To Love the Brooding Baron

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-TWO

Henry’s head pounded, but not because of an overindulgence in drink. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t that sort of man. Though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been tempted to start. He’d completely ignored his resolve to not take things further with Arabella and instead kissed her until he’d lost all sense. Then, like a coward, he’d left her to face her mother with the evidence of what they’d done written all over Arabella’s swollen lips.

How easy it would’ve been for even a night to forget he’d run from the Lathams’ home, but forgetting was only ever temporary. Eventually the truth had a way of clawing itself free.

And the truth of Henry’s reality arrived in a letter sent to him by Mrs. Latham late that same evening. She’d put to him a very particular request. One that, if he refused, would’ve proven he had no conscience.

A request, which, at the moment, was eating him alive.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Henry let out a groan as the carriage dipped and swayed beneath him.

“Are you going to vomit?” Bradbury asked from across the carriage, watching him with a worried look.

“No, I am not,” Henry said. He needed to do better at controlling his emotions. He’d already made such a mess of things, and he couldn’t afford for the situation to get any worse.

Says the man who’s already given up two of his family’s greatest secrets, the voice inside his head whispered.

Henry groaned again. Arabella was proving to be his undoing.

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Bradbury asked, subtly sliding away until he was no longer seated directly across from Henry.

“Yes,” Henry replied, pressing his lips together and turning to stare out the window.

Control. He needed to regain control.

They rode in silence for nearly a minute—which was longer than Henry had anticipated—before Bradbury spoke again.

“Remind me again why we are escorting Mama Latham and Miss Latham to Sadler’s Wells Theatre?”

“Because Mrs. Latham has asked it of us,” Henry stiffly replied, still in shock that her letter hadn’t called him out for his actions toward her daughter but instead requested him to escort her and Arabella to the infamous aquatic theater. His refusal would’ve proven he was even more of a cad. She’d played him quite well, and he feared coming face-to-face with her.

“No,” Bradbury said, shaking his head. “Mama Latham asked it of you. I never got a letter.” He was watching Henry suspiciously.

Henry couldn’t afford for him to discover the true reason.

“If you did not want to come, then why did you get into my carriage?” Henry asked, trying to ignore the fact that the throbbing inside his head was worsening.

“Because,” Bradbury said with a grunt as they went over a rather jarring dip, “if one of us is going to do something utterly foolish—and to be quite frank, I am shocked that it is not me for once—then the other one of us has to come along to present some semblance of sense.”

Henry shot him a brooding glare. But as always, Bradbury didn’t look the least bit affected. They both knew Emerson wouldn’t be happy to hear that Henry had taken his mother and sister into such a precarious situation, but he had no other choice. He needed to try to recover what was left of the situation.

“I will say it again,” Bradbury said, staring at Henry more pointedly. “It is rather unbelievable that I have become the sensible one. But I guess that is what love does to a man. It robs him of all common sense. Let us hope Emerson will believe you when you tell him the full story.”

Henry was not a praying man, but if he was, he’d pray it would never come to that. “I shall inform Emerson that you advised against the outing.”

“Splendid.” Bradbury smiled. His posture immediately relaxed into his seat.

Leaning his head back against his own seat, Henry closed his eyes. He was in a tortured mess. He’d taken advantage of Arabella by asking for that kiss, yet he couldn’t regret the taste of her on his lips.

Why not blame your father?the voice whispered. It was your story about him that prompted Miss Latham to allow you that kiss.

Henry shook his head. He’d already spent too many years of his life blaming his father, and little good had ever come of it.

No, Henry would own up to his errors in judgment—something his father never did.

Nathaniel Henry Northcott had been nothing more than a discontented second son of a baron, who, instead of doing something of purpose with his life, preferred to gamble and drink.

The last memory Henry had of his father was the very one he’d let slip to Arabella. He’d been a boy of thirteen, walking toward the stables just before dawn. His father had—once again—not returned home after an evening of gambling, leaving Henry no choice but to go out in search of him before his mother awoke to find her husband missing.

His mother had always been prone to hysterics. Whenever anything upset her, she’d dissolve into shrieking fits, which affected the entire household. Henry would hide Sarah in one of the farthest rooms until their father or the doctor with his many tinctures managed to calm their mother down.

On that particular morning, Henry had been surprised to find his father’s horse standing in the center of the stable, its saddle still on its back. Their groomsmen had left the previous month after not being paid for several weeks.

At first, Henry had thought perhaps he’d missed his father somewhere inside the house, but as he guided the horse to its stall, he caught sight of a familiar pair of boots.

He found his father lying on his side in a pile of musty straw, unmoving. His eyes were open, staring blankly up at the roof slats that were in desperate need of repair. A shattered bottle lay beside him, the red upon the jagged edges of the glass matching the red staining his father’s side, arm, and wrist.

His father was dead, leaving behind a widow and two children with nothing—not even the roof over their heads once his losses at the billiards and card tables had been called in.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Lathams’, pulling Henry from his dark memories. It was time to meet whatever fate awaited him.

“Daft weather,” Bradbury said, squinting up into the sky, half-filled with clouds. “The rain cannot decide whether to go or stay.”

“Let us hope it stays away,” Henry replied. Driving to Clerkenwell just outside of London was precarious enough even without the rain.

Stepping up to the front door alongside Bradbury, Henry could feel his palms begin to sweat beneath his clenched fists. He didn’t know what kind of reception to expect behind that door.

Smith, the butler, was swift in welcoming them with his usual greeting. “Good day, Lord Northcott, Mr. Bradbury.”

“Good day, Smith,” Bradbury said, his eyes scanning the empty entry hall. “Have the ladies changed their minds about our outing?” A hopeful smile spread across his face.

All Henry could do was swallow past a dry throat.

“No,” Smith replied, and Bradbury’s smile vanished. “They were just coming down when flowers for Miss Latham were delivered.”

“Flowers?” Henry repeated before he could stop himself, a sharp pang of possessiveness shooting through him.

“Yes, pink roses,” Smith replied. “Miss Latham wanted to arrange them herself. I suspect the ladies will only be a moment longer.”

Henry fought the urge to discover who’d sent Arabella the roses. He couldn’t allow himself to lose control.

Arabella’s laughter soon filled the corridor, followed by a smile so sweet and brilliant it warmed him from the inside out, and she wasn’t even looking at him. She was talking to her mother and hadn’t realized he and Bradbury were standing at the other end of the entry hall.

She was breathtaking in Pomona green—she could be the goddess of the apple orchard herself, whom the color was named after. The vibrant shade only enriched her dark hair, and his fingers itched to run through her tresses once again.

“Good day to you, ladies,” Bradbury called out, catching them by surprise.

Arabella and her mother’s conversation ceased, their eyes snapping toward him and Bradbury. Henry’s heart missed a beat as Arabella’s eyes met his. She looked—dare he believe it?—happy to see him. Shouldn’t she angry with him for running away? Or could her smile be because of their intended destination?

“I did not know you were joining us on our outing, Mr. Bradbury,” Mrs. Latham said, offering them a welcoming smile as she and Arabella came to stand before them.

Henry waited for her look of censure, an expression he’d seen in many forms from his aunt, but Mrs. Latham merely looked at him mildly. He didn’t understand what was happening.

“I did not know anyone was coming,” Arabella said, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Where are we going?”

Her question rendered Henry speechless. Indeed, he couldn’t feel more off-balance if she’d cracked him over the head with a billiards mace.

She didn’t know about the outing? His heart skipped a beat. Was she truly happy just to see him, then?

“I planned a little surprise outing for us this afternoon,” Mrs. Latham replied. “And Lord Northcott is—”

Mr. Bradbury coughed.

“Excuse me, Lord Northcott and Mr. Bradbury are being gracious enough to escort us.”

Arabella opened her mouth to speak, her entire being alight with excitement, but Mr. Bradbury cut her off with a raised finger.

“Actually, might I argue against such an outing? Emerson wouldn’t approve of us going without his permission.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Bradbury,” Mrs. Latham said in a tone that brooked no argument, “when my son decided to have a billiards table installed inside our home without seeking my permission, I felt I, too, could make this decision without him.”

“Billiards table?” Bradbury jerked his head toward Henry. “Emerson finally got a table?”

Henry swallowed, and he felt heat crawl up his neck as he nodded.

“Is someone going to tell me where we are going, or must I continue to wait with bated breath?” Arabella asked, staring right at Henry. She was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

Bradbury groaned. “Was that Shakespeare?”

“The Merchant of Venice,” Henry replied, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched Arabella’s cheeks turn the most fetching shade of pink.

“Lord Northcott,” Mrs. Latham said, delicately clearing her throat.

Fearful he was about to be reprimanded for his rakish behavior, he was stunned to find Mrs. Latham holding back a smile.

“Would you do the honors?” she said.

Arabella’s unbridled enthusiasm was as bright as the sun. The spirit in which she chose to live her life, even after heartache and loss, called to him, making him want, for even just a moment, to forget everything and get lost in her light.

“We are going to Sadler’s Wells Theatre,” he said, one side of his mouth ticking upward.

Arabella squealed and jumped toward him, throwing her arms around him.

Henry wrapped his arms around her, just to steady them both.

Liar, the voice whispered.

Henry braved a glance at Mrs. Latham. Her eyes held a spark of genuine happiness as he—the man who had kissed her daughter and then fled—held Arabella in his arms. There was no judgment or accusation for his past transgression, only grace. He didn’t know how to feel, but with the warm pressure building in his chest, and the lump forming in his throat on top of the burning sensation behind his eyes, he was beginning to see what happiness in life could be like.