Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
“ I ’m sorry, Your Grace.” Randolph leapt up from where he had been sitting on a bale of hay polishing a saddle over his knee. “I thought you’d be out a good bit longer yet. Here, let me take him.”
He reached for Belshazzar’s reins, but Simon shook his head.
“No need, Rand. I’ll take care of him.”
“Did you have a good afternoon with your lady, Sir?” Rand asked. Normally, Simon would have welcomed the question. The stable master was only bold enough to ask it because he and Simon chatted often about such things. But now, it twisted like a knife in his stomach.
“Unfortunately, our visit didn’t happen today,” he said shortly, leading Belshazzar to the crossties and grabbing a brush. He did not add that he had been turned away at the door—like an unwanted delivery. The stone-faced coachman-butler had given him no other explanation than that Lilian did not wish to see him.
After everything that had happened…perhaps he should have expected it. But he hadn’t. And it had felt like a slap in the face.
Scowling, Simon pulled his attention back to the present as Belshazzar shifted away from him, snorting a low protest. He realized he had been brushing the horse’s shining coat much too harshly, pushing all of his disappointment and frustration into the brush.
He had been on top of the world riding out to visit Lilian. He’d been so sure she would be as pleased as he was about the messages he’d received that morning from the Lord Fiording and Lord Bennington about their interest in hearing more about his stud farm. Finally! Even after the fiasco of the night before. The memory of their respectful tones wasn’t enough to push the anxiety from his mind that he’d ruined something beautiful.
“Sir?”
“What?!” Simon snapped, turning to glare at Randolph. The man took a step back, lifting a hand in a peacemaking gesture.
“Lady Lilian is here,” he said. “The butler just sent down word. He told her you were in the stables, and she’s coming over.”
“What?” This time, the word was full of trepidation and puzzlement. Dropping his brush, Simon ducked around Belshazzar’s thick neck and took a step toward the door. The next moment, Lilian appeared there, a dark figure highlighted by the sunlight behind her.
“Lady Lilian,” Simon said, his mouth dry.
“You called me just Lilian yesterday,” she said in a low, taut voice. “Remember? When you were comforting me after what Priscilla said?”
“Yes, I remember. I apologize.” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to feel. There was something about Lilian’s voice. “I understand that was very hard for you,” he ventured. “And I can see how after thinking about it all night?—”
“I didn’t.”
The words were simple, and they snapped through the dusty stable air with a vigor that stopped Simon mid-word. Lilian took another step into the stable, and her face came into focus. It was hard as stone. Her hazel eyes were as dark as the shadows around them.
“I was too busy thinking that…” Her voice caught with a quiet choking sound. A sob? Was she crying? Simon stepped toward her, squinting against the blinding light behind her. “…that you might be learning to care for me,” she finished in a whisper. “Like I was learning to care for you.”
The words hit Simon like a thunderstorm, sweeping through him and leaving him in a turmoil. “Lilian,” he said, taking another step forward.
“No,” she interrupted. She stepped backwards, stumbling slightly. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t even want an apology. I shouldn’t have even come, but…I wanted to tell you how I felt face to face. I would have appreciated it if you had had the decency to do the same.” Her voice hardened as she finished. Simon felt his expression twisting with puzzlement.
“What do you mean?”
Lilian shook her head, her frustration evident. “You know what I mean,” she snapped. She suddenly spun around, hurrying back out into the sunlight. Without even meaning to, Simon followed her. After taking a few steps, Lilian suddenly turned back around. Her tear-streaked face and reddened eyes were a revelation to Simon. His jaw dropped open, and he reached for her, but she cringed away from him.
“I trusted you,” she hurled at him. “I…I almost loved you. And you…you…” Abruptly, before Simon could even process what she had just said, she tore a piece of paper from the pocket of her skirt and threw it to the ground between them. “Please don’t ever contact me again,” she whispered. Then, she spun around and fled.
Slowly and awkwardly, as if he were a puppet controlled by some outside force, Simon found himself bending down and picking up the sheet of crumpled paper. He unfolded it, his mind racing and his heart feeling as if it had just been kicked black and blue. He stared at the words that swam on the page before him. Then, he muttered, “What in the world?”