valet had no evidence that Andrew wished to make amends, but perhaps there was a chance regardless.
Was there anything more Gothic than moving through a hedge maze with trailing skirts and lace on one’s gown? The sun had begun its descent, but soon twilight would blanket the area. Even with Barton’s instructions, she made a few false turns and was obliged to backtrack. When she gained the center, the heavy, cloying scent of roses met her nose. That coupled with the more pungent aroma of the evergreen hedges and the soft buzz of night insects coming awake gave the area the feel of a romantic tryst.
This mission was anything but.
An arc of rose bushes sheltered a black, wrought iron bench. Pink, yellow, red, and white buds dotted the dark greenery. Some had bloomed, beckoning her forward. The soles of her slippers crunched against the gravel path as she slowly approached. The earl kneeled before the bench, his body crumpled, his head resting on his crossed arms on the seat.
Her heart skipped a beat. From the state of his clothing, it was clear he hadn’t cared about his appearance or personal hygiene in the week since they’d been apart. Stained buff-colored breeches, a loose-fitting lawn shirt that billowed in the slight breeze, scuffed boots made up his toilet. His hair stuck up in all directions, and when she came closer, the whiskers clinging to his chin and cheeks spoke of the fact he hadn’t shaved for days. Every breath he took was accompanied by a horrible gasping sound as if he struggled to keep his lungs moving.
“Andrew? Are you quite well?”
His broad shoulders twitched. “For the love of God, Sarah, go away.” He sucked in a breath. “Before I hurt you more than I already have.” He never glanced at her.
Her chest ached with empathy. This was not the man she’d first encountered. Oh, no. This man was beaten and broken beyond the norm. “I think you are the one hurting.” It was time to delve into the heart of his issues. She kept her voice soft and level as she approached. The last thing she wanted was for him to bolt.
“Yes.” The one-word answer sounded forced. “Leave me and let me die in peace.”
“I’d rather you find peace and live instead.”
A terrible wheezing issued from him. Did he attempt a laugh? “I can’t breathe.”
“I don’t doubt it, for you’ve let your feelings about everything in your life build up inside you for far too long.” There was nothing for it. She’d have to take the matter int
o her own hands. Sarah reached the bench and perched on the edge, so near to him the heat from his body transferred to her. “The only way to purge those emotions and ease the anxiety is to allow yourself to feel them.”
“I can’t.” His shoulders jerked and he pressed a hand to his chest.
“You must.” At the last second, she stopped herself from touching him. “You need to allow yourself to grieve, to feel, to acknowledge what has happened, to talk about it. Above all, you must understand that all of it, except what you did in anger, was not your fault.” The last was a guess, but knowing him, he’d tried to assume responsibility for everyone. If allowed to continue, it would indeed kill him.
A ragged scoff escaped him, but he didn’t look at her. “I don’t need to feel anything,” he gasped out, yet there was enough of the arrogant earl in that statement to indicate he wouldn’t soon expire. “Father always said that showing emotion made a man weak and vulnerable.” His shoulders shook.
Oh, drat. There was much to do. “Your father isn’t here any longer.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped with a growl.
Sarah inhaled and then exhaled in an effort to keep her own temper in check. “Why do you fear his censure?”
“This horrible burden started the day he left me.” Finally, he lifted his head, and she gasped. In the fading light, his stormy eyes were clouded with so many emotions she couldn’t discern just one. “Yet he lingers like a specter, judging.”
It was worse than she could have imagined. Her gaze dropped to his throat. He didn’t wear a collar or cravat. His shirt’s placket gaped open. Tufts of dark hair peeked out. The strong column of his neck took all her attention, and she pressed her lips together to tamp the urge to sigh. She’d barely had a look at that same neck the other night, but he’d not bothered to unclothe himself before he’d bedded her. Shoving aside her wayward thoughts, she shook her head.
“You might as well dig deep and have it out. We are not leaving this maze until you make progress into being a better person.”
The Soul of a Storme Page 15