Chapter 20 #2
“Indeed. In this case, though, he believed himself far better suited to take on the responsibility of your care than I was.”
She felt suddenly as though she had been mistaken for a parcel—a delicate one, perhaps, but still something to be handed off to whichever man was willing to bear it.
Without realizing that her heart was crumbling, Lord Hartwell heaved a sigh.
“And once Lyness believes something is his responsibility, nothing will dissuade him. He has always been stubborn on that account, I fear.” Lord Hartwell looked away, distracted.
“He is determined to see this through. You need not fear on that account.”
The words fell like icicles from a limb, piercing her heart.
Lord Hartwell had given her more words that weighed heavily rather than gently. Responsibility. Determined. See this through.
It was exactly what she had overheard. Exactly what she had feared.
“If you will excuse me, my lady? I think I see your brothers.” He bowed politely and continued past her, already lost in whatever thoughts crowded in his mind.
Her throat burned. She hadn’t been foolish enough to hope for love—not yet—but she had believed in the possibility. In quiet affection. In the beginnings of something tender. How na?ve she had been to think herself someone a man might choose without being forced to it.
Emily stood very still, gripping her sketchbook so tightly her fingers hurt. She turned toward the main green, searching for Juniper—but her vision blurred. Colors blended together. The ruins seemed too bright, despite the gray skies above.
Then a familiar voice called to her, warm and hopeful. “Emily?”
She caught her breath and turned.
Lyness.
He was hurrying toward her across the grass, a welcoming smile on his face. The sight of him—earnest, relieved to see her—did nothing to put her at ease. Not this time.
He stopped short when he saw her expression. “Are you unwell?” he asked softly. “Has something happened?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I mean, no. That is to say…I am not well.” But she could not tell him exactly what she was, either.
He stepped closer, concern pulling tight across his features. “Please, tell me what I have—”
“No,” she interrupted, the word trembling. “You have done nothing wrong. I simply need some time. To think.”
“Time?” His brow creased. “What do you mean?” He reached for her hand.
She tucked it behind her back. It was not a rejection. It was desperation. If he touched her, if he spoke gently, she would shatter, and she refused to humiliate herself in front of half of York. Again.
His hand pulled back sharply, as if she’d struck it rather than removed her own from his reach.
“I only need a moment to myself,” she managed, voice shaking. “I think I would prefer to return home. The day does not agree with me.”
“Then let me see you to your family. Or to your carriage. It is my duty.”
“No,” she said, the word firm and stronger yet than anything else she had uttered. Her heart twisted. Oh, she wanted to believe she mattered to him. But she could not bear to hear him speak of duty, not with her heart already bruised by that horrible word.
He swallowed, and it looked painful the way his throat flexed above his cravat. “If I have offended you—”
“You have not.”
“Then why—”
“Please, Mr. Eastwood,” she said.
Mr. Eastwood, not Lyness, and he flinched. His flinch wounded her more sharply than anything her brothers had said. She had never wanted to hurt him. Never. But she could not give him an explanation she herself barely understood.
“I cannot speak of this right now.” Indeed, if she did, she would further shame herself by crying in public.
She turned away before he could see the tears in her eyes.
She started to walk toward the carriages rather than to her family.
If one more person asked what was wrong, she would shame herself terribly with a sob.
Behind her, he tried to call out to her one more time. “Emily…what have I done?”
She did not look back. She waved her hand above her head. As though doing so would be enough to brush his concern away. She truly needed to think. She would speak to him—she would. But not while her heart was so raw she could scarcely breathe.
Lyness had been late.
He hated being late—his mind had tallied the minutes during the short ride from the house to the ruins—but Roman had needed him, and estate letters arrived unexpectedly, and his mother insisted he change his cravat. All inconveniences he accepted willingly.
But now, watching Emily back away from him as though a wall had risen between them, he wished he had sprinted all the way from their house on Castlegate if it would have changed this moment. Her silence hurt more than any spoken rebuke.
“Emily…what have I done?” he whispered after her, his voice swallowed by the open air and the roar of his pulse in his ears.
She did not turn. Her pale gown vanished behind a crumbling archway, the same arch where she had once carried a trembling canary in his hat.
He remained rooted to the spot, as though any movement might break what remained of his calm. He thought through it again, relived it in his mind—her expression, her tone, the dreadful formality of Mr. Eastwood. That had been like hearing a door close. Quiet. Final.
His mother’s voice drifted faintly across the grounds as she spoke to Emily’s parents somewhere beyond the ruins. Roman stood several yards away with Jack Sterling, both men absorbed in a low, tense conversation. The other brothers listening with solemnity carved into their features.
No one saw Lyness’s heart cave in, though his chest tightened painfully. He forced himself to breathe. His stutter, kept in check by sheer, exhausted will these past days, twitched at the edge of his tongue as though every word he wanted to say was doomed to come out in stammers and stops.
He turned away from the path Emily had taken, pressing the heel of one hand to his brow.
Something had changed. And it was him she fled from.
Had he frightened her? He had seen her every day, practicing restraint, not speaking his heart.
Or so he thought. Perhaps he had pushed too much without knowing it.
Demanded too much, too soon. He had been cautious—so cautious—but perhaps even his gentleness had pressed too heavily upon her.
Had he been careless? Too hopeful? Too ready to believe—after a lifetime of holding back—that someone as gentle and radiant as Emily might truly want him?
He shut his eyes.
Of course she would reconsider. Of course she would grow overwhelmed. He had announced their engagement with reckless speed in a crowded garden, for heaven’s sake. He had dragged her into a life she had not chosen—all under the guise of protection.
He’d meant to shield her. What if he had trapped her instead?
A flicker of memory struck him: her soft voice whispering, “I am willing.” The delicate weight of her hand on his arm as they walked the Knavesmire. The way she had looked at him before the trumpet call startled them apart.
All of it felt suddenly fragile. Breakable.
Perhaps she had never meant any of it as he had meant it—
No. He would not dishonor her by thinking she spoke false. He lowered his hand and stared at the grass beneath his boots.
She had asked for time, he told himself.
He owed her that much. Beyond that, he wanted to give her anything, everything, that she asked of him.
But a part of him—small, terrified—whispered that time might not mend this.
That she might withdraw completely. That she might go to Jack and say she wished the entire arrangement dissolved.
His chest tightened painfully.
He could withstand society’s mockery. He could endure gossip, whispers, even the ruin of his own hopes. But losing her before he had ever truly been allowed to keep her?
He swallowed hard, breath unsteady.
Roman’s voice came through faintly, as though through water or thick walls. “Lyness? Are you well?”
He straightened instantly. “Y-yes,” he answered, though his voice cracked on the single syllable. He schooled his features, the way he had done since boyhood. He had grown adept at hiding hurt before anyone could call it weakness.
Roman stood almost directly before him and frowned, taking a step nearer. “You look as though you have taken a knife through the heart, Lyness. What has happened?”
Lyness glanced back once more where Emily had disappeared, the image of her retreat carved into his mind like stone relief. He forced himself to speak before Roman could worry too deeply. “I am n-not c-certain. B-but I will f-find out. I n-need a m-moment.”
“Of course.” Roman stopped, studying his younger brother. “Your betrothed stood here a moment ago, looking nearly as distressed as you do,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Lovers’ quarrel?”
Roman’s attempt at humor landed like a blow. Lyness did not have breath enough to correct him, but he sent a glare at his brother that communicated his displeasure clearly enough.
Raising his hands, Roman stepped back. “My apologies. It is none of my business.” He cleared his throat. “I will go check on our mother’s comfort.” He disappeared down the path and around some rubble.
For the first time since Lyness had dared to hope for a future with her, he felt it slipping through his fingers like sand—fine, impossible to grasp, hopeless to gather.
He needed to understand. He needed to speak to her.
But she had asked for time. He would give it to her, and gladly.
But he feared time might take her further from him rather than bring her back.
He stood alone amidst the ruins, praying that whatever had shaken her would not break him as well.