Chapter 18
Crispin had been uncertain whether Hermia’s horde of brothers were going to beat him to a pulp or clap him on the back.
He’d been extremely relieved that they had chosen to clap him on the back. Moreover, he’d been bloody shocked at how they had embraced him.
He’d had no idea what to do. No one—not a single time in his life—had ever done that. In fact, he could not recall his mother ever embracing him.
He didn’t know what to make of a family like this, and of the fact that they now considered him to be a part of their family. Perhaps it should have felt good. It did not. It felt strange, as if he was being pushed into a chasm and falling with nothing to grab hold of.
So, he had grabbed hold of his new wife. And made love to her at every available moment to keep his mind from turning to this strange, new, deeply uncertain feeling. And the events that had led to this coach ride.
The duchess was a marvel.
From the moment the scandal broke, she had arranged everything. Including a coach and two trunks full of their belongings. He had no idea how she’d gotten word to his butler to pack his things. But she had. She was clearly a woman of superior organizational skill.
And because of this, he and Hermia were nearing the cottage that had been arranged for her.
Two days’ drive from London, not far from her brother’s fabled estate, but actually quite far from Crispin’s own.
He wasn’t certain what to make of that either. Then again, Hermia had been plain with her family that they were not going to spend a great deal of time together, that the marriage was one of convenience.
Perhaps that was why they had chosen to keep her closer to them, lest he prove absent.
As they rolled across the countryside, he found himself in a continual state of confusion when she wasn’t in his arms. Not confusion about how he felt about Hermia. Oh no, they were on fire for each other. They had made love in the coach. They had made love all night at the coaching inn. Their passion had been so intense that neither of them had wanted to leave the chambers. And he had a striking feeling that such behavior would continue for as long as they were together.
The landscape was rolling, beautiful, touched by the summer sun. Trees were at their most beautiful, their verdant leaves shimming in the bright light. Sheep frolicked through the fields and wildflowers dotted the greenery.
When they turned down a gravel drive framed by sweeping oak trees, he wondered if he would be able to let himself enjoy all of this. For in the back of his mind, there was something whispering that surely he did not deserve such happiness.
Oh, the wedding had been forced on them by circumstances that were not ideal, but in the end, he did not care about that. He’d achieved what he wanted. A bride.
Specifically, a bride like Hermia who would not muddy the waters of his life with love. Love which all too often turned to poison.
A poison which he still felt the effects of and likely always would.
But… He was happy. And he’d realized only a few hours earlier, with Hermia sitting upon his lap, that he had never felt thus before.
Not truly. He’d known pleasure. He’d known triumph. He’d known success. But happiness? That had never actually whispered through his life.
She leaned towards the window, grinning at the sight of her new home.
This was hers. Where she would reign. And he loved to see her blossom in confidence.
He did not watch the cottage—which was in actuality a large house—that appeared at the end of the drive. He watched her. Watched the way the light played through her red-tinged, russet hair. Watched the way all her cares seemed to fall away.
And it stole his breath.
As soon as they curved around the crescent drive and stopped before the climbing rose-lined entrance, the coach door swung open and he jumped down immediately.
He surveyed the premises quickly. It was a beautiful Tudor manor with roses and lilacs everywhere. Ivy climbed the red bricks.
It looked like heaven. A warm, welcoming, magical place with old style windows and an elaborately thatched roof. It was the stuff of romantic novels.
Surely, anyone could be happy here.
He turned and held his hand out to her. She took it, smiled, and climbed down, her slippers crunching on the gravel. Immediately, a man in a simple livery came forward, his greying hair thinning on top.
“Good afternoon, my lord. I am Henry, and I will be your butler. The duke arranged for this house for his sister, though ownership is transferring to you as part of her dower.”
“That is correct,” he said. It had all been in the thick ream of papers that the Duke of Westleigh had shoved at him with a merry salute.
Hermia was an exceptionally wealthy woman with her own property. And his own holdings and lands had increased with their marriage too, not that he needed them.
“Come, let me show you the house,” the butler said, smiling. “You two shall be very happy here, though I am quite surprised you are not going up to your estate, my lord. I have heard it is splendid.”
It was splendid, but it wasn’t pleasant.
He hated it there. There was no joy in the place. Once, perhaps there had been. Years ago. But his parents had leached it out.
Strolling down the hall, with Henry listing off facts about the intriguing past owners over the centuries, he felt at ease. And that? That alarmed him.
The truth was he hadn’t really ever been at ease. Not since the death of his brother. Not since his parents had begun their pitched battle, and certainly not with his mother’s bitter nature.
The butler led them into a room with dark beamed ceilings, a large fireplace, and a long, black oak table with benches.
It was almost medieval with its trunks, tapestries, and hard-back chairs about the place. And yet it was perfect.
Tea things had been laid out, and the table was set with a feast of delicious items.
“Here, my lord and lady,” Henry said proudly. “We have been waiting for you eagerly and wished to make sure that everything is exactly as you hoped. No doubt your journey has tired you, and you are likely famished.”
There were cakes, bread and butter, cold meats, jams of at least five kinds, and fruit.
It all looked perfectly delicious.
“Thank you, Henry,” he said. “The countess and I shall eat and then we shall retire. Both of us shall wish for hot baths.”
“Of course, my lord,” Henry replied with a bow. “We hope you shall enjoy your stay here.”
And with that, the butler backed out and closed the door.
Crispin gazed about, feeling more at home in a room than he had in his entire life. But he also knew it wasn’t the intimacy of the place. It was Hermia here with him, who stood taking it all in as if she had been thrust into her own personal paradise.
“This feels as if it’s something out of a fairy tale,” he breathed.
She beamed. “Yes it does, doesn’t it? Trust my brother to find something so perfect.”
“He clearly knows you well,” he said with admiration. He wasn’t certain anyone knew him so well. Perhaps not even himself.
The truth was Hermia did indeed look perfect in this setting. The room was beautiful and yet intimate. It wasn’t too grand. It was the sort of place that one could feel comfortable in.
Hermia moved to the table, surveying its contents. “How delightful,” she exclaimed as she picked up a slice of cake and immediately began to eat it.
He laughed softly. “Hungry, are we?”
“Famished,” she said around a mouthful of golden cake. “You have made me so. I think that I have taken more exercise in these last days than I have in my entire life.”
“Well, I do like that,” he said. “For it seems I’ve broken some sort of record,” he teased, crossing to her and pulling her into his arms. “Shall we go even further?”
She laughed, melting into his embrace, her back easily molding to his body. She turned slightly, offering him cake from her own hand.
Crispin found the gesture to be remarkably intimate. He bent down and took a bite. His lips teased over her fingers as the sweet burst of sugar crossed his tongue. It was a delightful confection, just as she was.
“The cake is marvelous,” he said, “but I’d rather kiss you.”
She smiled at that, her cheeks turning a delectable pink. She tilted her face up, readying for his kiss.
Crispin lowered his mouth to hers, tasting the crumbs of the cake on her lips. He deepened the kiss for a moment, then paused.
The bliss that usually overtook him when he kissed her suddenly rattled away, and a sensation he’d never experienced pummeled through him.
But first, a thought raced through his head. A horrifying, stomach-wrenching thought.
This was too good to be true.
These feelings with her, and now in this place, made him feel strange. He wasn’t certain how to dwell in such feelings.
His gut twisted and, suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
She watched him carefully, concern furrowing her brow.
“Are you all right, Crispin?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” he tried to assure, though his voice was far too intense to his own ears. “Perfectly well.”
But as soon as he’d said it, he crossed to the window, feeling ill at ease and desperate to throw it open and drink in fresh air.
He whirled on the spot, his heart beginning to thud wildly, and he felt trapped. Trapped as if he’d been stuck in a box in the earth.
“A walk, I think,” he rushed. “Yes. That would be just the thing after such a long drive.”
How he wished he could charge out on Heathland.
He had had to leave his stallion behind. He wished that he’d been able to bring him, but it was no easy thing to tie an animal to the back of a coach traveling across the country. And he’d wanted to travel inside with his new wife.
“All right,” she said, “if that’s what you want.”
But he could tell that she did not want this at all and that she was wary of what was unfolding before her. Clearly, she wanted him to stay with her, and he smiled.
“Come with me,” he said before he could think better of it.
“But the food?” she ventured, conflicted like a good mistress should be. For the staff had worked so very hard to arrange it on their first arrival.
The deeply unpleasant feeling was now whirling through him, rushing through his ears, making a cold sweat break out along his back. “Can it not wait?”
“I suppose it can,” she said with a forced smile.
Nodding, he crossed back to her, his movements rigid. He took her by the arm, led her through the hall that Henry had brought them down, and out into the fresh air.
He sucked in the fragrant scent of flowers and damp earth. It must have rained recently.
He tried to think on that. And as he forced himself to focus on the brightly hued roses climbing the walls of the house, he felt his tension ease a degree.
Yes, this was better. Surely, he would be able to manage his feelings and thoughts out here. But the odd sensations racing through him were harrowing. His breath was coming in short takes, and his heart was now ramming against his ribs.
He stopped for a second near a climbing flower he could not name that twisted over an artificial bower. The bright orange flowers seemed to mock his distress.
“Are you quite well?” Hermia asked, her voice uncertain.
He swung his gaze to her. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s just the strangest feeling.”
“What is it?” she queried, touching his shoulder.
“My whole body is racing as if I’ve gone a mile in a few seconds.”
She frowned. “Well, then perhaps you need to sit down.”
“No, no,” he countered, his whole body revolting at the idea of sitting. “I think I need to walk.”
“Then let us walk,” she said, but her face grew pale with fear. She took his arm. “Should I call for the doctor?”
“No, no,” he protested, swallowing back a wave of apprehension. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”
As they walked and walked and walked, she kept pace with him.
But his thoughts whipped about his head like unsheathed weapons. This was not how it was supposed to be. He was not meant to have such strong feelings for Hermia. He was simply supposed to be her friend, to enjoy her, to have a partnership with her, and then he was going to leave her to her own devices.
But the idea of leaving her behind in this cottage suddenly struck him with such a horrifying emotion that he couldn’t breathe.
“Wait,” he said. “I need to stop. I need to stop now.”
She turned to him and said, “Of course.”
But as he looked at her face, he could see that she was afraid. Something was washing over him that he could not explain.
Nor could she. And that alarmed her.
“Hold my hands,” he said.
She did exactly as he asked, squeezing his hands as her gaze searched his for answers.
He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. “It feels like…”
“What?” she asked.
“Well, if I’m honest, it feels like I’m dying,” he blurted. And then as soon as he said it, he realized how absurd it was. He was a strong young man. Nothing ailed him. Nothing but his thoughts, surely.
“You’re not dying,” she insisted boldly as if she could will him to be well. “At least I pray to God you are not.”
And with that, she looked up into his eyes and said, “I am here, Crispin. I am here for you. Just as you were there for me at the ball. Whatever is happening, I shall not leave you to it. I promise, as you promised me, all is well. You are safe here at this cottage with me.”
Safe with her.
Suddenly, a shuddering breath went through him, and he realized he had not felt safe in his entire life. Well, not since his older brother died. He’d never been in danger, not like some children, of course. But there was the coldness, the cruelty, and the emotional anger of his parents. He had never felt at peace. He had always been afraid that his parents would erupt at him, that he would do the wrong thing.
That he would disappoint them. That he could never replace the child they’d lost. That he was so terribly unworthy of it all.
What a failure he was to them. It had been his fault that his parents had hated each other. For he had not been able to be good enough, excellent enough, to make them feel relief from their unending grief at the loss of the heir.
All of this? All of the joy Hermia had brought him? He knew it deep in his core. Everything that was good would somehow be ripped away from him because he did not deserve to be here when his brother had died.
All of that crashed over him, and the fact that she was offering to stay with him and keep him safe? It nearly undid him.
He swallowed back his emotions and pulled her into his arms. “Oh, Hermia,” he rasped. “I am so grateful that I know you, but this is all so strange and foreign to me.”
“What is?” she asked softly against his shoulder.
There was fear in her voice, as if she sensed that he was coming apart and that she would not be able to piece him back together again.
That her perfect arrangement with him was not perfect at all. Of course it wasn’t. He was far from perfect. But he could not let her down. He’d promised her happiness. He’d promised her everything she’d ever wanted.
“Belonging to anyone,” he forced himself to say, knowing she needed an answer. “Belonging with anyone. Feeling at ease with someone.”
“You have had friends,” she countered gently.
“I have had acquaintances,” he corrected. “I do not even know if I truly have had friends. I do not think I have ever let anyone in.”
Those words cut through him because the truth was he was letting her in. He did not know if he should. Perhaps he should shove her away. If this feeling was the cost of letting someone in, he did not know if he could bear it. Surely, he needed to be strong for her and this did not feel like strength.
This felt like weakness.
Crispin forced himself to draw in a long breath, to scan the horizon and look at the flowering trees, to study the roses growing along the house and climbing up its walls. He willed his mind to stop. He was not successful. Not within. But as he always did, at least on the outside, he appeared fine.
“I am well now,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.
But there was doubt in her voice, and he knew that she did not believe him. And he did not believe himself.