Chapter 7 #2
He jerked his gaze away from Ellie’s dark eyes. “Have you forgotten? We have dogs.”
Cassie tugged on his coat sleeve. “Those are your dogs, Papa. They only like to hunt. They don’t like to play or be petted.”
“Nonsense. They love to chase things and be rewarded with a firm pat on the head when they’ve retrieved them.”
Ellie appeared ready to burst into tears, and Cassie’s dejected expression pushed him over the edge.
“I shall consider it.”
With a whoop of joy, the girls raced off to join the other children, and Colin called after them, “I said, consider. I haven’t agreed to anything.”
Mr. Grey’s rumble of laughter echoed behind him. “Too late, Manning. If I’ve learned anything, once you tell a woman you’ll consider it, you’ve committed yourself.”
Colin’s smile disappeared as he turned and found the nymph grinning at him. “No doubt you agree with Mr. Grey, Miss Weatherby. It’s probably how you almost ensnared my brother-in-law when he exhibited the tiniest bit of compassion toward you.”
As he’d hoped, her grin vanished immediately. However, in its place, Miss Weatherby’s—at the moment he couldn’t think of her as nymph, elfin, faerie, or anything other than an injured woman—lips trembled, and wetness rimmed her eyes.
Cad. The internal voice hit him like a gut punch.
Even Grey’s eyes narrowed. “That was uncalled for, Manning.”
It was. He couldn’t deny it. “I apologize, Miss Weatherby. I fear the day has taken a toll on my manners. Please forgive me.” He gave a curt bow and rushed away, more than eager to remove himself from his faux pas and Miss Weatherby’s impending tears.
Coward.
As he slinked away up to his room, Miss Weatherby’s horrified expression condemned him, his paltry apology falling flat. He would have to make amends somehow. But not at that moment; he’d only make a muck of it and dig himself an even deeper hole.
Why did the woman affect him so? He wasn’t a total idiot around women. In his prime, he’d been much sought after and had an easy way with the ladies.
But Miss Weatherby was an entirely different matter.
She had a way of burrowing under his skin and bringing out the worst in him.
He’d barely contained himself earlier. Having her on his lap even for that short time had driven him to distraction.
He needed distance. From her. From the feelings she generated.
From the danger of cracking through the emotionless shell he’d built out of self-preservation.
Hours later, after shutting himself away in his room, he ventured back downstairs, hoping to find some amiable male company. Women were exhausting.
Larger than Colin’s own estate, Blackthorne Manor, Hartridge House’s multitude of rooms offered an abundance of opportunities to sneak away for a bit of solitude, a quiet nook for reading, or, if one chose, agreeable company for a game of cards, billiards, or friendly conversation.
Each room he encountered was vacant.
Where was everyone? The question took him aback. When had he last sought out company?
And why now?
The idea that his sister’s prodding to get him back in the land of the living had validity rankled. He’d held on to his isolation with a death grip, a fitting punishment for failing Margery so completely. He wasn’t deserving of happiness or laughter among friends and family.
And yet . . .
A footman, arms laden with a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade and glasses, gave a brief bow and skirted around him.
“Hold!” Colin called out, stopping the man.
“Yes, my lord?”
Colin gave the man credit when he turned and the lemonade barely swished in its container. Burwood, or perhaps his man-of-business, Simon Beckham, had done a marvelous job of hiring his staff.
“What is your destination?” Colin pointed to the tray.
“The terrace, my lord.”
Ah, so that’s where everyone had gone. Colin motioned for the man to continue and followed him out the terrace doors.
Quiet chatter greeted him. Guests filled chairs positioned in a semi-circle, and Honoria glanced up from her seat next to her husband. “Colin! Come join us.”
After a quick assessment of those gathered and noticing the temptress of torment was not among them, Colin took a seat next to Mrs. Alice Weatherby, who seemed like a reserved and sensible woman.
She could teach her wild sister-in-law a lesson or two.
On Colin’s right, Mr. Ford chatted amiably with Mrs. Merrick, Burwood’s mother, seated next to him.
“Odd, isn’t it,” Mr. Ford said, his expression wistful, “how when you experience a love so strong you believe you are incapable of loving again? You are one of the lucky ones, Mrs. Merrick.”
Colin tamped down the urge to squirm as he reconsidered his choice in seating arrangements. It would be rude to move. He pretended not to listen but found himself pulled into the private conversation.
“I admit my love for Francis was different. Quieter, less impetuous and all-consuming than my love for Henry. But it was steady and true.”
Mr. Ford nodded. “I only know through Gyles, you understand, but you meant the world to Henry, and your happiness was paramount. He would have wanted you to go on living. To provide a father for Drake in his stead. I didn’t know Mr. Merrick, but from all accounts, he was a fine man.”
Mrs. Merrick took Mr. Ford’s hand. “What about you? Have you met anyone?”
Mr. Ford gave a soft chuckle. “Ah. It’s not so easy for me, my dear, especially given I’m not a young man in my prime any longer.”
All this talk of finding love again gnawed at Colin’s gut like a bad piece of meat. He should have stayed inside. Casting a glance toward Honoria, he wondered if she had orchestrated the whole conversation, but she simply met his gaze and sent him an indulgent smile.
“Pardon me,” Mrs. Weatherby said, leaning forward and peering around Colin. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”
Colin sighed. Not Mrs. Weatherby as well? Had she been married and widowed before marrying Mr. Weatherby, or had he? Regardless, Colin held his tongue and waited, curious to know what she would say.
“During my time in India, I learned of a practice called suttee. When a woman’s husband died, she would throw herself on his funeral pyre.”
Mr. Ford’s eyes widened. “That sounds barbaric!”
Colin couldn’t disagree.
“Of course we view it as such. And Lord Bentinck outlawed the practice a few years ago,” Mrs. Weatherby continued, unfazed, “but I wonder if it might be kinder in the long run.”
The comment pushed Colin over the edge. “How in the world can you say that?”
“What I mean is, although suicide as proof of devotion may seem barbaric to us, how many widowed people stop enjoying life but keep breathing? Going through the motions of life. It’s sort of committing emotional suttee, if you will, to prove their love.
When I heard Mr. Ford’s comments about how Lord Henry wished for Mrs. Merrick to continue living, to me, that was how love should be.
How sad to live a life where the heart has dried up and figuratively stopped beating. Much better to end it quickly.”
Colin blinked. Several times, in fact. His brain struggled to process Mrs. Weatherby’s words, leaving him feeling . . . condemned.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again only to close it with a snap. He wanted to argue, to defend himself.
But he couldn’t.
Mrs. Weatherby’s face blanched. “Oh, sir. How callous of me. I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
“Think nothing of it.” He rose. He needed to remove himself. To pull himself together and ponder what Mrs. Weatherby had said. “I think I’ll stretch my legs and take a stroll in the gardens by the lake.”
Honoria glanced up from where Mr. Beckham had told one of his nonsensical stories, no doubt. Laughter from the happy couples grated against Colin’s skin like metal shards.
“Colin?” Honoria’s expression grew concerned. “Are you ill?”
He shook his head; the word stuck in his throat like day-old porridge. No. If only he did feel ill. At least he’d feel something instead of this persistent, unrelenting numbness.
Childish laughter echoed on the soft summer breeze, and he rounded the corner of the house, hoping to see his daughters happily at play.
He was not disappointed—exactly.
At the edge of the lake, Cassie and Ellie raced after Burwood’s new pup. Ashton’s sons, Montgomery’s daughters, and Weatherby’s twins joined them. It would have been a welcome sight had it not been for one other member of the party.
Skirts pulled up to her calves, Miss Weatherby romped along with them, her own laughter melding with the children’s and slipping over his skin like a gentle caress.
They all appeared so happy, so carefree, as the puppy yipped and ran between their legs, eluding every attempt to catch it.
Unbidden, he touched his chest and smoothed the strange squeezing sensation. When had his daughters last been so happy? Ellie even appeared healthier, her cheeks flushed pink from exertion.
There had been little joy in their lives since Margery had died. God knows, he didn’t help matters with his own sullen moods and repressed guilt. As Margery had wasted away with consumption, Colin found himself disappearing with her.
Alice Weatherby’s words accused him anew. He was a shell of the man he had been before. Alive on the outside but dead inside.
But something stirred to life within him as he watched the vivacious woman play with his daughters. So full of life, so exuberant and joyful. Good medicine for his girls, who had suffered too much in their young lives.
They needed a mother, and he needed an heir. Perhaps it was time for him to join the land of the living and find a wife.