Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“You look happy,” Godwin said as he stretched out in Alexander’s armchair in the library. “What an unprecedented event.”
“Remind me, are you capable of saying anything serious?”
“Is something serious called for? How dire. But then again, how very typical of you. Very well, we shall be serious.” Godwin leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “I assume you didn’t summon me here for a social call.”
“No. Although, while we are on the subject, may I remind you that you have an atrocious taste in acquaintances.”
“If that’s all—”
“Wait.” Alexander poured his friend a glass of wine and held it up as an offering. “Much as I wish I could be angry at you for that, it was perhaps the catalyst.”
“Of what?”
“Lydia and I have…” He sucked in a breath, trying to find the right words. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”
“Good Lord. The Great Alexander has admitted I’m right.” Godwin took a sip, undeniably smug.
“Are you quite finished?”
“I’m basking in my moment, old boy. But do go on ahead. What exactly provoked you into changing your mind? Presumably, this has something to do with your resolution to abandon your wife to a life alone?”
Alexander leaned back in his chair. “Do we have to do this?”
“Do what?”
“I brought you here for a serious conversation, not so you could gloat. Yes, I have changed my mind, and yes, I admit that I was wrong to think I could leave her behind like that, but that does not alter the facts of the situation now.”
Godwin dropped his smirk. “You mean telling her… everything?”
“I want a future with her, but—” He dropped his head into his hands. “I must tell her, Godwin. I know you won’t believe that it’s necessary, but—”
“It’s not my place to tell you what should and shouldn’t happen with your wife, Rayment. Just as I can’t tell you the consequences of the conversation.”
“Would you?” Alexander asked, desperately aware he was seeking a negative even as he knew he couldn’t bear the prospect of bearing this secret alone.
If they were to make a go of things, he would have to tell her the truth, the entire truth, and give her the opportunity of choosing him.
There was a chance that she wouldn’t—that she’d be so hurt, she’d throw him out.
And previously, to avoid that from happening, he had intended to take her decision out of the equation and leave.
But now, hope held him captive.
“I don’t know,” Godwin huffed at last. “I mean, Eliza probably knows all the worst and best things about me before we even began this thing, so it’s hardly a fair comparison.
But I think if I were carrying a secret that pertained to her—perhaps even if I didn’t—I would tell her and let the chips fall as they would. ”
“Do you think she would choose you when all was said and done? If our roles were reversed?”
Godwin took a long drink as he thought, and Alexander hated every second that passed between his question and answer.
“I think it all comes down to intent,” Godwin answered soberly.
“You didn’t intend to hurt her father. If it had been a malicious attempt designed to end his life, that would be different. ”
“The end result is the same.”
“And if it had been another gentleman walking in the middle of the road instead, would you have blamed him? The horses were spooked, and the carriage tipped. These things have happened countless times before, and they will happen again. Of course, it is tragic, and a damn shame you happened to be walking there that night, but—” Godwin stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Was that the night—”
“Yes,” Alexander replied, too quickly. Another nail in his coffin; he had been walking out there, drunk and aimless, because it had been the anniversary of Helena’s death, and he had been tragically certain he would never be happy again.
How ironically terrible that such an event could have led to such tragedy—and such happiness.
“Well…” Godwin murmured, scratching his chin. “I don’t suggest you tell her that part.”
“I must. How else can I start a marriage in good faith if it is based on a lie?”
“Not a lie, old chap. Merely a… hole in the truth.”
“I won’t do it. If I tell her some of it, I must tell her everything. And that means everything.”
“Are you certain?” Godwin idly swirled his glass of wine, looking at it as though it held all the answers to his questions. “Quite sure this is the track you want to take?”
“I have decided,” Alexander stated bluntly.
The worst of the cravings and aches and mind-fog had eased; he felt clearer-headed than he had in years.
Being around Lydia, being away from all the worst influences of the past six years, had been good for him.
“I’ll wait until after Lady Harrogate’s ball. ”
“One final night together,” Godwin said wryly.
“Precisely. Then, if nothing else, we will have memories of that happiness.” Alexander gave a wry smile. “Though I should probably pack my bags in preparation.”
“You won’t be staying?”
Alexander shook his head. “No, not if—”
Footsteps sounded outside the room, and he broke off, crossing to the door and peering outside. The corridor was empty. He closed the door behind him and returned to his chair.
“Must have been a servant.”
Lydia stumbled back from the door, her mind reeling, her hands shaking. Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest. Alexander was going to wait until after the ball and then leave her? After everything, he still intended to leave?
She took a deep breath. Then another. Pressing one hand to her stomach, she started back for the stairs. His words burrowed deep in her mind until she couldn’t help but hear him, again and again.
I’ll wait until after Lady Harrogate’s ball.
I should probably pack my bags.
You won’t be staying?
No.
No, of course he wouldn’t. All the dreaming she had done had been her own, based on what she’d hoped he thought and felt. Nothing he had said directly to her had confirmed that he would, and now she had the direct proof that he would not.
You won’t be staying?
No…
How could she endure this? All this time, she had believed he wanted to stay—that he had been making a home for himself here. But that had been a lie. He had been appeasing her for the sake of—what?
She reached her bedchamber and sank on the bed. But even there gave her no peace; he had been spending his nights with her, in this very bed. Her entire life was tainted with memories of him now.
A ragged sob escaped her, and she leaned over, pressing her face into her pillow.
Fine, so he had deceived her, and she had been so happily, so easily deceived. But that would end here. If he wanted to leave her, then he could do so, but she would be prepared. She would guard her heart against any last assaults he attempted against it.
And she would thrive. That would be her revenge. She would be the lady he always should have wanted, and she would live a fulfilled life here.
Eventually.
Once it stopped feeling as though her stomach was sinking through her shoes, and simultaneously attempting to clog her throat. In time, when her chest didn’t physically hurt.
One step at a time.
First, she would breathe. Then she would dry her eyes. And then she would descend back downstairs as though nothing had happened. He would never know how much he had affected her.
So many times when she’d been open with him, there had been that distance between them. How could she believe he would tell her now if she asked? Evidently, he loved Helena after all—there could be no other reason he would leave now.
He had already lied to her face. What use would there be in confronting him? She had sensed, off and on, there was still something he hadn’t told her, one final part of himself he hadn’t offered.
All she could do was hope he would reveal the truth to her eventually.
Determined, she dried her eyes, powdered her face to counteract the worst of the blotchy red, and headed for the library.
By the time Alexander came to find her, she was reclined in an armchair with a book.
And if she didn’t know precisely what she was reading, the words sliding off her like water from a duck’s back, that was something he didn’t need to know.
“There you are.” He bent and kissed her cheek as though he had not just been plotting with Mr. Godwin to leave her. “I thought we could discuss those planned changes for the garden in the spring?”
Lydia raised an incredulous gaze to his. “You want to plan alterations to the gardens?”
“Why not?” He searched her eyes. “Did you not say you wanted to make changes? I know you said that you wanted to revive the formal gardens and terraces near the house.”
How could he remember that—an offhand comment she had made once—but not care enough to see the fulfillment of these plans through? “We don’t have to address them now,” she murmured, returning to her book. “Besides, it is still terrible weather outside.”
“All the better to make the planning so work can begin in the spring when the weather improves.”
“Not now.”
He frowned, and although she wasn’t looking at him, she could sense it. “Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all.” She attempted to smile at him. “I am just a little tired. Perhaps I’ll retire upstairs for the afternoon. I’ll see you at dinner?”
He caught her hand as she rose. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Tell me you are leaving.
She waited, but in vain. If he intended to tell her his plans, he had no intention of doing so now, evidently.
And so she left, unable to bear another minute of his company without revealing the turmoil in her mind.
If he refused to tell her, then she would not lower herself by asking. She would merely prepare herself for the inevitable and bid him goodbye when the time came.
One way or another, she would endure this.