Grinning, Nerissa linked her arm through Amy's and pulled her into the shop.
~~~~
The trip to London was hell for Charles. Hell because they'd had to stay at coaching inns on the way out and back and he'd had to sleep alone — which was torment in itself after the wild night he'd spent with Amy. Hell because she was in the carriage and he was on Contender and they were both separated.
I want her. I want her so
damned
badly.
Hell because they were now heading back to Blackheath Castle, and the inevitable and all-too-necessary confrontation with Juliet that awaited him there.
He dreaded that confrontation with all his heart, yet he knew it needed to be put behind them both. He had seen the anguish in Juliet's eyes when he'd charged into the dining room the other night, and it upset him greatly to think she might still hold a candle for him. Would she expect him to still have feelings for her? Would she
want
him to still have feelings for her? And would it hurt her to learn that he — the man who had once offered her marriage — had no feelings for her at all beyond affection and a sincere wish that she find happiness with Gareth?
He thought of what Gareth had both said and left unsaid — that when he and Juliet had known each other in Boston, her love had been that of an impressionable young girl enamored of a man in a dashing uniform. She had grown up since then; her heart was with Gareth now. But was it, truly?
He had to know for himself before he could proceed with the rest of his life.
Before he could even think about having a life with Amy.
It was drizzling and growing dark by the time they finally rode into Ravenscombe, nestled at the foot of the downs. The village was silent, its inhabitants eating their suppers and preparing for bed, the silence, combined with the soft whisper of the rain, contriving to weigh down Charles's already flagging spirits. But as the carriage, with Contender prancing along beside it, passed the statue of Henry VIII on his rearing horse, doors and windows on both sides of the street began to open, and the villagers came running out of their cottages, some waving, some cheering, all rushing forward.
"The Beloved One — he's back!"
"Lord Charles! Bless you, Lord Charles, you've been returned to us!"
"Hip hip, huzzah! Hip hip, huzzah! Hip hip, huzzah!"
The cheers were deafening. They swarmed the carriage, and Contender. Charles, taken aback and more than a little embarrassed, saw Amy's startled face at the window and then, before he knew what they were about, the villagers were pulling him down from the horse and hoisting him above their shoulders, laughing, singing, and cheering him to the black and misty sky.
"Please — I do not deserve such accolades!" he protested, thinking of his inglorious performance in battle, but his words were drowned out by cheering.
Moments later, they were carrying him on their shoulders toward the Speckled Hen, where the grinning proprietor, Fred Crawley, had thrown wide his door and was wildly beckoning everyone inside.
"Free ale all around, to celebrate Lord Charles's return!"
And Nerissa, watching from the carriage with a speechless but delighted Amy, hid her own little grin and wondered if Lucien was behind this as well.
One thing she did know: Charles wouldn't be home for a while. Probably a long while.
She rapped once on the roof to signal the driver to continue on to the castle.
Chapter 26
As it was, Charles didn't get home until nearly one in the morning. He had always been well-liked by the people of Ravenscombe, easily mixing with the villagers despite their social differences, and that, at least, had not changed in the slightest.
They'd wanted to know what had happened to him in America. They'd wanted to know why he was believed dead. And they'd wanted to know who the pretty young woman he'd brought back from America was — for after all, many of Lucien's servants lived here in the village, and gossip travelled fast.
Everyone knew she was at the castle.
Who
was
she?
"A friend," Charles said evasively, gazing down into his ale so they wouldn't note his sudden flush and start teasing the truth out of him. At the very thought of Amy — and what the two of them had done out in the stable the other night — he felt a stab of heat that manifested itself squarely beneath the drop-front of his breeches. "I brought her to England so she might have a better life."
"A better loife, eh? 'Ere's 'opin' ye'll be the one to be givin' it to 'er!"
"Aye, another Yankee bride for another de Montforte brother!"
"Hear, hear!"
"Ah, leave 'is lordship alone, 'e wants 'is privacy, can't ye see?"
There was laughter all around and Charles felt his cheeks going uncomfortably warm. He grinned and accepted another ale.
"So tell us wot 'appened to ye, m'lord!"
Charles did not find it easy to talk about himself, but after that second drink, he was able to tell them what the situation had been like in Boston. A third, and he was able to explain what had happened to make everyone think him dead. A fourth, and he was actually able to poke a bit of fun at himself as he related his embarrassingly inept performance at Concord, this alien, self-deprecating humor surprising no one as much as it did himself. And all the while, they were urging him on, pressing more drinks into his hand and making him feel as if maybe, just maybe, he hadn't erred so badly, after all.
"So ye saved the little lad's loife, did ye?"
"Sacrificed yer eyes, an' wot could've been yer loife, just so's the boy could live!"
"That's our Beloved One!"
More cheering, so loud that they could probably hear it all the way up at the Castle. And then the villagers had told him all the news that had occurred in his absence, who had been born and who had died and who had got married, before finally dragging him off to the church, where they'd all celebrated the ripping down from the wall the plaque that had proclaimed his date of death. And later, as he had walked — or rather stumbled — back to the Speckled Hen and Contender, his heart had felt curiously light, his mind, which had been troubled for so long, still and at peace.
To them, you're still the Beloved One. To Amy you're the Beloved One. Everyone is still asking for your advice, just like they always did. Nothing has changed. Maybe you
are
still the same as you used to be . . .
Maybe.
So why don't I feel that I can live up to that, and be the man I used to be?
He swung up on Contender, blinked away the raindrops that pattered down from the branches, and made his way home.
~~~~
Morning dawned cold and gloomy, with a brooding gray sky that engulfed the downs in mist and seemed to sit heavily atop Blackheath's ancient towers.
It was a morning to stay inside. A morning to curl up beside a fire with a book, or to drink chocolate in bed, or to snuggle up beneath the covers with a lover.
Charles awoke in his old bedroom, feeling cold and, not surprisingly after last night's indulgence, hungover. His rod was a pillar of stone. Also not surprising. He lay there kneading his brow and remembering all those weeks when his head had ached, and that time on the beach at Plum Island when Amy had massaged the pain into something bearable.
Ah, God help him. Wouldn't it be nice if she was here right now, rubbing his brow?
Or anything else, for that matter . . .
He sat up in bed, knuckling his eyes. He could hear the rain falling softly just outside, and the distant tinkle of a pianoforte from somewhere downstairs. His sister was probably in the Gold Parlour, entertaining everyone with her talent, of which she had much. His grin faded. He felt suddenly excluded.
I can't live like this.
Best to go down and join them, then, and try to pretend that his uncharacteristic outburst of the other night hadn't occurred. That nothing had ever happened between himself and Juliet, who would surely be down there with the others. That he was the same man he'd always been, as he'd been able to believe if only for a little while when the villagers had made so much of him last night. Rising, he summoned his valet, and a half-hour later, was washed, shaved, and dressed.
But as he moved down the west corridor and started to turn the corner to descend the staircase, he heard voices on the landing, hushed, excited.
"Oooh! I just felt him kick again!"
"Now Juliet, how can you know it's a 'he'?"
"I know because I'm not nearly as sick as I was with Charlotte. Boys are easier to carry than girls, you know. Or so they say. Oh!" An excited little squeal. "Put your hand right there, Gareth."
"Here?"
"Yes, right there — do you feel it?"
A tense, expectant silence. And then, "Oh,
Juliet
. . ."
Charles froze, feeling as though a bucket of ice had just been thrown over his head. Afraid of being caught eavesdropping, he began backing up. He did not want to intrude upon this tender scene. He did not want to do anything to wreck his brother's and Juliet's happiness. He turned around —
And nearly collided with Lucien, who had come silently up behind him as he'd stood listening to a conversation he should never have heard.
"Why, hello, Charles. Fancy finding
you
standing here."
On the stairs, the voices immediately hushed. Lucien's eyes gleamed, and in that instant Charles knew his brother had wanted Juliet and Gareth to know that he, Charles, had overheard their private conversation. He felt a swift flood of anger.
"I was contemplating going down to breakfast," he bit out.
"Strange place to contemplate such a matter, don't you think?"
"If you will excuse me."
"Actually, I will not. There is something I wish to discuss with you, if I could have a few moments of your time."
"What is it?"
"Andrew. I am . . . worried about him, and this confounded Contraption of his. You do know that he wishes to test it during the ball and in the presence of the king, don't you?"
"I know, yes, but you weren't supposed to."
Lucien smiled thinly. "My dear Charles. I can assure you, there is nothing around here that I do
not
know. But never mind. You appear to be in a rather foul mood this morning. Pity! Perhaps I shall ask your brother's assistance instead." Casually straightening a white ruffle at his wrist, he raised his voice slightly. "Gareth?"
As Charles stood fuming, Gareth, looking a bit pink in the cheeks but otherwise as euphoric as any father would be who'd just felt his child moving in his wife's womb for the first time, emerged from around the corner, a slightly sheepish Juliet in tow.
She looked at Charles, and then averted her gaze, pretending to be absorbed in a painting that hung on the wall.
Charles glared at Lucien, who pointedly ignored him.
"Gareth, I am concerned for Andrew's safety. The idea of our brother catapulting off the roof in what appears to be an untethered kite is causing me no small degree of worry. Would you mind accompanying me into his laboratory? As he's gone down to the village, I should like to take the opportunity to examine this Contraption for myself, and, since you are no stranger to daredevil stunts, get your opinion on it as well."
Gareth glanced uncertainly at Juliet, still pretending to be absorbed in the painting, and then at Charles, who was visibly furious.
"Uh, I'm sure, Luce, that Andrew knows what he's doing — "
"Andrew may be gifted when it comes to intelligence, but he is no . . . perfectionist, as some of us are. He doesn't always get things right, and in this case, a mistake might be fatal." Again, Lucien gave a benign little smile that was not benign at all. "Will you accompany me, Gareth?"
Charles knew he had been baited.
Perfectionist.
"
I'll
go with you," he said through his teeth.
"No, no, Charles," murmured Lucien, with a casual wave of his hand. "You go downstairs and have some of this breakfast you've been uh,
contemplating
. I'm sure that Gareth and I will manage just fine." Then, bowing to Juliet, he drew Gareth with him back down the hall.
And Charles, incensed, was left with Juliet.
Alone.
She was still examining the painting, but he knew she wasn't really seeing it. It would be so easy to just excuse himself. To put this off for another day.
Unbidden, the advice he had once given to Sylvanus Leighton came back to him.
It is far better to confront a problem straightaway than to hide from it, to take the offensive before it can sneak up and overwhelm you from behind.
He took a deep breath.
"Juliet —"
"Lucien, he — he is up to his usual tricks, I fear," she said shakily, still without looking at him. "It is cruel of him to taunt you so."
She pulled back from the painting, wiping damp hands down her skirts, her eyes nervous. He cleared his throat. She gave a quick, fleeting smile, her almost desperate gaze following Gareth, who appeared to have no concern at all about leaving her with the man she had once loved. He rubbed at a nonexistent itch at the corner of his eye.
"Yes. He never used to, you know."
"He's worried about Andrew, I guess. It would be terrible, if Andrew demonstrates his Contraption at the ball and embarrasses or injures — let alone kills — himself in front of the king."
"He won't kill himself," said Charles.
"You have faith in him, then?"
"More than Lucien does."
"I . . . I think that Lucien probably has faith in him too, but is just trying to bully him into being successful. Andrew seems to need constant prodding to follow through with his ideas — or so Gareth and Lucien tell me." She plucked at the edge of her sleeve. "When I f-first came here, Lucien told Andrew that he'd never even build his Contraption, let alone get it to fly . . ."