Chapter 10
Lysander knew he deserved to feel like shite, so he supposed it was rather convenient he did.
When she walked away from him, he just felt…numb. If he were honest with himself, he’d have known yesterday—perhaps even earlier—that this had been a bad plan. She wasn’t the woman he’d thought she was, and she didn’t deserve to be hurt in the way he’d wanted to. He should’ve protected her.
But he hadn’t protected her from himself.
She was planning on walking through the streets of York alone, and he knew he couldn’t allow her to come to more harm. With a sigh, he brushed his palms against his kilt and followed her.
She didn’t take his arm when he offered it, just kept marching. He tried several times to apologize, but each time he tried to start a conversation, she’d rebuff him. And he wasn’t sure how to say what he needed to say, so each time, he stopped trying.
They returned to the hotel, but rather than retiring to her room, Tiffany picked up her bag and the packed food neither of them had touched and began to walk.
He paid the rest of their bill and hurried after her, not quite surprised to find her heading for the train station.
Once there, she said nothing to him as she bought her ticket north.
One ticket.
It was clear she wanted nothing more to do with him, and he couldn’t blame her.
Still, that didn’t stop him from buying a ticket himself and sliding into a seat across the aisle from her, though a few rows back. He could tell from the stiffness of her shoulders she knew he was there, but not once did she acknowledge him.
As the afternoon crept on, she ate, she drank, and she cried.
Oh, she was subtle about it, her face turned toward the whizzing landscape, but he could tell what she was doing.
A few people stopped to ask if they could help, and each time, Lysander stiffened, bitter at the thought of her allowing someone else to comfort her.
But each time, she thanked them politely and sent them on their way, and he glared as the interloper passed.
The train—and the landscape outside—was dark when she finally fell asleep, but Lysander couldn’t do the same.
Not when every bone in his body was urging him to go to her, to gather her in his arms, to take her sleeping weight on his shoulder and be content.
He couldn’t, because he knew how much he’d hurt her, and he deserved this frustration, because of the pain he’d caused her.
They changed trains again at Edinburgh, and although he’d hovered nearby to ensure she’d had no trouble making the new train, he shouldn’t have bothered. Just as he’d told her, she was strong and capable, and judging from the tightness around her lips as she so thoroughly ignored him, she knew it.
After Inverness, neither of them slept. He watched her, watching the sky lighten in the east, and wondered what she was thinking. She was home a full day early, but she hadn’t found the manuscript she’d gone to York searching for.
And she’d been badly hurt.
By him.
They both stood as the train rolled to a stop at their station, and he was the one out the door first. It wasn’t quite dawn as he reached up to offer her a hand out of the train.
She stared at him for a long moment, then placed one slender, graceful hand in his and stepped down.
She’d put no weight or pressure on him but had allowed him her hand as if she were the most elegant lady in the land, and not a woman with circles of exhaustion under her eyes and the stiffness of a failed mission across her shoulders.
Standing there on the station platform, in the cool morning darkness, Lysander realized the truth: the fatigue, the cosmetics, and the rough clothing did nothing to disguise the fact she was the most elegant lady in the land.
“Tiffany,” he began, but didn’t know how to continue.
She slid her hand from his. “Goodbye, Viscount Blabloblal.”
He hated how formal she sounded. He’d only been her Lunzie for a short time, but the thought of going back to being Blabloblal now…?
He shook his head.
But before he could say anything—before he could think of anything to say—she’d hefted her bag and began walking away. Muttering a curse under his breath, more at himself than her, he followed.
“Tiffany, I’ll no’ allow ye to walk home alone in the dark.”
Without glancing his way, she said stiffly, “It is not your place to concern yourself over me, milord.”
“Aye, it is,” he darkly vowed. He was beginning to suspect it would always be thus.
She was holding her skirts in one hand, walking fast enough it could almost be called a jog. They were nearing the inn. “You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me, remember? Because I certainly do.”
That was before!
Oh, aye, he clearly remembered how he’d purposefully snubbed her and had been rude to her while Athena had tried to smooth the waters of social niceties. But that was before he’d realized who she really was.
She’d said those cruel things about Lyon, aye, but she wasn’t the vain and self-centered bitch he’d assumed. She hadn’t insulted his brother’s appearance…merely his mannerisms.
Now, he followed her around to the rear of the inn. “Ye’ll be safe from here on,” he muttered, more to himself than her.
But she whirled around, and he was startled to realize there were more tear tracks on her cheeks. “I do not see why you should start to worry about that now, milord.”
He reared back. “Yer safety has always been my concern, Tiffany. Why do ye think it was so important for me to go on this journey with ye?”
“How should I know?” She swiped angrily at her eyes as she backed toward the gate to the kitchen garden. “Perhaps because you wanted to make me dependent on you, to fall in love with you, before you humiliated me.”
Is that what had happened?
“Nay,” he said quietly, one hand already reaching for her. “Nay, I only wanted to keep ye safe.”
Was that a lie?
“Well, you failed,” she spit out, her breath catching on a sob. “Because you could not keep me safe from you.”
She turned and slipped through the gate, but he followed, only to ensure she made it to the door safely, he told himself, but he recognized the lie. He wanted her to turn, to acknowledge him one last time.
She did stop at the door, her shoulders hunched as she dropped her hand to the latch. Silently, he prayed she’d turn, tell him she forgave him.
But of course she didn’t.
When she stepped inside the inn, Lysander sighed and acknowledged he’d well and truly lost her.
If she’d considered it, Tiffany would’ve assumed Mrs. Oliphant, the cook, might’ve been in the kitchen, perhaps joined by Annie or one of the maids.
But she didn’t expect to be confronted by her mother as soon as she slipped inside.
“Where have you been, young lady?”
The lash of her mother’s fury yanked Tiffany’s gaze to her mother’s face. The baroness was livid, judging from the two bright spots on her cheeks, and she was fully dressed, as if she were ready to face the day.
Or as if she hadn’t gone to sleep yet.
“I have made myself ill worrying over you!” Mother shrieked, stepping around the table to stalk toward Tiffany. “Up half the night, wondering where you were, and if I could risk your reputation to call out the men to look for you! This one would say nothing!”
She jerked her thumb, and Tiffany peeked over her shoulder. Behind her, Bonnie hovered near the doorway, wearing her night wrapper, her arms around her middle and looking apologetic.
“I am fine, Mother,” Tiffany confessed wearily, placing her bag on the table and wondering if she had the energy to unpack it.
“Fine? Fine?” screeched her mother, flapping her hands like some kind of big bird.
Her shrill voice added to the simile. “You have been gone, with little concern for your mother’s nerves, then waltz in dressed like—like that?
” She flapped her hands at Tiffany’s clothing.
“Like some kind of peasant? What if someone had seen you?”
Tiffany sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. There’d been a time when her mother’s anger, and her rants, had terrified her. A time, not so long ago, when she’d craved her mother’s compliments and assurances of worth.
But the last few days had changed her, in more ways than one.
“Mother, no one knew who I was. I was safe. You were not supposed to find out—”
“Oh, I cannot believe you think I would be so stupid as to believe that menses excuse from your sister! I am a woman as well, Tiffany! I know good and well that no matter how uncomfortable our courses can be, we are expected to face the world with a smile and pretend our hormones are not crippling us in pain or making us a big, raging ball of homicidal thoughts!”
Tiffany blinked. “Very…accurate, Mother.”
“Now, where were you, young lady?”
I spent the last two and a half days not being a young lady.
But Mother wouldn’t want to hear that. She wouldn’t want to hear about any of her realizations or epiphanies on the journey either, or the way Tiffany had had her heart broken.
Again.
So she just sighed and admitted. “I went to The Curios Cabinet in York.” She met Bonnie’s look of hope and had to sadly shake her head. Mother didn’t notice, but Bonnie’s expression carefully shuttered, which told Tiffany she’d understood the adventure had failed.
“You went shopping in York,” Mother repeated slowly, icily, “alone.”
“No, I had an escort,” Tiffany said without thinking. “His name was—”
The slap took her by surprise.
Her mother rarely raised a hand to her or Bonnie, although Ember had received more than her share of blows. But this slap was the kind which necessitated Mother winding up with her hand over her shoulder, letting go, and whipping Tiffany’s head clear around.
Her cheek burned, and there was a ringing in her ears, but Tiffany didn’t feel any pain. Nay, it was more shock that her mother had just slapped her.