He worried for her. He would have done anything to help and yet he could do nothing. Nothing but
wait
, that is, for another chance to speak, to touch, to somehow convince her of his care.
He began to wonder if it was he, by his pursuit, who had put those shadows beneath her eyes. The thought hurt but did not sway him. If it were true, it was only because Catherine Bloody Exeter and her viper of a niece were dripping poison in
Florence
's ear. He could cleanse her of it, if only she'd give him
a chance.
Assuming he didn't lose his mind before he got one.
For the first time in years he attended Sunday service at the village church. He sat in the last row, watching the dip of
Florence
's hat over the prayer book, feeling his throat tighten as the child behind her tried to climb the wooden pew. The parents scolded and Catherine
Exeter
shooed, but
Florence
reached back to brush the little nose with her thumb. Her sheepish smile for the parents nearly broke his heart.
Edward wished it were as easy to make her smile at him.
He positioned himself carefully as the congregation filed out. People whispered when they saw him. Greystowe was not so large they didn't know him by sight. A few of the men nodded and a few of the women smiled, but mostly they were curious. If the earl felt a need to worship, he had a chapel on his land. They couldn't imagine what he was doing here.
With them.
In the back of their simple church.
Edward didn't care what they thought.
Florence
was drawing closer, her head averted in a manner that suggested she had seen him. Her arm tightened on Catherine Exeter's and then she was there, in front of him. Gently, he caught her elbow. She yanked away as if he'd burned her.
"
Florence
," he said, fighting through hurt for calm, "you must speak to me."
"She must do nothing of the kind," said Catherine Exeter.
Edward ignored her. The crowd had bottled up in front of them at the door. He had a few precious seconds before Catherine hastened her away.
"
Florence
, please."
He stroked one finger around her down-turned cheek, the soft still heat of her
causing his eyes to sting. "You're breaking my heart,
Florence
."
"You have no heart to break," snapped Catherine Exeter, but
Florence
lifted her head. Tears streaked
her skin in glistening crisscrossed trails. Her face had hollows he'd never seen before.
"Leave me alone," she said. "I can't bear this anymore."
He fell back, shocked by her appearance, by the dull misery in her voice.
Had he done that to her?
Had he? Before he could gather his wits, Catherine pulled her briskly through the door and down the steps. Edward could only stare and catch his breath.
"There, there," said a plump older woman, giving his arm a pat. "She'll come around, your lordship.
Girls that age don't know what's good for 'em."
It was proof of his distress that he took comfort in a stranger's touch.
* * *
He retreated to
Greystowe, to pace his study and write a thousand letters in his head. Finally he sent
one, then half a dozen in quick succession. They all came back in pieces and he honestly didn't know whether
Florence
had torn them up herself. He imagined Imogene reading them, and laughing, and couldn't even bring himself to care. No one's opinion mattered except for
Florence
's.
He missed Freddie,
then
was glad his brother could not see him in this state. Hypatia he avoided like
the plague. He grew disheveled. He did not drink, but looked as though he had. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, his jaw shadowed with the beard he could not be troubled to let Lewis shave. He could not read; he could not sit; he could not follow a train of thought for more than a minute. At night, he walked to town and stood in the lane beneath her darkened window, yearning for her with all his blood and bone.
A different man would have climbed the trellis and carried her away. Edward wished he were that man; wished he didn't fear
Florence
would scream for help. And what if she were right to do so? What if he were the danger Catherine claimed? He didn't know who he was anymore. All the rules
by which he'd
lived were gone.
He only knew he loved her to the point of madness.
One sultry gray morning, when the clouds hung as heavy as his spirit, Lewis and his aunt came together to his study. Lewis thumped a mug of cider on his desk, Hypatia a plater of roast and bread. Edward doubted she'd carried anyone a meal before in her life.
'Enough of this self-pitying nonsense," she said. "I'm not leaving until you eat."
"And I'm not leaving until you shave."
Edward looked at them, his aunt and his valet. Worry and anger mixed in their expressions; a bit of fear as to how he'd
react, but even more concern. They knew, he thought, his own eyes burning. Everyone knew he loved her.
"You can't go on this way," said the duchess. "You've done that girl wrong. We all have. But you won't begin to undo it unless you pull yourself together."
Edward stared at his hands, spread wide across his desk, and tried to breathe.
"She's just skittish," Lewis added. "Women get that way. You wouldn't let a horse hide in the brambles
if it was scared. You'd catch it and you'd gentle it and then you'd
lead it home."
"I don't know how," he said, the words a gasp. "She won't—she won't let me."
"Eat," said his aunt, nudging the plate within reach. "Nobody thinks well on an empty stomach."
He stared at the meat, red and glistening with juice, just the way he liked it. Cook had outdone herself. His mouth watered. He cut a piece and took a bite. Amazingly, it tasted good. After the second bite, his head began to clear. "You don't have to stay," he said. "I'll be all right."
His aunt narrowed her eyes. "I want that plate cleaned, Edward. I am not going to tolerate two idiots in one family."
To his surprise, he smiled. "This was very kind," he said. "Thank you."
"Hmpf," said the duchess. "You can thank me when that
girl is back where she belongs."
"There's still the matter of a shave," said Lewis, and Edward smiled at him, too.
He wasn't any wiser than he'd been before, but at least he didn't feel alone.
* * *
Fed and shaved
and bathed, Edward put.his mind to work. He had to find the key to coaxing
Florence
back. He had to remember everything he knew of her. Then he'd be able to formulate a plan. Hoping for inspiration, he returned to her rooms. He touched her remaining dresses, recalling how she'd looked and what she'd done in every one. He took her novels and read them. He dipped his handkerchief in her perfume. He visited her favorite corners of the garden and drank her favorite tea. He steeped himself in memories, letting himself miss her until it hurt. He took a perverse but definite pleasure in the pain.
He'd made up his mind. Nothing and no one could stop him.
Not even her.
Finally, he returned to the pavilion. There he relived their one forbidden night: her kisses and her sighs, her trust her bravery. Again, he tied her between the columns.
Again, he took his pleasure against her velvet curves. His lips remembered, and his sex. He took the lingering scent of
her arousal through his skin. He opened himself to feeling as he never had before.
Even the last he faced the momcnt of his shame when he slipped from her sleeping hold and
crept
out like a thief. Loving her had not been his error. His error had been letting her go.
Drained but calm, he padded to the bath. As he'd done before, he opened the carved Indian cabinet
and removed his father's letters from the chest. One by one he read them and bit by bit fie found a compassion for Catherine Exeter he'd never thought to know. She'd loved the former earl, foolishly, recklessly, with the wholehearted innocence of youth. Then, halfway through the second stack, he discovered something unexpected. He groaned when he realized what it was.
Poor bastard, he thought, both awed and aghast.
Poor stupid, selfish bastard.
Stephen Burbrooke had loved Catherine Exeter. He hadn't shoved her in a box and forgotten her.
He'd written her, every year, on the anniversary of their parting. He'd poured out his heart, expressing
a depth of emotion Edward had never glimpsed. He said he was lost without her; said he felt like half
a man. She was his soul. She was all of him that had been true and good.
But he never sent the letters. Not one. He'd made his choice. He married Edward's mother, the daughter of the duke. He raised two sons and polished the family name. He suffered in rancorous silence, keeping everyone at arm's length, hoarding his love for a woman who thought he'd ripped it from his chest. How many lives had he damaged when he put his honor above his heart?
His wife's, certainly.
His sons, without a doubt.
Hypatia's, he suspected.
Catherine's.
His own.
Who knew how long the list had grown?
And for what?
A nod from a duke?
A yearly invitation to court?
Edward shuddered, the cold slithering down his spine.
His father's sins could so easily have been his.
CHAPTER 15
Believing he'd found
the key didn't make Edward eager to turn it. Catherine and her niece had done his family too much harm for that. He toyed with his breakfast while possible outcomes ran through his
mind. Finally, too nervous to eat, he readied himself to go. He felt as if his future rested on this day;
one wrong step and his life would crumble.
The sky stretched clear and blue over the familiar paths to town. Edward swung his leg over low stone walls and vaulted stiles, the exertion a necessity to nerves stretched taut by dread. Fields ripened in the distance, watered by the rains, their growth so vigorous they must have been eager to fall to the harvester's blade. Willing the warmth to calm his nerves, he turned his face to the sun. His father's
letters lay in the pocket of his summer coat, a crumpled garment he wore when he lent a hand at calving or in the stables. The cloth was the color of bleached tobacco, so old he couldn't remember when he'd bought it. His shirt was plain and collarless, his trousers nearly out at the knees.
He intended to present his suit as humbly as he could, as man and not as earl.
When he reached the cottage, Catherine was in the garden weeding. Unlike
Florence
, the marigolds seemed to be thriving in her care.
* * *
She
looked up from under the brim of a battered straw hat, her mouth pursed with disapproval, her skin showing its years in the brilliant light. He fought a surge of old dislike. Those lines were not all Catherine's making. She'd had cause for bitterness—at least at first. When she chose to nurture her resentment, the responsibility for its effects became hers.
"Well?" she said, her gaze traveling scornfully over his clothes. "You're certainly dressed to shovel shit. Not that
Florence
needs to hear any more of that."
With an effort, he held his temper. "It's you I came to speak to.
About my father."
"Your father."
She chocked her trowel in the dirt and stood with the stiffness of age. Both her gloves
and her apron were stained with soil. "There's nothing you could tell me about Stephen Burbrooke that
I would care to hear."