Chapter 23 #2
Her last words had struck with perfect accuracy because she had understood him.
That was the humiliation of it.
He had spent weeks mistaking jealousy for vigilance and fear for judgment.
He had allowed Loretta ’s suggestions to settle where trust should have stood, then followed his wife from his own table and demanded that she answer for an offense he did not truly believe she had committed.
Worse, he had invoked the rights of a husband after promising never to use them as a cage.
Adelaide had given him truth each time he asked for it, and at the first sign of uncertainty, he had answered with suspicion.
By the time Eric returned to the dining room, the room had emptied with the exception of Theodore, who stood near the sideboard with one hand braced against its edge.
“You look ill,” he said.
Eric almost laughed. “I have been called worse this evening.”
“I imagine you earned it.”
There was no challenge in Theodore’s voice. No triumph either. He merely set down the glass he had not touched and studied Eric with the same direct concern he might have shown the e arl after a coughing fit.
Eric glanced toward the empty table. “I would prefer not to discuss this here.”
“So would I.”
They left without explanation.
The library beyond the east gallery stood empty, its fire reduced to a low red glow. Theodore closed the door behind them while Eric crossed to the mantel and rested both hands upon it. He had thought anger might return once they were alone. Instead, exhaustion settled into every part of him.
Theodore remained near the door. “What did you say to her?”
Eric looked into the embers. “Enough.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I care to give.”
“No, it is the answer of a man hoping shame will excuse him from being specific.”
Eric turned then, but Theodore did not retreat. He was younger by several years, less powerful by every measure society considered important, and still he held Eric’s gaze without insolence or fear.
Adelaide had chosen her family well.
“I questioned her conduct,” Eric said at last.
Theodore’s jaw tightened. “With me?”
“Yes.”
A short silence followed. Theodore looked away first, though not in submission. He crossed to the decanter, poured a measure of brandy, and handed it to Eric without asking whether he wanted one.
“You are a fool,” Theodore said.
“So I have recently discovered.”
“No, I don’t think you have.”
Eric’s hand tightened around the glass. Theodore continued before temper could answer for him. “If you had discovered it, you would already be upstairs apologizing.”
“She asked me to leave her.”
“Then give her ten minutes and apologize outside the door.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple. Painful is not the same as complicated.”
Eric stared at him. “That sounds like something she would say.”
“She and I were educated by the same man.”
The truth of their closeness appeared in that sentence more clearly than it had in every laugh, every shared memory, every easy touch Eric had resented.
Theodore leaned one shoulder against the bookcase. “Adelaide and I grew up together. Her father treated me like a son whenever my own family was abroad or preoccupied, which was often. We fought over ponies, books, who had cheated at cards, and whether she had pushed me from the stable roof.”
“She told me you jumped.”
“I did.”
“She also said she pushed you afterward.”
“That part is unfortunately true.”
Despite himself, Eric’s mouth shifted. Theodore noticed but did not press the advantage. “There has never been anything romantic between us. Not once. I knew her when she cut her own hair with embroidery scissors because someone told her young ladies ought to value beauty above sense.”
Eric closed his eyes briefly. “That sounds like her.”
“She looked dreadful for six months.”
“I doubt that.”
“You did not see the left side.”
A quiet laugh escaped him before shame swallowed it again. Theodore’s expression softened. “She is my sister in every way blood failed to make official. I would sooner marry you than Adelaide.”
Eric looked at him. “I find that reassurance unnecessarily alarming.”
“It was meant to be memorable.”
“You have succeeded.”
“Good.” Theodore took the chair opposite the fire but did not sit until Eric finally did the same. “For what it is worth,” he added, “my affections are very thoroughly occupied elsewhere.”
“ Adelaide’s maid?”
Theodore’s brows rose. “Violet.”
“Yes.”
“So, Adelaide told you?”
“She informed me during the assembly, after taking great pleasure in my jealousy.”
“That sounds like her as well.”
Eric looked down at the brandy. “You care for Violet.”
“I do.”
“Does she know?”
“I suspect she knows enough to avoid being alone with me whenever possible.”
“That appears inconvenient.”
“It is maddening.”
Theodore leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She trusts me, but every time I come too near the subject of marriage, she retreats before I’ve spoken a word. I cannot tell whether she fears me, doubts me, or simply has no wish to begin again after losing her husband.”
“Perhaps all three.”
“That is encouraging.”
“You asked for a man’s opinion, not comfort.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“You were about to.”
Theodore gave him a rueful smile. “Very well. What would you do?”
Eric nearly answered that he was the last man in England qualified to advise anyone in matters of the heart.
Then he thought of what Adelaide had told him about Violet : the marriage she still mourned, the independence she guarded, and the reserve of a woman who had survived enough to distrust promises.
“I would stop asking her to imagine marriage,” he said slowly.
Theodore frowned. “And ask her to imagine what?”