Chapter 18
I love you…
Strathearn remained frozen to the same spot where he’d watched Opal proudly, but silently and sadly, take her leave.
No one aside from his mother had ever loved him, but Opal did. With the passionate way Opal lived her life there could be no doubting the lady knew her heart, and when she loved, she did so fiercely.
What had he done with that gift? He’d responded with shock, horror, outrage, and a supercilious indignation.
His chest ached.
His heart hurt far worse.
To be exact, like he’d been speared through the organ with a barbed arrow that continued to twist and turn, and which was certainly no less than he deserved.
How singularly odd how in the span of an hour, where there’d previously been clarity in life, a man’s well-ordered existence could be flipped on its ear.
“…You care about me but don’t love me…”
His throat spasmed.
No. He loved her madly.
There didn’t come any rush of fear or horror or shame, and Strathearn suspected it was because he knew it all along. She’d claimed to love him when they’d first met, back when she’d been a small girl. For Strathearn? He couldn’t pinpoint a precise day or occasion, only that as she’d grown, so too had the way in which he viewed her. First, he’d been protective of Opal and entertained her the way he might a younger sister.
Then, days turned into years, and along the way, his and Opal’s relationship evolved. He’d begin to notice her in ways he’d had no right noticing. He’d delighted in matching wits with her. He’d been intrigued by her views of literature and the fairer sex and the place they held—and the one they should hold—in the world.
Sucking in a jagged breath, he set about removing any and all traces of what’d happened here.
While he worked, he repeated every word they’d spoken; punishing himself. “…I didn’t do so to trap you, Locke…”
Strathearn cringed. As if she ever would. But he’d spewed enough vitriol at Opal for her to think he could feel that way, and he hated himself for that. Just one of a thousand and one reasons and transgressions he could never forgive himself for.
When he finished tidying the quarters, he eyed the blanket he and Opal had lain upon, the same small fabric she’d wrapped protectively about herself. His throat continued warbling.
It didn’t belong out here alone in the stables with the grooms and stable boys. Carefully, Strathearn picked it up and folded and continued folding. Then, holding it close to his chest, he flattened the fabric and tucked it inside his jacket so no one else could set eyes upon the article.
Bloody liar. You want to hold onto it forever…
The irony didn’t escape Strathearn. He’d spent the entire week thus far with Opal seething with jealousy and abhorring her secret beau. When all along…it was— me .
He had to find her. He owed her apologies and explanations. As if she’d want to see him. Hell, Strathearn couldn’t even face himself in a bloody mirror.
On dull steps, he made the same march Opal had, and just as she’d done, he stopped and stared fixed at the doorway.
“…Were things different, were I different, and you were not who you are…But, if I’m selfish and take every gift you are offering me now, you’d have no Season and opportunity to meet gentlemen…”
What in hell had he been thinking? He’d rather chew his fingers off one at a time than watch her marry anyone that wasn’t him.
But he knew…Opal was nineteen. At nearly thirty, he’d had years with which to grow and discover himself. To marry her before she had a chance to be presented to Society would be the ultimate selfish act.
He’d believed himself noble in sacrificing his desire and love for. He sneered derisively. In the end, he’d only hurt the both of them.
Strathearn didn’t even remember making the long, slow walk from the stable yard to the entrance of his household until he found Burrell waiting for him.
“Burrell,” he greeted and damned if he didn’t feel like a lad who’d got caught.
To his butler’s credit, the other man didn’t show any outward reaction to Strathearn’s state of dishabille.
“Mr. Grimoire asked for an audience in the library upon your immediate return.”
Fuck.
He briefly closed his eyes.
This was the moment of reckoning where he confessed to his dastardly deed, and lost a friend, but where he gained a wife in the only other friend he’d ever had.
That was, if she’d have him…
Knowing he’d rejected Opal, didn’t ease his anguish. He’d been a colossal ass, an unmitigated fool for failing to see that which was right in front of him—as Opal had. He’d simply have to beg her for a lifetime to rectify his wrongs and love her properly in return.
There was also the very high probability of Grimoire calling him out—which he absolutely should.
“Your Grace,” Burrell said, with a greater urgency. “Mr. Grimoire indicated it is a most grave, highly-sensitive matter, and requested he not be kept waiting.”
Oh, it certainly was all those things his friend—certainly, former friend now—said.
As expected, when Locke reached the library, he discovered Grimoire waiting. Pacing to be exact.
Grimoire knew.
With his dark countenance, the other fellow’s name hadn’t ever been more apt than it was now.
Unexpectedly, Lady Glain also happened to be present for Strathearn’s skewering.
Opal’s weary-looking, previously unnoticed until now, sister caught sight of him first.
Her cheeks glistened from a trail of tears Lady Glain shed. Those tracks stood in stark juxtaposition to the rage radiating from her proud person. “ Abaddon !”
Strathearn’s about-to-be former best friend whipped around.
The loving couple both knew Strathearn’s crimes this day: that he’d taken Opal’s virtue. But could they know he’d broken Opal’s heart, too, and, in so doing, his own, as well? Strathearn deserved his suffering, but Opal? She deserved the entire star-studded universe as her personal playground.
In a coward’s moment, Strathearn thought of fleeing.
“Bloody hell,” Grimoire cursed, racing across the room.
Strathearn flinched; prepared for the powerful strike—that didn’t come.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, shaking an envelope at Strathearn. The astute librarian looked him over. “Never mind.” He shoved the note into Strathearn’s chest. “Here!”
“Opal?” he asked hoarsely.
At the mention of her sister’s name, Lady Glain, always a model of dignity and grace broke down sobbing.
Grimoire brought his enormous arm around his wife’s delicate shoulders and drew her in. “Shh,” he whispered. “It will be all right.”
Forgotten by the couple, Strathearn looked at the missive and Lord Linley’s seal.
Not Opal.
A sense of foreboding wove Strathearn’s muscles into a tapestry of tangled and constricting ties that left him paralyzed and mute.
With Lady Glain wrapped in her husband’s arms and her face buried in his chest, Grimoire looked over the top of his wife’s head. “Devonshire came for her,” he more mouthed than spoke. “She is gone.”
All the air left Strathearn on a sharp, serpent-like hiss.
Devonshire came for her.
She is gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Strathearn tore into the note.
Strathearn,
I trusted Devonshire would come and when he did there’d be no time to speak. Though Opal asked I not betray her confidence by speaking to you or anyone, I’ve been of the opinion all along that you’d want to know.
That mindless dread grew to a fever pitch. Know what?
He read more quickly.
Devonshire didn’t allow her to return from finishing school for a visit. The real urgency on Devonshire—and Opal’s—part stems from the fact the old bastard has a husband picked out for her.
“A husband ,” he exhaled.
That sentence sucked all breathable air from the library. How else to explain the gaspfuls of it Strathearn tried and failed to bring into his lungs?
Neither Lady Glain nor Grimoire seemed to suffer that like fate.
“H-Husband?” the lady cried. “Husband?” her voice grew shriller.
“… I will never have a Season…”
“…As if Devonshire would allow you that pleasure…”
Strathearn grabbed a fistful of hair in his other hand and pulled hard.
She’d known. She’d known all along.
My dear sire, being the devil he is, scheduled Opal’s nuptials for a month from now, though I will not put it past him to obtain a special license and move the damned thing up…
“And what about the man who’ll soon be my husband…Am I sullied and whorish for having experienced pleasure with you…”
His fingers curled reflexively into the note, wrinkling the pages.
“…You are the man I want to give myself to…First…”
Even her bloody pause now made sense.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered.
“Strathearn?” Grimoire and Lady Glain’s like, fear-filled queries only faintly registered.
I believe as a punishment for Glain’s defiance and happiness—an opinion my eldest sister must never know—Devonshire chose Opal’s intended—The Duke of Ravenscourt.
His eyes bulged. Ravenscourt? The fellow had formed a triumvirate of evil with his and Opal’s father. The debauched, ancient Duke of Ravenscourt had littered London—and the English countryside—with illegitimate issue. And this is who her father would sell her to?
A thunderous bellow burst from Strathearn, the terrific, primordial cry of a wounded beast.
While Lady Glain sobbed all the harder, Strathearn clenched his eyes tightly shut to keep from joining in that grief-filled lamentation.
His eyes flew over the rest of the information imparted by Opal’s devoted brother.
My stubborn sister refuses to tell you of her circumstances. She believes you’d marry her out of pity, and even as I’m of the opinion—and hope—that you do, in fact, care very much for her, my utmost concern is Opal’s safety, well-being, and happiness.
With each revelatory sentence, the sick feeling in Locke’s stomach grew.
If I’m in fact correct and you do care deeply about my youngest sister, I’d ask you to please use the power I do not yet have and save her from the wretched fate Devonshire intends to commit her to.
Your Servant,
Linley
All the air seeped from Strathearn’s lungs on a ragged hiss.
“Maybe…if in the future, Opal, after you’ve had a chance to see the world and meet other gentlemen and you still decide—”
“Maybe.”
Maybe.
Maybe.
There’d be no future. Not for him. Not if Opal wed another.
Not unless he hunted her father’s carriage down, beat the old man within an inch of breathing, and begged Opal’s forgiveness for having failed her.
“Grimoire,” he growled. “Lady Glain. Permission to marry Lady Opal?”
Lady Glain clapped her hands. Her sobs turned swiftly to joyous ones. “Y-Yes!”
“Permission granted.” Grimoire hurled his arms up. “Bloody took you long enough.”
Stunned, Strathearn rocked back. “You knew?” he whispered.
“ We knew,” Lady Glain intoned, cheery color returned to her full cheeks. “Flint. All of us. That is, all of us, with the exception of you and my obstinate sister, who were the last to know.”
“We’ll talk all about it later.” Grimoire grabbed Strathearn by the shoulders and gave him a shove toward the doorway. “Get the hell out of here; that is, unless you want Lady Opal marrying some other blackguard.”
The hell he did.
Bellowing for his horse, Locke took off running. With every step that brought him closer to the foyer, thoughts and memories of this week with Opal rolled forward; every reminiscence brought plunging forward a crystalized clarity.
His chest threatened to explode. “My bloody horse,” he bellowed when he reached the front and found Burrell still in position there.
Burrell already had the door open. “Being readied as we speak, Your Grace.”
Once a servant hurried over with Strathearn’s mount, Strathearn swung himself up into the saddle. “Hyah!” he cried.
And as he’d never done in the course of his life owning and caring for horses, Locke put the ultimate favor to his cherished mount and rode reckless. Zephyr, however, luxuriated under the aberrant freedom, and soared like a veritable Pegasus born of the Gods and meant to fly.
The harsh, unforgiving wind battered Locke’s face and sent his hair whipping.
To keep from going mad, he let his body feel and absorb each thunderous reverberation within his core.
She’d known when they parted, she’d have to marry. Devonshire treated her wretchedly and planned to inflict an even greater suffering upon her. And throughout, she’d faced all of it alone. She’d placed worry for her sister, Grimoire, and the couple’s babe above her sorrow and circumstances.
God, how he loved her.
Tears stung his eyes.
For the first time in all his miserable twenty-nine years, he found himself crying. He blinked furiously to clear his vision so he might see the road ahead of them.
What must it have taken for proud, selfless, Opal, to come to Strathearn on a ruse? This, when he’d already loved her more than he’d ever love another soul. He’d fought the bloody truth so damned well, he hadn’t acknowledged his feelings to even himself—until she’d walked away.
“…From the very beginning of our time together here, Opal, you’ve been untruthful with me. Instead of honesty, you chose duplicity…”
“I had no other choice,” she cried.
She’d laid herself bare before him, in every way. Hell, she, of her own volition, revealed everything to him.
No, that wasn’t true. She’d withheld one important detail—her impending marriage to the Duke of Ravenscourt.
“You always have a choice, Opal. In no world is deceiving a man one of them. You played games with me. You made me believe there was someone else. You continued to dangle the promise of his identity with me. Opal, my God. Think about who you are. Think about who I am.”
And what’d Strathearn done? He’d met her admissions like some sort of holier-than-thou, sanctimonious bastard.
The acrid taste of bile stung his throat and Strathearn swallowed to keep it down.
I failed her spectacularly.
For Strathearn loved Opal more than everything and everyone under the sun and hadn’t had the courage to tell her so in return—because he’d been too gutless to acknowledge his feelings to even himself.
I won’t survive this.
Then, he heard it. The rattle of carriage wheels on the road ahead. The chains of his desolation broke free. Lethal determination, rage, and hope took its place. Leaning lower over Zephyr’s shoulders, Strathearn headed for Opal so he could declare his love and spend the rest of his life earning her forgiveness.