Cheryl Holt (31 page)

With a wave, she dismissed the ruckus he’d created. “The uproar will settle down. Don’t worry about it.”

He was positive that affairs would
settle
with his egress, and the idea was so depressing. Would she really miss him? With the pitiful legacy he’d bestowed, why would she? He’d conferred naught but inconvenience and misfortune, a few tumbles in her bed, a few romps in her pool. In the pending months and years, what reason would she have to recall him fondly?

He wished he had a gift for her, a personal and tangible memento, to remember him by, but nothing was appropriate or sufficiently special. She was so fine, so unique, and she meant so much to him, that he couldn’t devise a present that adequately proclaimed his esteem.

He hugged her tight. “Will you think of me?”

“Every second, you bounder.”

He had to release her, had to step away, but he couldn’t force the ultimate break. Falling to his knees, he wrapped his arms around her and snuggled himself to her bosom, his chest flattened to her abdomen. As if he were a young boy, she riffled her fingers through his hair.

“I’d assumed it would be so easy to tell you good-bye.”

“Foolish man,” she chided.

“Do you know how much I love you?” Here at the last, it seemed important to remind her. Perhaps she’d finally be convinced.

“I’ve always known, even when you didn’t recognize it yourself.”

He drew away and peered up at her. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“It’s sweet of you to say so.”

“Without you by my side, I’m not sure who I am.”

“You’ll recollect. Once you’re home and surrounded by your friends and family.”

Would he find himself again? He’d been lost for an eternity. How could he ever truly make it back to where he’d been before? “Are you certain you won’t come with me? Kate could run the emporium for you, and we could manage to—”

She silenced him. He hadn’t realized he was going to suggest the possibility, but it was essential that he ask, that she decline.

“You said it yourself: What would I do with myself in London? Sit around drinking tea all day?”

Had he been that cold? “You’d be with me. Would that be so awful?”

“But
you
wouldn’t be with me. There are many others who have a higher priority.” She referred to Felicity. “I’m aware that it’s common for the women of your class to accept their men’s dalliances, but I can’t share you. It’s simply not in me to be that gracious.”

She raised him to his feet, and he studied her, memorizing every detail.

“May I write you?”

For a lengthy interlude, she considered, then shook her head. “No. We can’t have any contact.”

“Why?”

“Because I should be able to rejoice with you in the major events of your life, but it would hurt me too much, learning of your wedding, or the birth of your first child. There’s some information of which I never want to be apprised.”

He hadn’t contemplated the kinds of letters he’d pen, and
she was correct. There would be no news he could impart. “I can’t bear it that I’ll never hear from you.”

“I couldn’t tolerate any other conclusion.”

“This is
adieu,
then.”

“It has to be.”

Still, he couldn’t move away. “If you ever need anything, no matter how minor, promise that you’ll get in touch with me.”

“I never will, Stephen.”

“Anne . . .”

“You need to go. Lady Eleanor is waiting.”

Undeterred, he urged, “Just send a message to Bristol. I’ll be here as soon as I can.”

Ignoring his plea, she countered with, “I’ve slipped a few recipes into your bag. Show them to your cook. You’re continuing to heal on the inside, so you should eat one of my soups at least once a day.”

It was as if they were talking in different languages, shooting off toward opposite universes. Her tears had over-flowed and dripped down her cheeks. He leaned down and kissed her, gently, tenderly.

“Come downstairs with me. Eleanor will wish to express her gratitude, and I want to see you as we pull away.” What a crazed request! Did he plan to gawk at her, like an infatuated lad, as Eleanor and Felicity watched?

“I can’t. Don’t ask it of me. I can’t face them.” She was the strong one, capable of severing their connection. She extricated herself from his embrace and walked away. “I love you, Stephen.”

“I love you, too, Anne.”

“Always remember.”

“I will.”

“Be well. Be happy.”

“I’ll try.”

There was no more to say. Without glancing at her, he retrieved his bag and marched out. At the landing, he paused, gazing down to the lower floor. He pictured the stairs as a gauntlet, a road he had to travel before he could end up where he was supposed to be. With each step, he was farther away from her, and nearer to the parlor, and he felt as if one door was closing, while another was opening, but he wasn’t frightened by the transformation.

The people and places on the other side were familiar, comfortable, like a worn pair of boots, and he descended slowly, needing to imprint the distance between her and his future.

He entered the salon, but neither female noticed, and he cleared his throat, making them both jump.

They rose, confused over how to acknowledge him, but Felicity smoothed over the awkward moment, rushing to him, hands extended in greeting. “My dearest Captain,” she gushed, “how dashing you look this morning!”

“Hello, Felicity.”

Clasping her offered hands, he squeezed them, hiding his disappointment that there was no spark, no tingle. He’d grown so accustomed to the fire Anne generated, that he’d forgotten how lackluster his attraction to Felicity was. Had he ever suffered any emotion other than an intense lust for her money? Could there ever be more?

He shoved off the idiotic questions. As he hadn’t exited Anne’s residence yet, it was inappropriate to be probing his feelings as to matrimony. Later on, there would be plenty of opportunity to ponder the tough issues.

“I must confess,” Felicity bubbled, “that I hadn’t expected to have you so dapper ever again. You’ve amazed us all, you magnificent fellow!”

Eleanor approached, too, but she appeared shaky and weak, wan and pale. “Stephen! You’ve returned to your old self. It’s nothing short of a miracle.”

Frowning, he kissed her cheek. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she snarled with more venom than was necessary.

“Have you been ill?”

“I’ve just had a bout with the flu. I’m still a tad under the weather.”

“She’s had it for weeks,” Felicity whispered, brows raised for emphasis. “Her stomach has been plaguing her.”

“I wonder if we should have Mrs. Smythe check you,” he mused. “She might have a concoction to calm your digestion.”

“I’m perfectly fine!” Eleanor maintained, forcing a smile. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he replied, astonished by his burgeoning excitement. “Yes, I am.”

“Will Mrs. Smythe be joining us?”

“No, she’s very busy.” He caught himself just before he stared yearningly toward the stairs.

“I had so wanted to thank her.”

“Send her a note,” Stephen advised. “With lots of cash in it. She’s a mercenary at heart.”

“I believe I will,” Eleanor retorted. “She deserves a king’s ransom for putting up with you.”

“She definitely does,” he concurred.

“Let’s be off then. We’ve a tiring journey ahead of us in the coach.”

“To London!” Felicity chimed, gesturing as if she were making a toast. “We’ll take the city by storm! Like a column of medieval knights!”

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and in spite of himself, he echoed, “To London!”

He held out an arm to each lady, and they grabbed on, and as a trio, they promenaded outside. To hasten their trip, his father had provided them with his premium vehicle, and a team of six horses. A cadre of footmen stood by, eager to assist
them, their gold buttons and black boots shining in the sun.

As the women were escorted up and arranged themselves on the plush seats, he tarried and accepted the congratulations of the men who had fretted over him. It was splendid to receive their felicitations, to observe their delight and relief.

While he imagined himself to be quite hardy, his legs were unsteady, his knee rickety, so he had the senior coachman help him in, and he relaxed, soothed by the customary smells of polish and leather.

They delayed as the servants fussed with the steps and the door. The interval might have been unpleasant, but Felicity filled it with blithe chatter, and for once, he was glad for her gibberish. She babbled on about parties that had been scheduled in his honor, soirees to which they’d been invited.

Everyone had been apprised that he was on his way, and all of High Society was prepared to shower him with a hero’s welcome. There was even to be a supper at the palace. He’d hoped for a private return, and though he was irked that so many events had been scheduled without his being consulted, he didn’t complain.

The driver cracked the whip, and the team lurched away. At the last minute, as they rounded the curve toward the main road, Stephen casually drew back the curtain and peeked out. He had a fleeting view of the side of the house, the window to Anne’s room where he’d left her standing by the bed.

Foolishly, he’d presumed that she would be watching his departure, would perhaps even wave, but there was no sign of her. He dropped the curtain, reposed against the squab, and shut his eyes.

Anne huddled in the shadows so that, if Stephen glanced up, he wouldn’t be able to see her.

She spied on the scene below, on the footmen who snapped to attention as Stephen advanced to the carriage, on his elegant sister and his beautiful fiancée.

In the period he’d been with Anne, she hadn’t realized how disparate they were. When he’d arrived, he’d been so ill, had needed her so desperately, that he’d seemed a normal man, with strengths and failings like any other, and far removed from being the son of an earl. But as he and his companions climbed into the extravagant Bristol coach, something inside her shattered.

Over the summer, she’d convinced herself that Stephen was hers, that their differences were minor, that they were connected in a manner that transcended rank and station. She hated to concede how incompatible they were, but it was painfully clear that their disparities were irreconcilable.

The driver shouted out, and the six impressive horses struggled against the yoke as the wheels began to spin. Up until that moment, she hadn’t truly understood that he would go. After all that had happened, how could he? What powerful lure was stealing him away? What could be more enticing than the love she’d had for him?

She’d wished him happy, but she hadn’t been sincere. How could he achieve contentment without her?

The carriage wound toward the lane, and she couldn’t bear to see it vanish from sight. She’d thought that, before getting in, he might have smiled in her direction, or that he might wave as he passed, but there wasn’t so much as a flutter of the curtain, and his disregard made it appear as if he’d already forsaken her.

Her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the rug, a kerchief pressed to her lips to stifle her cry of dismay. She could hear the jingle of the harness, the clopping of the hooves, the creaking of wood and leather, but the sounds became more and more faint as the conveyance faded into the distance.

A dreadful quiet descended, like the pall that crept in with a death in the family. The house was still, bereft of the energy he’d imbued, the air stagnant without his bright presence to enliven the space. She’d suspected that the impact of
his going would be immediate and striking, but she hadn’t grasped the full depth of how terrible it would be.

An emptiness settled, her solitary, barren future stretching to infinity. This was how it would be without him, this hushed, mute world that he no longer inhabited.

She was so crushed that she felt as if her heart might quit beating, that if she prayed for it, her soul might leave her body. Her bones ached, her muscles spasmed, her head throbbed, as if she’d been afflicted with a grave malady.

She rested, she dozed. Once, when she looked up, the afternoon had waned, the sun set. It grew dark, and eventually, Kate came to check on her. She deposited a tray on the dresser, and lit the lamp, then she walked over and knelt down.

“I miss him,” Anne murmured.

“I know you do.”

“It hurts.”

“I expect it will for quite a while.”

“I can’t believe he went.”

“I wasn’t surprised in the least,” Kate asserted, though kindly. “He didn’t belong here, Annie.”

“No, I don’t suppose he did.”

“He has another life. We’re not part of it.”

“He’d have been better off if he’d stayed with me.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not sorry,” she proclaimed. “Not about anything.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Will he think of me? When he’s forlorn or sad?”

“How could he not?” Kate posed. “Now, let’s put you to bed. You’ll feel more yourself in the morning.”

“I doubt it.”

Kate helped her up and guided her to the mattress. She was wobbly, worn, too fatigued to worry about disrobing or washing up. Kate poured her some tea, but she was too shaky to
grip the cup, so Kate balanced it for her. She sipped, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste.

“Laudanum?” she inquired. It was the elixir of the dying and the addicted. She detested it, and never used it herself for any reason.

“Just for tonight. It will ease your woe.”

At Kate’s firm insistence, she drank it down, then she lay on the pillows, but she couldn’t abide the notion of being alone. The room was so large, so muffled, so dreary, without Stephen in it.

“Would you sit with me while I fall asleep?”

“Of course I will.”

Kate blew out the lamp, and pulled up a chair, reached for her hand, and held it. The gesture comforted her, made it seem as if she was clutching a tether that linked her to all she cherished, all that was recognized and familiar. Ultimately, it would lead her back to how it had been before.

“It will get better, Annie.”