Chapter 21
London
2 Weeks Later
Since the moment he’d begun to unravel at the cottage, his life had become utterly desolate. Crispin had not known what to do. He thought that leaving her to her own existence, separating himself from her, would somehow fix it all.
After all, if he could remove himself from that which was causing his emotions to awaken, surely he would return to his previous self. Surely, he could go back to the status quo of what was. To being a decent person, to feeling steady and human.
But now, bloody hell, he felt as if his skin was being stripped from his body, scouring him with agony. He felt as if his heart was being mashed up and his stomach twisted in knots. Almost every moment was sheer hell.
Nothing seemed to drive it back.
Not even rides on Heathland in the parks.
London was a disaster. Everywhere he looked, he understood that he would much rather be with Hermia at the cottage. Yes, a damned impossible part of him longed for the quiet silence, looking at flowers, watching bees dance, seeing the butterflies flit from flower to flower, and lying in the grass with his head on her lap.
And yet he had been unable to feel at ease with her. It was a torment, a tumult of emotions circling through him. Thoughts that would not cease were repetitions of his mother’s and father’s cold comforts.
And every night he had dreamt of his brother. Yes, he had dreamt of his older brother never waking up. Small, pale, cold, wrapped in a sheet, never to speak again, leaving Crispin behind to fill a role he never truly could.
Now, whatever had happened between himself and Hermia, he’d been forced to come face-to-face with emotions that he had thought he’d long ago secured.
And now he knew, dear God, that it all had to do with her. For she had slipped a key into that locked box of his feelings, turned it, and through no fault of her own, opened it. Now he could not shove those feelings back.
He stood in a small room at White’s, staring at the felt of the billiards table. His mood was so dark that whenever anyone entered, they took one look at him and retreated.
There was an untouched decanter of brandy near him. He’d tried that the last week when he’d first returned to London, praying to God that if he simply put back enough of the liquor, he could stop feeling this hellish feeling shuddering through him.
It hadn’t worked, and he’d thankfully given that up. But nothing had worked yet so far. The days apart from her had not alleviated his fears, and yet he could not go back. He’d made it clear to her what he wanted. No doubt she would wish no part of him. Not after the way he’d left her.
He only prayed she was with child, for he could not see her easily letting him back into her bed. Not after how she’d looked when he’d all but abandoned her.
He had made a misery of it all. A misery if he had stayed; a misery if he left. A misery if they were in love, and a misery if he would not let them be. What a twisted world it was that he lived in. It was so unfair. He had tried so hard. He’d been so careful to make certain that he would never come down this road of pain, and never take another person down it with him.
And yet here he was.
Had it all been some trick of the gods? Had he been making a mockery of fate the entire time to think that he could control love or life or pain?
Perhaps, but he’d had to try.
Crispin had steadfastly avoided his London home. He could not bear to see his mother or his sister. He did not want them to see what a failure his life had become. He was already such a disappointment to himself.
White’s had all but been his home this last week. Now, he picked a long wooden cue in a daze, with no real intent to play, wishing to God that he could use it on himself.
Perhaps if he cracked it over his head, he would hopefully achieve some inner peace. Of course, peace could not be achieved thus and certainly not through bludgeoning himself. He stalked around the table.
“I never took you for a coward, old boy,” a voice called from one of the doorways.
He snapped his attention to the doorway, spotting the Duke of Westleigh standing in the frame.
A wave of dread crashed over him. The last people he wished to see were any of Hermia’s family. None of them came to White’s. He’d assumed he’d be safe.
The duke leaned his shoulder against the polished, carved wood and said with dangerous nonchalance, “I warned you what would happen if you made her unhappy. And I warned you that if you gave her what she wanted, she would be.”
He tensed. “Very wise you are, Your Grace, and I wish I had listened to you, but it wouldn’t have changed things. I was going to marry her. I had to marry her.”
“You wanted to marry her,” the duke cut in mercilessly. “Let’s be plain.”
Crispin looked away. It was true. Despite all the machinations and arrangements and arguments, in his gut, he knew he had wanted to marry Hermia. Still, he’d made an utter muck of things.
The duke crossed into the room, followed, dear God, by his brothers, Lord Ajax, Lord Hector, and Lord Zephyr. They were a veritable battalion of big men, no doubt ready to pull him apart and beat him to a pulp for making their sister unhappy. Perhaps it would be just the thing. Just what he needed to sort himself out, to feel something other than the racing thoughts of the last weeks.
“Right then,” he said, putting the cue down. “Let us get this done and over with and the punishment doled out.”
The duke cocked his head to the side. “Punishment? What the devil are you talking about?”
He narrowed his eyes, assessing the men standing across from him. “Well, you’ve come here to punish me, haven’t you?”
The duke drew in a breath. “Ah, I see. You are accustomed to being punished when you miss the mark in some way or the other… Instead of supported.”
His jaw tightened and he remained silent. He wasn’t about to reply to that.
“That’s right,” a voice said from a door on the opposite end of the hall.
He was wary of looking away from the men who could break him to bits if they felt determined, but he knew that deep, magical voice.
“How the blazes did you get in here?” Crispin demanded. “Women aren’t allowed.”
“Allowed?” the duchess mocked. Her jeweled gown sparkled in the candlelight as she made her way towards him. “I have my ways, my boy.”
“Ladies are not—” he began, still stunned by her presence.
“Ladies are not, but I am,” she replied. “And I know exactly which palms to grease to have people look the other way.” She made her way slowly towards him. “Now, it is time that all of this stops,” she said.
“What stops?” he rasped.
“You must stop doing this to yourself on purpose,” the duke stated.
“You have a family,” the duchess said.
The duke took a step forward.
And he suddenly realized he was boxed in by Briarwoods.
“You understand we are your family, Crispin,” the duke declared. “And we’re not about to allow you to drown in this self-pitying isolation.”
Crispin’s throat tightened. “But I’m not really your family. I’m…”
“Excuse me. You are our family before God and the law,” the duchess cut in. “And nothing you do now can change it, unless you’re planning on pursuing a divorce, which I don’t think you can get. Neither of you are capable of doing what is necessary to achieve one.”
“No, no divorce,” he whispered. “Not ever. I wouldn’t do that to Hermia. And you’re right. There will never be a cause. But why would you want me in your family?” he blurted. “After the way I’ve behaved.”
“You’ve behaved perfectly sensibly,” she said gently but factually, “for someone who has been as hurt as much as you.”
“I haven’t been that hurt,” he countered. “People have been hurt far worse.”
Her silvery brows rose. “Oh, it’s true. I’ve seen far worse than what’s happened to you. I grew up in the darkest parts of London, where the wickedest hearts reign and rule and make people’s lives hell,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t mean that what happened to you as a child did not change you and shape you as you are now. But it’s not too late, Crispin.”
“It is,” he said tightly, trying to keep ahold of himself. “I can’t even explain to you what it’s been like the last few days.”
“That’s because you are awakening, my dear,” she said, her eyes aglow with something akin to…hope.
“Awakening?” he scoffed.
The duke nodded. “Exactly. Hermia’s made you feel things again, and you don’t know what to do with that, but we will help you. Hermia will help you, and there’s another person who will help you.”
“Who?” he demanded.
“Me, Crispin,” a voice said from behind the duchess, and he could not draw breath nor speak, for in all his life he never imagined that his mother would join forces with the Briarwoods.
“Mother,” he breathed.
“You should go back to Hermia,” she said as she crossed to him, her face more at ease than he could ever recall it.
“You want me to go back to her?” he said, feeling completely thrown. “I thought you loathed her and her family.”
“No,” she countered, her eyes darkening with pain “I did not ever loathe her, and I did not ever loathe her family. I’m going to tell you something now, and I hope you listen.”
He was shocked by the tone of her voice. “What?” he demanded, half afraid of what she might say.
“I came to understand something recently after a visit from your mother-in-law,” his mother confessed.
“She came to visit you?” he whispered.
She nodded. “I do not loathe anyone else. I have loathed myself.”
“What?” he gasped.
His mother came to him. And much to his horror and his shock, she took his hands gently in hers, lifted them, and then gently kissed them. She lowered his hands, still holding them, and met his gaze. “I have failed you. I did not mean to. I thought I was making you strong and readying you for the role of being earl, but I, along with your father, bit by bit, daily, destroyed who you are, Crispin.” She flinched. “Trying to make you your brother.”
She drew in a breath and looked back at the duchess as if she could draw strength from her. “But it was done to me, you see, and so I thought that’s what had to be done. That’s what everyone had to do.”
“I don’t follow, Mother,” he confessed. “What do you mean it was done to you?”
“I was nothing like this before I met your father, you know,” she said, her voice shaking as a tremulous smile tilted her lips. “I was full of joy and I loved the world and music and dancing and dresses and laughter and good company. I admired opera singers and musicians. But your father was very clear about things and how I should be. I was in love with him. He was handsome, bold, and I thought he was strong.”
His mother’s smile dimmed. “He molded me, and he molded me effectively into who he thought I should be. And I cut off who I was so that I did not have to suffer anymore. But I did suffer. Oh dear God, how I suffered.”
Her eyes closed. “And then when your brother died, it destroyed me, you see. I thought I loved your father. I was willing to give up everything for him before your brother died. And I thought he was giving up everything for me to teach me how to be a great countess. But what I realized was his love was not true love. His love was control, Crispin. He wanted to make me into the image that he deemed worthy. We were not in love with each other, dear boy. I think that’s what you fear, isn’t it? That you will love like that? Love like your father and I did. But I want to tell you right now…” Her eyes darkened with intensity. “That was not love. And what we did to you was not love. And I am so very sorry that I tried to force you into the role of someone you are not. I have waited far, far too long to understand this. I was so angry with the duchess when she came and kindly pointed out the fact that I no longer have to be who I was when your father was alive. I was furious…until I realized she was right. And then, it was like waking up from a nightmare.”
“Mama,” he rasped. “I don’t understand.”
And the emotions which had been charging around inside him, swirling and pummeling him, suddenly began to fall out.
Tears filled his mother’s eyes. “Oh, my boy. I never let myself love you because I was so terrified to lose you like I lost your brother. And look what I’ve done to you and to me. I’ve taken you away from the woman you love.”
He shook his head wildly. “I do not…”
“Yes, you do,” she countered. “You love her. I saw it the first moment you met her. You were gone, Crispin. You were lost. There was no turning back.”
He swallowed and, much to his horror, a tear slipped down his cheek and then another, and then another. And she stood and pulled him into her embrace. The most motherly embrace he’d ever known.
“Whatever has happened, you cannot let her go,” his mother declared. “She is your other half and she truly loves you.” His mother looked about at Hermia’s brothers and the duchess. “This family will teach you things that I never could, and I want you to be happy, Crispin. You don’t have to choose unhappiness as I have done.”
A sob racked through his body. He pulled his mother into his arms, and he realized he had waited for this moment his entire life. The moment when his mother saw him, loved him, and gave him permission to be himself. He’d been certain it would never happen, and he had cut himself off and made himself cold. But now as she said these words, he felt all the things that he had tried to hold back, all the things that Hermia had awakened, begin to slip out of him.
Free.
It was the hardest thing he had ever felt, and yet he knew it was also the most important.
But all he could think was that surely it was too late. He had left her behind, and she would want no part of a man like him who insisted on keeping his love to himself.