I enjoyed what we did, but it meant no more than that.
Bloody bastard, he thought, nerves stretched by memory and by the infernal droning of the rain. He had half a mind to shatter the decanter against the wall, just to interrupt the noise. His fingers curled to do it. Fortunately, though—or unfortunately—Edward wasn't a man who easily lost control. With exaggerated care, he pressed the cut-glass stopper into the bottle's throat.
He knew as soon as
Florence
left that he'd made a terrible mistake: the worst of his life, one that would stain his soul until he died. He'd convinced himself it was better all around that she cease to care for him. In the end, though, all he'd done was wound them both. His heart tore from his chest with each step she took. His brain screamed for him to follow, to tell her something, anything, that would bring back the adoration he'd seen the night before.
He wanted to go after her so badly his body ached in its bones.
But he couldn't do it. He couldn't abandon Freddie. Edward didn't delude himself.
Florence
was Freddie's last chance for respectability. Only marriage to her could restore his place in their world. Even if some people doubted the sincerity of his brother's vows, they'd know he meant to maintain—at least on the surface—the image society strove to project. If Freddie refused to toe the line, they'd push him forever beyond the pale.
Oh, God, he thought, his head falling back in the wing-backed chair. He could still see
Florence
's expression as she thrust out his father's ring.
What did you mean by giving me this?
she'd
demanded,
and all he could think was how right that circle of gold looked on her finger. If only he had given it to
her! If only he could have loved her as he wished.
His hands gripped the arms of the chair until the wood creaked with the strain.
He couldn't leave it like this. Whatever the cost, he couldn't let her hate him.
He pushed to his feet, groaning as if his limbs were leaden weights. Unsteadily, he wove through the empty corridors to his rooms. He would change the clothes he'd been wearing since last night. He would brush his teeth and tame his hair. Then he'd speak to
Florence
. He didn't know what he'd
say,
only that he ought to look human first.
His valet, Lewis, was waiting in his chamber. He appeared both grim and worried.
"What?" said Edward, already pulling off his
collar.
Lewis drew himself up with military straightness. "Your brother has left, my lord.
Along with Nigel West."
"Left?"
Edward's hands paused.
"Yes, your lordship. They've gone to settle the workers' dispute at the mill."
"But I was going to take care of that. I wanted Freddie and
Florence
to—" He stopped himself and dropped a cufflink onto the top of his chest of drawers. The onyx gleamed dully in the murky light.
"You say Nigel went with him?"
"Yes, sir.
Your brother left this note for you.
Said I was to place it in your hands."
Lewis looked as if he disapproved. Edward barely noticed. If Nigel was with Freddie, perhaps he needn't worry. Edward had known his steward for donkey's years, ever since the old earl had taken him under his wing. Nigel, the son of Greystowe's gamekeeper, had been the brightest of the lads at the village school. Too smart for
the army, the old earl had declared, then sent him off to
Oxford
. He and Edward hadn't been close, of course; Nigel was older and of common birth, but Edward knew him to be a paragon of rectitude, punctilious in his sense of right and wrong, and nearly as loyal to the family as Edward was himself.
With him along, at least Freddie wouldn't stumble into another scandal.
Then he broke the old-fashioned wafer seal.
"Good Lord!" he exploded as part of the contents caught his eye.
"Sir?" said Lewis.
Edward waved him off and sank onto the edge of the bed. Heart thundering in his chest, hands shaking, he read Freddie's note from the start.
"Dear Edward," it began. "I've come to realize you
aren't likely to relinquish your plan to have me marry
Florence
unless you are forced to do so. I suspect this ambition lies behind your sudden desire to hie off to
Manchester
. Consequently, Nigel and I have decided to settle the 'crisis' ourselves. We have become friends during my convalescence, perhaps—as
Florence
was
kind enough to remark— more than friends."
"
Florence
!" Edward exclaimed, letting the letter slap his thigh. What had his brother been telling
Florence
? And since when were Nigel and Freddie friends? Whenever Edward saw them, they were snapping at each like mongrels over a bone. Muttering to himself, he lifted the page and continued to read.
"In any case," Freddie wrote, "only time will tell what we can be to each other."
(Be
to each other, Edward snorted.) "Meanwhile, I beg you, be good to
Florence
. I know you have feelings for her and that she has them for you. It may be that all our happiness rests on taking chances you have thus far refused to consider."
"All our happiness!"
Edward spluttered. "He's insane!"
He sprang to his feet but did not move except to press the fist that held the note between his eyes.
Damn him.
Damn
him for a misbegotten fool.
So.
He and Nigel were taking some lovebirds' journey to
Manchester
. Did Freddie think no one would notice? Was he determined to throw his life into the gutter? No matter what Edward did? No matter what he sacrificed?
Well, fuck it, Edward thought, the whiskey stoking his rage. He was done trying to rescue his little brother. Done, done, done.
"Bloody hell," he swore, and smashed his fist into the wall.
The plaster split, along with the skin over three of his knuckles.
"Sir!"
Lewis protested, still hovering nearby.
Edward allowed him to wrap a strip of cotton around the wound.
"Where's
Florence
?" he said once the cut had been dressed. Seeing her was suddenly all he could think of. Something must be salvaged from this day.
"Miss Fairleigh?" said Lewis, clearly startled by his tone. "I don't know. In her rooms, I imagine."
But
Florence
wasn't in her rooms. She was gone, along with half her clothes. Her little maid, Lizzie,
had also cleared out her belongings. Edward stood, as if rooted, among the scattered signs of their departure: boots left lying on the carpet, a sprinkling of silver hairpins,
a
small pink glove. His blood
beat through his body as if it were a death knell.
She was gone.
Too hastily to say good-bye.
While he'd been drinking himself stupid, she'd been
slipping out the door.
He'd driven her away. He'd driven them both away.
Edward threw back his head and roared.
* * *
By the following
morning, the rain had settled to a surly drizzle. Though Edward had discovered where
Florence
was, any triumph he felt at the success of his detective work was obliterated by the nature of
her refuge.
The odds were even as to whether he'd have preferred her to run to the devil.
But the obstacle had to be faced.
Florence
could not be allowed to remain in such uncaring hands. The witch must be bearded in her den—or whatever the metaphor was for bitter old spinster crones.
He dressed carefully in riding clothes and freshly polished boots. His linen was immaculate, his demeanor as cool as he could make it. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Samson seemed reluctant to stop at Catherine Exeter's house. While the stallion shook his head up and down, Edward threaded his reins through the hitching post ring.
"Wise horse," he muttered, patting his glossy neck.
Lucky horse, in fact, to be able to remain out here.
With a dour smile, Edward strode decisively up the pebbled path. Catherine Exeter herself answered the door. She didn't pretend not to know him, though they hadn't exchanged two words since the incident with Freddie and the apples. Edward's animosity towards the woman seethed in his veins. Only
Florence
could have brought him within her sphere.
His nemesis stood firmly between the entry way and him. "Little early for a call," she said.
"You know why I'm here."
"Actually"—Catherine smiled like an evil seraph—"if you were Freddie, I would know why you were here. Oh, but I must have forgotten. My niece told me you'd developed a tendre for your brother's fiancee. Tut, tut.
Quite incautious of you, Lord Greystowe."
Edward was grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He relaxed it enough to speak. "I want to see her."
"I'm sure you do. She, however, doesn't want to see you. That's what happens when you treat a woman like a dog. She develops an aversion to being kicked."
"I did not treat—" he began, but a movement on the narrow stairs drove the thread of argument from his mind.
Florence
was coming down in one of her old gowns, this one a medley of pink and yellow flowers. The cotton was faded, the sleeves too wide for fashion, but to him the dress was as joyous a sight as the finest silk. He ran his eyes to her hem and back. How lovely she was, how womanly in every way.
"It's all right, Catherine," she said, her voice calm and soft. "I'll speak to him."
"But dearest—"
Florence
squeezed Catherine's small bony shoulder.
"Best to get it over with."
After a slight hesitation, Catherine agreed.
"As you wish.
I'll be in the parlor should you need me."
Florence
took her place at the door. Apparently, neither woman intended to let him in. But that was fine with Edward. He had no desire to enter Catherine Exeter's home— as long as
Florence
returned to his.
For a few slow breaths, he simply looked at her, taking in the soft flushed curve of her cheeks, the sheen of her upswept hair, the uncustomary pallor of her brow. Her lashes dipped, shadowing her grass-green eyes with glistening sable fans. Her mouth was a curve of cherry blossom pink, infinitely sweet. When she bit her lower lip, a shiver of pleasure touched his nape. If it weren't for Catherine, he'd have kissed her then and there.
"You don't know who you've run to," he said.
She lifted her head. "I do. And I've no intention of listening to you malign her. Tell me what you want and be done with it."
With an effort, Edward uncurled his fists. "I want you to return to Greystowe."
"Why?" She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "So I can marry your brother?"
He thought he knew what she wished him to say, but he could not form the words. He wanted to, but then he thought of Freddie: of Freddie's future as an outcast. Even now he could not claim her as his own.
"I don't want you to hate me," he said, the statement sounding inadequate even to him.
"I don't hate you," she said. "I pity you."
But what he heard in her voice wasn't pity, just as what he saw in Catherine Exeter's eyes wasn't the
milk of human kindness.
"I care for you," he said. "I know that's hard for you to believe, but—"