He squinted down the barrel of the gun and blinked to clear his vision. The horse gave one last sigh. Edward gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger.
The recoil knocked him back a step, but the kill was clean: just a pool of blood that soaked quickly into the ground. When he lowered the gun, his arms were shaking as if he had the ague. He didn't resist
when
Florence
tugged him away.
* * *
Edward did not
make it from the stable to the house. Even though he must have been anxious to
check on his brother, his legs refused to carry him.
Florence
watched him go paler and paler until finally, in front of a big oak with a rustic bench
beneath,
he tightened his hold on her arm and forced her to a stop.
"I have to sit," he said, his voice a ghost. "I can't let Freddie see me like this."
He dropped to the bench and propped his head on shaking hands.
Florence
sat beside him, her knees turned towards him in worry. He was sweating, and not from exertion. She pulled off her gloves and reached between his arms to unfasten his collar. As she did, he looked at her, his expression naked, his eyes pleading for something deeper than understanding.
"It's all right," she said, laying her hand behind his shoulder. "Breathe slowly. I'm sure you'll feel better soon."
She kept to herself the certainty that his brother would not think ill of his reaction. This was not about Freddie's opinion of Edward, but about Edward's opinion of himself. Gradually, as he breathed in a measure of control, the color returned to his face.
"Father wouldn't have turned a hair at this," he said, his head still lowered. "He'd have put down that horse and called for lunch."
Though
Florence
knew he was jesting, she did not laugh. "Forgive me for saying so, Edward, but—your father's strength of character aside—I think you're entitled to turn more than a hair.
And not over the horse."
"No," he agreed with a grimacing shake of his head. "Not over the horse." He pushed himself upright
and let the tree's breeze-blown leaves dapple his face with sun.
Florence
had never seen him so weary. She longed to hold him, to cradle his head against her breast. Her hands curled with the intensity of the urge and she blushed for fear he might look at her and read the forbidden desire. She sat in agonized silence, not knowing what to say but unable to leave. At last, he sighed and twisted his father's signet around his smallest finger. The cabochon ruby flashed in the dancing light.
"I always got on better with the earl than Freddie did," he said. "Father... respected me."
She lifted her gaze to his face, an intimacy that was possible only because he was staring out across the grounds. "Is that a bad thing?"
His lips twisted in a smile. "My father gave me my first horse when I was nine, to ride when I wished without the company of a groom. Freddie never earned that privilege, though he was twelve when Father died. Whatever he did, he came up short. According to Father, he was always too soft or too flighty or too much a mama's boy. My mother—" Edward pinched the bridge of his nose. "My mother was delicate, easily upset, but very sweet-natured. She needed the kind of love Freddie gave her.
Unqualified.
Unquestioning.
But Father couldn't see that. If Freddie wanted to ride alone, he had to sneak a horse out of the stables. He had to break my father's rales and risk getting whipped."
"Are you saying that if your father had let him have his own horse, this accident wouldn't have happened?"
"No. Freddie was born to ride. More than I was, to tell the truth." His hand moved towards her face. With the pad of his thumb, he swept a windblown lock from the corner of her mouth. "I suppose I'm trying to confess I liked it."
His touch befuddled her. Enchanted and confused, she sat frozen while he traced the curve of her lower lip. His expression was musing, almost absentminded. Did he know what he was doing? Could he possibly? Only when his hand fell could she speak.
"You liked what?"
"Being first," he said. "Being Father's favorite."
"Surely that's natural. You were just a boy."
"I don't know. Sometimes I think I shouldn't have—well, I admired him, you know. I knew he was a bastard but I wanted his approval."
"He was your father."
"Freddie was my brother, and a far truer soul." Edward turned his body towards her, his forearm on his knee. "You were right to scold me today. Sometimes I'm too much like him. He hurt Freddie.
Made him feel the lesser son.
But he wasn't less. He simply couldn't be molded into the shape my father thought appropriate for a Greystowe male. In that, Freddie was stronger than I was."
"If Freddie was stronger than you, why did you have to protect him?"
E
dward brushed her knee, restlessly smoothing the folds
of her riding habit. Her body tensed deep
inside and she willed her reaction not to show. Fortunately, he watched his hand rather than her, his extravagant lashes shielding his eyes. His mouth held a soft, ironic curve. "I liked protecting Freddie.
I liked that better than if my father had treated us as equals."
This,
Florence
saw, was the true confession. This was
what had tightened his jaw and set that subtle tremor in his hands. But what a thing to feel guilty for, and for so many years! Aching for him, she
gave in to the urge to stroke his rich dark hair. Even as she tried to soothe him, she reveled in the feel
of that silk sliding through her fingers. She was shamefully glad she'd removed her gloves.
"A thought has consequences," she said carefully, gently. "My father taught me that. But a thought is
not a deed. Your enjoyment of protecting Freddie did not cause your father to be cruel. Nor do I think you should worry overmuch about the possible disloyalty of your emotions. Children need to be loved
by their parents. Freddie was your mother's favorite, wasn't he? You may as well blame her for what happened—though I know you will not."
Edward was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his response was low and heartfelt. "You are a wise young woman.
And a kind one."
"You are easy to be kind to." Moved by his tone, she dared to pet his cheek. He turned his head,
pressing his cheekbone to her fingers, brushing his mouth across her palm.
Then, as if he'd done something he devoutly wished he hadn't, he jerked away and stood. Briskly, he tugged the bottom of his waistcoat. "I must consult with Jenkyns," he said. "Please stay until you are ready to go in."
He did not wait for her to follow. Indeed, his words made following impossible. Instead, she watched
him stride stiffly towards the house, once again himself, while
she
—
She no longer knew who she was.
* * *
Florence
paced the hall outside Freddie's room. She was
waiting for Edward's steward to finish settling him. The stable master had given Freddie a dose of morphine, but he wasn't yet asleep. Though
Florence
knew she ought to wait till morning to see him, she felt too restless, so restless she was
wringing her
hands like a heroine in a play.
She couldn't push Edward's expression from her mind. When he'd looked at her as they sat on that little bench, she'd thought—she'd wished—
She wrung her hands and paced the other way. For once, his heart had been in his gaze. When she met
it, she seemed to know his every thought: his regret for the horse, his fear for Freddie. Most of all, she'd sensed his hope that no one would guess how weak he was. But
Florence
didn't think him weak. Instead, she thought him the strongest man she'd ever known.
Was that the real Edward: the man whose heart could break for a wounded horse? Who could torture himself over the tangled motivations of his childhood? Who could worry that his love had not been perfect? And if this was the real Edward, what did that mean for her? Attraction was one thing. Even infatuation could be dismissed. But the pull he exerted when he bared his soul would not be easy to evade. She wasn't even sure she wanted to.
The dilemma seemed destined to remain unsolved. Nigel West stepped out of Freddie's room and carefully shut the door. As befitted his position—the steward ran Greystowe when Edward could not—
he was a dignified man of middle years, slender, his temples lightly shot with white. He would have appeared as serious as his master but for his extraordinary gray eyes. They were kind and quiet and crinkled pleasantly at the corners when he smiled. He smiled now at
Florence
.
"I'm afraid he's dropped off, Miss Fairleigh.
Didn't even wait for me to finish plumping the pillows.
You can go in, of course, but I doubt he'll wake."
"Oh," she said, feeling as if an escape route had been blocked. "I wouldn't want to disturb him." She started to go,
then
turned back. "Will you be looking after him, Mr.West? I know the housekeeper or
one of the maids could do it, but he'd probably be more comfortable with a man."
Nigel's brow puckered as if her words held some significance she didn't understand. She wondered if she'd overstepped her place. She had no authority here, nor would she have much more as Freddie's
wife. Greystowe was Edward's to arrange. Just as she was about to withdraw the request, Nigel
shook himself.
"I imagine I shall be looking after him. With Edward home, I'm rather at loose ends."
Relieved she hadn't put her foot wrong,
Florence
smiled. "You've been at Greystowe a long time,
haven't you?"
"Since his lordship's father paid for my schooling." Nigel grinned at her shocked expression. "You've heard the stories then. All true. The old earl was a devil. But he did believe in fostering potential.
I owe this family more than I can say."
Eyes abruptly pricking,
Florence
gazed past him down the hall. She owed this family a good deal herself, too much to think of betraying their trust. They'd welcomed her, a simple country girl, as Freddie's bride. And Freddie
..
. Freddie was the dearest man she'd ever known. "They're complicated, aren't they?" she said.
"Even Freddie."
"Yes," Nigel agreed, the gentleness of his tone forcing her to blink back tears.
"But steadfast every one.
You couldn't want for truer friends."
Friends,
she thought. If only her wishes were that simple.
* * *
Shortly after
, Edward crossed the hall to his
brother's room. He had no intention of waking Freddie. He simply wanted to stand in the dark and listen to him breathe. The leg with the splint made
a funny shape under the sheets, as if a mummy were sharing his bed. Edward was still too shaken to be amused. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost his brother; didn't know who he'd be. He'd built his life around protecting him. Without Freddie alive and well and happy, none of his accomplishments meant a damn.
He turned to the window, hands clenched, muscles tight.
Florence
, he thought. Oh,
Florence
. Why do I have to care about you, too? The night could not answer. With dreamlike slowness, the draperies belled
in the breeze that cooled the room. Their sheer white hems whispered across the carpet. Edward looked back at the bed. The night was mild, but Freddie could not afford a chill. One good leg had been enough to kick off half the covers. Smiling wryly, Edward pulled them up his chest.
Disturbed by the movement, Freddie snuffled in his sleep and rolled partway onto his side. His arm flopped out, hitting Edward's leg. His eyes opened. "Nigel?"
Edward hunkered beside the bed. "It's Edward. I just came to check on you."