Chapter 11 #2
“I believe our family will join yours for some of the races,” she said, studying him carefully.
The strange pause concerned her, but he did not wish to address it.
She let it go. “Of course we will be at the ball, and I have hopes of doing so many things. Plays. Galleries. It sounds better than the Season in London, in all honesty. Because the city will be full of interesting things to do, and it will only last a week.”
That brought another smile to his face, though his eyes remained somewhat soft. “Your experience during the Season did not give you a high opinion of it, I take it.”
“It did not,” she said, raising her chin. “The only good points were the few new friends I made. And my brother courting Lady Juniper, of course.”
“Of course.” He tucked his hands behind his back, focused his eyes on the cottage as they approached it. “I hope you count me among the good points, then.”
“I do,” she answered at once, and far too quickly to be considered demure. “One of the very best of them.” Her tongue had completely run away from her, it would seem.
But he did not take offense, nor did he laugh as though she had told an outlandish joke. Instead, he turned his head to take her in, that same gentle look in his eyes as he said, “I count you a good point in my year as well, Lady Emily. One of the very best.”
That warmth spread through her again, beginning deeper, lasting longer. And she wished in that moment, with her whole heart, that Roman Eastwood stirred half so much feeling in her as his younger brother did at that moment.
When he took his leave not long after returning her to the door, she watched him ride away on his horse.
Her heart felt lighter, her body more relaxed, her mind clearer.
And yet, after he disappeared from sight, it all turned.
Curled up inside her, like all the good feelings he inspired wanted to hide and let disappointment take their place.
Plucking up the mirror from where she had left it, Emily went through to the drawing room where the little bird sat in her cage, quietly watching a maid tidy the room. The canary seemed to perk up when Emily approached and carefully unlatched the door.
She reached inside with the mirror, hooking it just so, letting it hang above the canary’s perch.
Miss Feathersby brightened at once, trilling to the brave little bird she found in her reflection. Smiling, Emily eased the door shut and felt the faint catch of the latch beneath her fingers.
It was a kindness, she told herself. Safety for the tiny creature. But as the song rose, clear and sweet, she could not help thinking how neatly a bird with clipped wings learned to love the limits it was given.
The house had gone still.
It was the kind of quiet that pressed in from every direction.
There was no whisper of conversation, no footsteps on the stair, only the soft sigh of curtains moving in the breeze and the tick of the clock upon the mantel.
The dogs had long since settled themselves before the hearth, waiting for Roman’s return from dinner with a friend.
Apollo’s massive head rested on his paws, and Athena lay near Lyness’s chair, a guardian even in sleep.
Lyness sat at his desk with a single candle guttering beside him, casting a pool of light across the scattered sheets of paper.
He had told himself he meant only to write a few notes before bed.
A letter, perhaps, to his mother’s gardener about the country house’s accounts.
But the page before him bore no such practical purpose.
At its top, in his finest hand, was a name.
Lady Emily Sterling.
The first attempt had been neat enough. Modest flourishes, measured spacing, as though it were merely an exercise.
Practice. The second attempt grew more elaborate.
The lines of her name lengthened into leafy chamomile stems, the final g trailing away into a stem that descended along the edge of the page in a petaled flower.
By the third iteration, the letters became something else entirely.
Emotion made visible. The ink lines wove upon themselves, too heavy in places, too ornate, until the whole thing turned into a tangle of dark lines that meant more to him than anyone else would ever understand.
He had spoiled the page and not minded at all.
The truth sat there, unblinking, no matter how many times he changed nibs or wiped his fingers clean.
He wanted—foolishly, perhaps—to think of her.
To recall the light in her eyes when she spoke of her garden, her laughter when she teased him, the way she looked at him without pity when his words stumbled and skipped all over themselves.
He lifted his pen again, almost absently, and began anew. Just her name. Smaller this time. More controlled. Yet his hand shook when he tried to add the finishing stroke. The ink bled where it shouldn’t. He pressed his thumb to the blot and left a dark mark there. A stain he could not remove.
It was absurd. He had no right to think of her with such tenderness.
His brother had noticed her, spoken well of her, and even called on her.
Roman would make an excellent husband for any woman, and if Lady Emily were wise, she would see that.
The baron had charm, rank, purpose, and so many other things Lyness lacked.
Though he had the financial means of setting up a modest household, thanks to the competence he earned from the investment of his inheritance.
It would never be as much as Roman had, with the family estate and wealth, but Lyness could afford a family.
And he had considered the idea several times, though he hesitated to act on it.
In part because Roman and his mother seemed to need him.
Perhaps it had been a convenient excuse, or a series of them, to avoid courtship.
Because there were things about himself that he did not entirely wish to expose to others.
What if a wife grew tired of his stuttering?
Or questioned why they spent so much time in York rather than in the glittering ballrooms of London?
What if she did not understand his mother’s need to keep her sons close?
He rubbed at his chest as the old concerns spilled out of his thoughts. He set down the pen and leaned back, the ache behind his ribs steady and familiar now. To love anything, whether it was beauty, art, or a woman, seemed always to demand the same thing of him. His silence.
He folded the page carefully, though the ink was still damp, and tore it into pieces. Best to rid himself of the evidence of his feelings. If anyone saw what he had done, they would think him absurd. Or ask questions. Or perhaps laugh, not understanding what it did to him to think of her.
He was utterly ridiculous.
Across the room, Apollo gave a low, contented sigh.
The fire cracked softly. Lyness rose with the scraps of paper in his hand.
He went to the hearth, and Athena lifted her head to watch him.
He crouched low and scattered the paper along the embers, then took up the poker to stir up the flames again.
Orange and yellow fire licked at the paper, curling it at the edges, then caught it. Devoured each and every ink-stained shred.
Lyness stared at the wavering flames until his eyes blurred. Athena came closer to him, sat down, and whined softly. Bringing him out of his depressing thoughts.
The words he would not speak gathered in his throat anyway. Words meant for no one, or perhaps for whatever Fate had decreed his must be born second.
“May my brother make her happy.”
He put the poker in its place, then wrapped his arm around Athena and buried his face in her neck. The dog, sweet in her loyalty, did not move as his heart cracked in two and his tears fell on her coat.