0764213504 (29 page)

“You’ll what?” Her shoulders had edged back, her chin had thrust out, making the bruises shout at him. Yet somehow, she didn’t look like a petulant child ready for a brawl. She looked like a princess facing down an angry mob. “Run off to another continent and not bother to write?”

“Brook, that’s unfair!” He reached out, tempted to shake some sense into her—or perhaps to pull her tight and give in to the long-festering need to kiss her, to show her why he couldn’t suffer another man be in her life like that. But when his hand gripped her shoulder, she hissed out a breath, her eyes went wide, and she pulled away, clutching the shoulder.

He’d hurt her. Heaven help him. “What did I do?”

She shook her head, though the denial was obviously a lie,
given the way she squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s nothing. It was just wrenched, is all, and bruised.”

He’d hurt her. A careless touch, and he made her wince away. Still, that was nothing. He’d done far worse in years past, he was sure, as he taught her his sports. But he’d
hurt her
. He saw it as she opened her eyes again and stared at him from too-dry eyes.

He was, it seemed, his father’s son. Not Father’s—Father, who could grin and sweep his lady into his arms and make her forget all the agony that had come before. Not Father, who understood that when pain came, you clung to those who mattered most, you didn’t push them away.

But Edward’s son. Stone-faced, coldhearted Edward’s son.

Nostrils flaring, he dragged in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I should . . . I should go. It seems I’m still not fit for company, so I’ll just . . . I’ll see you in the spring.” He pivoted. Eyes unfocused, he made for the general direction of the door.

“Wait!” Her long, delicate fingers caught his. Familiar. Warm. Perfect . . . But if he clung to them, it would hurt them both all the more. He wanted something she obviously didn’t want to give. She hadn’t been dreaming of him, hadn’t been yearning for him. She couldn’t have been, if she were so busy getting to know
Brice
. “Justin, you can’t mean . . . When does your ship leave?”

He slid his eyes closed to keep from looking at her. Told himself not to squeeze her fingers. “Tomorrow.”

“What?” Her fingers fell away. “No. You just got here, you can’t possibly leave again so soon.”

“I thought to have a week in Town before the wedding. I cannot help that my ship was so late.” His voice sounded hollow, empty. Just as he felt. He wasn’t strong enough to keep from turning to see her.

She shook her head, sending her curls swaying. “No. But you can help when you leave. Postpone a few days, Justin. Please. There are things . . .” She blinked and looked away, but one of
the tears still overflowed and spilled onto her cheek. “There are things I cannot put in a letter.”

“Brook.” There were things he couldn’t either. The truth of his father. Of his heart. “I wish I could. But I risk missing an important rendezvous if I delay my departure. I have to go.”

She gripped his wrist. “I know you have responsibilities. But they cannot always take precedence over
people
.”

“They are
about
people—the hundreds upon hundreds of them who rely on the Stafford estates for their well-being.” It was true. Why, then, did it sound like an excuse to his own ears?

“I mean your family.”

“They understand. My friends understand. Everyone else—”

“Everyone
else
?” She tossed his hand away from her and all but leaped back. “Now I am not family, not a friend?”

Why could he say nothing right to her anymore? He lifted his hand, though then he let it fall again. “That is not what I meant.”

Fire snapped in her eyes. “Isn’t it? It seems to me that it’s
exactly
what you meant. That you can’t bear the thought of not being able to do everything on your own, to control all you touch, O Mighty Duke of Stafford, and so you must push away those who make you
feel
and—”

“You have no idea what I feel!”

“
Ça c’est sûr!
”

The French sent him reeling backward—not because of her claim that that was the point, but because she had stuck with English until then, which was unprecedented when her emotions ran so high. Proof that she had built a place for herself . . . and he had no part of it.

He had ruined everything. And he didn’t know what to do but turn, pray to God that He would help him mend it, and leave.

Seventeen

B
rook stood where he’d left her. The threatening tears made her nose ache, and pain from holding them back scorched her side.

He’d left. He hadn’t teased or cajoled or called himself a dunce. He hadn’t shot back with an accusation of his own. He hadn’t gathered her close again and told her why he had such shadows in his eyes.

He’d left.

A sob nearly escaped. So much she’d wanted to tell him—nightmares and jewels and lying letters in her mother’s things—and now he was gone, and he was leaving tomorrow, and they would part for months with this between them, and then things would never be the same again.

Things were already not the same.

“My lady.” Deirdre bustled into the room, concern in her eyes. “I heard shouting. Was that the duke?”

“Yes.” But no. Yes, it had been the Duke of Stafford talking about responsibilities and trips he couldn’t postpone. The Duke of Stafford, with eyes so much older than his years. But
beneath him, somewhere, was
Justin
. She darted around her maid. “I have to catch him.”

“But I heard his car start up.”

“Then I have to go after him. I need a horse. Or the car.”

“My lady.” Deirdre caught her by the elbow, horror on her face. “No. You can’t go out alone at night in London. Not looking as you do.”

Did she mean the bruises or the clothes? Either way. Shaking her arm free, Brook charged through the doorway. “You’re right. I need livery. There should be something in the laundry.”

“My lady!”

This time she was the one to halt. “You can help me or you can stay out of my way, O’Malley, but I am going after him.”

Indecision chased through the Irishwoman’s eyes . . . then she crossed herself and flew down the corridor. “Heaven help me and may his lordship forgive me. I’ll fetch the livery.”

Every step seemed to take an hour, every button an age, but the clock said it was not five minutes later that Brook flew from Aunt Mary’s house in borrowed Ramsey livery, a chauffeur’s cap hiding her hair and shadowing her face. Papa usually helped with the car’s crank, but tonight she didn’t have time to find other assistance. She did it herself, ignoring the strain to her side, and leaped behind the wheel.

Thank heavens Papa had driven her to Justin’s townhouse yesterday. She followed the same route now, praying he had gone home and not to the wedding ball. Surely, surely he was not so unmoved that he could feast and dance as if the world were still whole.

She took the last two turns too fast, but her galloping heart would accept nothing less. When she squealed to a stop in the rear of his driveway and saw him just exiting the carriage house, she deemed it worth it.

He spun at her ignominious entrance, light from the lamp outlining him in gold.

He wouldn’t know the car. She took it out of gear and pushed open the door, tossing her cap to the seat behind her.

“Brook?” It was half disbelief, half relief in his tone.

She wasted no time on words, not quite yet. Just ran for him and didn’t stop until her face was buried in his chest, her arms wrapped around him.

He hugged her back, so tightly she could feel the ache in his heart even above the one in her side.

“Gently,” she muttered into his ascot.

“Sorry.” His arms didn’t loosen but shifted away from the sore spot. “I’m so sorry.”

“I couldn’t let you leave like this. I didn’t mean to fight with you.” She squeezed him tighter, breathed in the scent of lemon and spice. “I’m sorry, Justin. I understand your duties. I do. But why must you push me away? I need you.”

He stroked a hand over her hair. Lingering . . . but sorrowful. Then he rested his head on hers. “No you don’t. You’ve always been so strong. Independent. Look at you, flourishing in my absence.”

“No.” He wouldn’t say that if he knew what dreams haunted her. If he’d seen the evil glint in the eyes behind the gunman. “Don’t leave like this. I know you must go, but not like this.”

Silence pulled her soul taut. London still made its noises, to be sure, but he made none. Made no move. He just stood there and held her and then loosed a breath that seemed to expel his every drop of energy.

“Everything has changed.”

Her own thought—but hearing him say it made her shake her head and tip her face up more to look at him. “
Non
. Not everything. You are still my dearest friend.”

“Am I?” He put his hands on her shoulders and urged her away. “After acting as I have?”

She gazed into his eyes and saw how dark the blues looked
in the night, how darker still with what he kept pent up inside him. “Justin . . . it doesn’t matter.” It couldn’t.

His smile looked so sad. “Of course it matters. I’ve hurt you, and that’s the last thing I meant to do. But I don’t know how to remedy it, other than to promise you I’ll try never to do it again.” Now his hands dropped to his sides, and he backed up a step. “You need to go home,
mon amie.
The streets aren’t safe.”

Neither was home. She slid closer again, found his hand. “Not yet. We haven’t talked. I don’t know what adventures you’ve found.” Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she knotted her fingers around his. “Tell me a story.”

“All right.” He squeezed her fingers . . . and then released them. “I believe this one is called ‘The End of an Era.’”

Her throat went so tight she could only whisper her reply. “What happens?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She shook—not with November’s cold, but with his leaving. With the changing. It seemed all she could do was try to make the parting sweet. She lifted her hands, planted them on his shoulders, and strained up.

“Go with God.” She kissed his left cheek, soft and sorrowful. “Hurry back to me.” She kissed his right.

But when she tried to lower back to her heels, he pulled her against him. Tangling his hand in her hair, he tilted her face back, giving her a single glimpse of his eyes—deepest blue still, and flashing. Then he touched his lips to hers. Just a touch. But it lit a spark. Then a fire, a sweeping, a diving. She clung to his shoulders and parted her lips and was lost. Utterly, beautifully lost in a sea of sensation.

He angled his head and took her deeper, making her want to dance, to sing, to fly.

Then her arms were empty and only cold air kissed her. Her eyes flew open in time to see him shove a hand through his hair.

What was that? Or rather,
why
was that? For a second, it all roiled through his eyes—question, regret, and . . . and something far warmer, far deeper. Then it was gone, locked away.

Never in her life had she felt so very cold. “Justin.”

But the Duke of Stafford took another step backward, twirled the signet ring on his finger. “You need to go home. I’ll have a groom follow.”

No.
He couldn’t just run away again after that, after changing everything on her. “Justin.”

He kept retreating. “
Au revoir, mon
amie
.”

Until I see you again
. Though only the Lord above knew when that would be . . . and if she would still be his
amie
. Her stomach clenched.

“The End
of an Era.”

She spun and ran for the roadster, closing herself in. The car was still running—she backed up, turned, and sped onto the square before he could rouse any of the grooms. Was back to Aunt Mary’s likely before one could have saddled a horse.

So very close. So very far. When she pulled back into the carriage house, she switched off the car and rested her head on the wheel for a minute. Tried to convince the breaths to come into her lungs in an orderly fashion, to exit one at a time. They seemed determined to trip and tangle.

It was cold. Her hands stung. She needed a fire. A blanket. Justin’s arms.

No.

Pocketing the key, she stumbled from the car and ran toward the servant’s entrance. Reached for the handle.

The door swung open before her, a man’s figure looming against the lamplight within. “Elizabeth Brook Eden! Inside—
now
.”

She ought to have known her father wouldn’t linger at the ball. Scarcely feeling the trudge of her feet, she slid by him.

“Into the parlor, young lady.”

Of course. At home, the parlor was where he led prayers, where he doled out praise to the staff. Where, she heard, he would fire anyone to be dismissed.

She’d yet to see him do it. Perhaps the fear of it won obedience.

Or more likely their love of him.

She made her way into Aunt Mary’s green and gold parlor and stopped in the middle of the room, her head too heavy to hold high.