SEVEN
SEVEN
The tension in Henry’s shoulders didn’t ease until his carriage turned onto Kensington Street. Rapping his fist on the carriage ceiling, he signaled for his coachman to pull over.
Leaning forward, he watched out the window as Arabella’s carriage came to a stop in front of her home. A few moments later, she alighted from the conveyance, properly dressed in pelisse, day dress, and bonnet—much to the relief of his mind and body.
Every moment he’d spent inside Brooks’s with her dressed in those clothes that—
Letting out a frustrated groan, Henry scrubbed a hand across his face.
He would not think of how their encounter today confirmed that she was the most exquisite creature he’d ever beheld. He felt like a rake for staring at her form as often as he had. He should be focusing on how angry he was with her.
Are you angry or afraid? the voice inside his head taunted.
Henry swallowed, watching her as she paused at her front steps. She looked up and down the street—looking for him, no doubt.
The truth was, he was afraid.
Afraid of feeling so out of control merely by being in her presence. Which was why he wouldn’t be accompanying her inside. With both their reputations still intact, he would distance himself from her. For both their sakes.
He waited until Arabella walked inside before instructing his coachman to take him home. As soon as he could put quill to paper, he would ask Bradbury to take over the weekly visits to the Lathams until Emerson returned.
As soon as his carriage came to a stop, Henry jumped out onto pavement, only to be met by a sudden downpour. He muttered an oath. How fitting that the day’s looming clouds would choose that exact moment to open. He would add that to the growing list of reasons why he knew he was cursed.
His aunt’s butler, Samson, was waiting for him at the front door. His eyes briefly traveled over Henry’s wet clothing and the growing puddle on the floor.
In his youth, Henry thought of the man as a gargoyle, and looking at him now, unchanged by time, he almost believed it to be true.
Handing over his rain-soaked hat and gloves, Henry growled as he struggled to free his arm from his jacket.
“Allow me, my lord,” Samson said, intervening.
“Thank you,” Henry replied, grabbing his book from the inside pocket and tucking it securely under his arm.
“Would you care for some tea?” Samson asked, folding the damp jacket over his forearm.
“No, thank you, Samson. I would like to be left alo—”
“Henry. What on earth happened?” His aunt’s concerned tone echoed inside the entrance hall.
“I was caught in the rain, Aunt,” Henry said, moving his book behind his back. The last thing he wanted was for his aunt to discover the pamphlet.
She studied him with penetrating gray eyes. “Samson, have the floor mopped, then send a footman to fetch Lord Northcott a new jacket. We shall be in the music room.”
If it had been anyone else, Henry would have made an excuse, but he could never do that to his aunt. He would hold the book in the hand of the arm she didn’t take and pray it remained unnoticed until Samson returned with a new jacket.
Entering the music room, Henry escorted his aunt to the elegant, cherrywood pianoforte, a wedding present to her from his uncle, where she took a seat on the cushioned bench.
His aunt cherished music, and she had tutored Henry to sing when all they had was each other. He only wished he could enjoy singing as much as she loved to play. His aunt was bred for attention, while he preferred the shadows.
“Nothing warms the soul like song,” she said, shuffling through the music carefully stacked atop the pianoforte.
“I’m actually quite warm, Aunt,” Henry said.
“Nonsense,” she said. “And besides, we need to practice.”
“Practice?” Dread filled him for what was sure to follow.
“Yes,” she said, lifting a stern brow. “For a small charity event held by Lady Bixbee.”
“The Season is over,” Henry argued.
“Yes,” she said slowly, making him feel like a recalcitrant child. “Though most of the gentry have gone to the country, the Foundling Hospital remains. And it is in need of our help.”
A wave of guilt washed over him. His aunt had never had children, so her charities of choice always involved youth. And he had an obligation to attend with her.
Devil take it, he truly was cursed.
“Of course, Aunt,” he replied.
She offered him a soft smile. “Now, put down your book—” Before Henry could react, she grabbed it from his hand.
Inwardly he cursed as he struggled to keep an outward appearance of calm.
“What have you been reading?” his aunt asked, turning it over in her hands and scanning the cover.
Henry held his breath and prayed.
“Agriculture?” She looked at him, puzzled. “Is there a problem with one of our estates?” She opened the book and began flipping through the pages.
He should’ve known better than to waste his time praying.
She stopped on the page where the pamphlet lay hidden, and his stomach dropped.
“What’s this?” she asked, pulling out the folded paper.
Henry said nothing.
A shadow fell across his aunt’s countenance as she studied the pamphlet, ushering in a cold he hadn’t felt since the night his mother killed his uncle.
“Why do you have this?” she asked through a clenched jaw.
Henry again remained silent, knowing nothing he said would make her understand. He didn’t fully understand why he’d kept the pamphlet that day in Westminster when a man had been handing them out.
A tense silence filled the room. His aunt’s eyes darkened until her irises were indistinguishable from the pupils. “What is it you hoped to find, Henry?” she snapped with both rage and disgust.
Again, he said nothing. Whatever he’d hoped to find inside that pamphlet was gone now.
Her nostrils flared, and she rose from her seat. “I do not like these sudden changes in you.” She said each word carefully, as if she wanted to make certain he heard and understood every single one. “First, you replace your uncle’s solicitor with a man whom we do not even know can be trusted to hide your family’s secret. And now this.”
When Henry still remained silent, she shoved past him and moved directly to the low-lit fire and threw the pamphlet into the flames. “I want no more of this. Whatever you are looking for, you will never find it. Your family is tainted. Your father. Your mother. Your sister.” His aunt visibly shook as she spat out each name, sending sharp barbs into his chest.
The final death knell would be if she ever thought the same about him.
She stormed away from the fire, her eyes flashing their own flames. “Only you and I are left to see that the Northcott family name is remembered for the reputable family it once was. Not the fodder for the gossip mills that your parents have made of it.”
Henry nodded, the stabbing pain in his chest becoming more painful with every word. He—his family—had done this, and it was up to him to redeem them.
Starting with distancing himself from Arabella. She made him want more from his life, and that he couldn’t have.