Chapter Ten
Quietly as he could, Neville passed through the mews gate to Harbury House. Then, he slid the bolt through the latch behind him. Since his mother had told him about “the powerful peer” who’d placed spies in the houses of his enemies, his already sharpened vigilance increased.
He doubted Willard would go so far as to attempt to force his way into a duke’s home. Then again, before tonight, he thought Willard incapable of making a public mistake, let alone of rampaging down a theater corridor.
Could such a madman be contained?
Eltenham, Willard’s father, was a proud man. When word of his son’s wild tear reached him, he was not going to be pleased.
Unless Eltenham was part of the plot…
The very thought made Neville ever more aware of the night air’s icy edge. If Willard had his father’s full protection, Willard would become untouchable. Someone would have to kill a man for him to be brought to justice.
But justice was a matter for the morrow. Tonight, Millie was his first concern.
Neville followed the garden path, seeking signs of life. While the house’s curtains had all been drawn, the stables were lit from within.
Odd, that. Had Asquith only just arrived?
Neville pushed aside its half-opened door. Asquith and Millie stood just yards away, in the center of a halo of light. Asquith’s hands rested against Millie’s shoulders as Millie, with panic in her eyes, stared up into her guardian’s face.
Neville knew Asquith hadn’t anything more than a sisterly feeling toward Millicent. Still, catching a glimpse of their rapport struck him to his core. Why couldn’t he and Millie achieve intimacy with such ease?
Worse still, Millie’s expression did not bode well for Neville’s chances.
Asquith sensed his presence first. Apparently, he correctly read Neville’s slightly jealous distress, because he withdrew his hands and stepped back into the shadow.
“You have another visitor. I’ll be just outside, Mil.” Asquith turned away, giving Neville a significant, very male, glance as he passed by. “Don’t muck this up,” he said under his breath.
As if Neville would ever hurt Millie. As if he’d—
His throat closed.
The one thing he wanted more than anything was also the thing he most feared. Would binding her to him wound the free spirit that was uniquely Millie?
Damn it!
After their earlier intimacies, some part of him had been foolish enough to have believed she might be pleased to see him. Clearly, the brief time they’d spent apart had made her wary again.
This wasn’t the proper scene. He didn’t want to propose here, now. Who would affirmatively answer a proposal given in a stable with a large and aggressive horse looking on with a haughty expression?
“Millie,” he started.
“No.” She balled her fists. “No! Not yet. I cannot…”
He took a step toward her, and the huge horse snorted.
Better, he decided, to remain where he was.
She turned to stare at him with pleading eyes. Then, slowly, her expression changed. Her eyes widened as her gaze traveled, first up, and then down, his person.
“You’ve changed.” Her arm jerked as if she meant to reach out and touch him.
“I’m on a rather important errand, you see.” He felt himself flush. Wonderful. “Possibly the most important errand of my life.”
She stiffened and then backed farther into the darkness. The horse swung his head, watching her retreat. Then, he looked back at Neville with a glint in his eye, as if warning Neville not to follow.
“Millie, you’ve never backed down from challenging me before. Why start now?”
Millie’s whimper nearly cut out his heart.
Horse’s heart, too, apparently. The animal whinnied in response.
“I don’t understand what you want me to do,” he said.
“You aren’t the only one in confusion. For the past year, you’ve found fault with everything I do. I can’t understand why you would want to marry me now.”
“I’ve been hard on you.” His throat went rough, a little achy. “And you have been hard on me, too,” he reminded gently, ever mindful of the horse. “Didn’t we establish that we were both working under a misapprehension?”
“At the time, you sounded as if you were certain of your chastisements.”
“Were you always speaking the truth when you tore into me?”
His question had come out harsher than he’d intended. The horse’s pinned ears flicked forward, while keeping a wary eye on Neville. Millie made no movement at all. Neville thought back though some of her more stinging insults until he recalled one he thought she’d be likely to remember.
“Just before you followed me out to the yew maze, you said…” He stuck his chin in the air and mimicked a lady’s voice. “What you perceive as ‘up to something.’ Little Lordling, is, in fact, the exercise of wit and imagination…two things beyond your experience.”
She laughed halfheartedly. “One of my better hits.”
“Indeed.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Sliced me straight through.”
His tone was light, but he was deadly serious. He’d felt as well as heard every one of her insults. She must have realized it, too, for she emerged, hesitatingly, from the shadows.
“I’m not the only one who was cruel that evening.” Her gaze reproached him. “You thrust me away. You called me reckless.”
Too well, he recalled the moment—and the one that followed…him, sitting in the dirt, bereft. “What I truly wanted to do was kiss you senseless.” His voice cracked. “I didn’t think you’d welcome such an assault.”
Her gaze remained skeptical. “Lust.”
“Not just, Millie.” He shook his head no. “Not just.”
“How can you know? Maybe you are only pursuing me now because I have been difficult.” Her brow furrowed. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “You should find yourself someone who will adore you. I am not that woman. Let me suffer the results of my own actions, as you always predicted I would.”
He ran a hand over his face. “When I said you would come to a bad end, I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did!” she interrupted.
“Very well, I did.” He sighed. “Then again, we have always been swords-drawn, every confrontation an escalation. I did think your actions would land you in a fix.”
“I hear the rest of that unspoken thought, ‘Well, they have.’” She scowled. “Pat yourself on the back and go away. Give up on this—this terrible plan to save me from myself.” She looked away. “Let me live my life in exile, instead.”
Ah. Her most painful insult yet. “Do you prefer exile to me?”
“Yes, I do,” she answered with resolve.
A deadly thrust, a piercing ferita.
But the ripping sensation he felt wasn’t swordlike at all. Instead, an invisible hand had reached inside his gut to stretch and shred his internal organs. Exile. Loneliness. Separation from the sisters she loved. Those things, she preferred to him.
He must do as she asked, he supposed. His name, his home, even his heart. If those things held no value to Millie, he couldn’t force her to take them.
He turned, fully intending to walk away.
Instead, he placed a palm against the doorway and bent forward, as if resisting the force of her will. Was she being honest? Was she right?
On one hand, her rejection of him made sense.
They were opposites. And he had, in fact, long hoped for a marriage very different than that of his parents. He’d thought that meant the peace and security of a conventional wife.
So why was the thought of being without Millie squeezing the air from his very lungs?
And why was the vision of himself, sitting across the long table from an appropriately petite, gently obliging wife making him nauseous? Such a wife would be cordial, respectful, polite.
Infuriating exchanges? Never.
Misunderstandings that left him gutted? Absurd, the very thought.
But such a marriage would contain none of Millie’s dry wit, either. Nor anything challenging or unexpected. Just a seamless integration with his well-ordered, carefully planned existence. Everything he had thought he preferred in life. Everything that had been his aim.
He glanced over his shoulder.
He didn’t want well-ordered.
He wanted Millicent Wainwright—inventive chaos, creative disruption, turbulence, resilience, and, ultimately, transformation. The essential ingredients, in fact, that brought life both texture and flavor. She was the lady he wanted with every fiber of his being.
And, because that desire for her was more than just lust, he would have to walk away.
Her image blurred—from unshed tears or deep fatigue, he didn’t know.
“It’s not you,” she whispered, sounding stricken. “I just—I prefer exile to marriage.”
He blinked. She came into focus again. Hadn’t Harbury told him that she objected to the wedded state, but not necessarily to him?
She brushed away a tear with the palm of her hand.
Even with red eyes, a redder nose, and blotchy pale skin all over, he still found her alluring. Heartbreakingly alluring. Would she be crying if she weren’t equally conflicted?
Would she be crying if she were sure marriage to him was the wrong solution?
He checked the horse—the animal’s eyes had grown soft and easy, his nostrils had become perfectly relaxed ovals. For whatever reason, the horse no longer felt Neville a threat.
Taking care, he approached Millie. Once standing in front of her, he folded his hands behind his back, simply to prove he was not a threat. Then, he dipped his head to try and catch her downcast gaze.
She avoided him at first, but he persisted. Finally, she lifted her eyes, meeting his. She studied his face, even as her own face reflected back vigilance in every line.
Cautiously, he worded his question—a question more important, at present, than the one he’d come here tonight to ask. “Is there anything I can do or say that would change your mind?”
She sniffed. “I don’t think so.”
Not a yes. But better than a no. “I haven’t actually asked you for your hand, you know.”
Again, she dropped her head. “I know.”
Time. He needed time. And to buy that precious resource, he suggested the first nonsense that came to mind. “Perhaps a delay is in order? Proposals should always be made in daylight,” he said as if this was law.
Her glance was wary.
“You are tired. You need rest.”