“There’s nothing for me to forgive.”
He said, softly, after far too long, “I think about him all the time.”
She closed her eyes.
“He’d be nearly ten, if you’d had a boy. I imagine him with your beautiful eyes. My mouth.” His voice rasped over her, killing her. “Or a girl with your hair and my smile. She might have had your brother’s gifts.”
“Don’t.”
“I don’t think I ever told you how I felt, and I ought to have.”
She turned her head toward him. “It’s not the men who suffer. It’s the women who are turned out of the house. Women bear all that burden.”
“How could you not trust me? The day you told me you were with child, that night, I lay in my bed at Wordless, and I was glad and at the same time I was afraid of what my father would say when I told him. Afraid of Magnus and what he’d think of me for what I’d done to you. And afraid for you. Terrified for what might happen to you.”
She didn’t dare open her eyes. She couldn’t, didn’t, and still the tears came. In those days when she’d been trapped and desperate and unable to tell anyone for fear Magnus would find out, she’d felt as if the poison of Lord Northword’s hatred had given the man the power to twist the world into any shape he wished. Crispin’s father did not wish for a world where his son married a woman like her, and he had transformed the world until he had what he wanted.
“I knew you were afraid and distraught and that you blamed yourself, as if you’d gotten with child without any help from me. I knew you blamed yourself, but I never told you how much I wanted to marry you and hold our baby in my arms. I thought you understood that. I thought you knew I loved you too much to let that happen to you or our child.”
She rested her head on her arm, face down so that she could not see him. “Don’t do this to me.”
He moved closer. “What, Portia? Do what?” The ice was back in his voice. “You went to that woman without giving me a chance to convince you I would do anything you needed. Anything. My father could threaten me all he liked, and I would not have refused to marry you. You didn’t need to save yourself from that fate.”
The enormity of her loss hit her again. What might have been, the life they might have had. Words came on the heels of a short, low breath, fast and propelled by the force of all the years she’d kept those words back. She lifted her head and stared at him through a blur of tears.
“Your father told me if I married you, he’d have Magnus expelled from school. He said if you were still a minor he’d have the marriage annulled. He told me if I thought we could wait until Magnus was graduated, that if we did that, Magnus would never have a living anywhere, not for as long as he lived. He told me he’d already personally seen to it that the Royal Academy would never admit him, and he had. He did that to punish me, to make sure I knew he’d stop at nothing. That’s why Magnus was rejected. If it weren’t for me, he would have been admitted. He ought to have been.”
He set both hands to his head this time and stared past her.
“Your father was right about me. And so are you. I didn’t love you enough to bring more harm to my brother. I couldn’t do that to him when I’d already cost him his dream.”
Crispin dropped his hands to his side. She didn’t move. The silence ripened. At last, he said, “You ought to have told me.”
She leaned sideways against the chair and stared at the window frame past Crispin’s shoulders. She didn’t want to know if he was looking at her. It would kill her to know. “What difference does it make what I should have done or wish I had? There’s only the choice I made. And I am sorry. So sorry to have hurt you. I never wanted that.”
“I married someone else, and by the time I understood what an awful mistake I’d made marrying in anger and resentment, it was too late.” His voice was bleak, and if there had been a way to blot that out, she would have. “My wife deserved better. She was a good and decent woman, and she deserved more from her husband than the man she got.”
That took her aback enough to look at him. She had always imagined they were happy. Crispin would never have married a woman who wasn’t worthy of him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He made a face when she reacted by reaching to him. Her hand fell back to her lap. “Don’t you be either, Crispin Hope. You never wrote of her except in the most tender and respectful ways. I always thought it was plain as anything that you loved her very much indeed.”
“Not the way I loved you.”
“Of course you didn’t.” She clenched her hand on her lap. “There isn’t only one way to love someone.”
He strode to her and did not stop moving until she was trapped between him and the chair. Her heart headed toward her toes. His every look recalled what they’d done today, and though she still felt the aches of their encounter, her body wanted him again. She wanted all the marks of their passion, the imprint of him on her soul rising up and taking shape once again. “Then why do I feel as if nothing’s changed with us?”
“The past hasn’t changed. It’s there in our memories. It won’t ever go away.”
The silence was uncomfortably long.
“I loved you.”
“We can’t go back.” She wiped at her tears. “My God, can you imagine if we tried? We aren’t that couple anymore. I don’t know you any more than you do me. Please, let’s be friends. Let’s keep that.”
He stepped back.
Her heart broke again.
Chapter Nine
Two days later
AFTER BREAKFAST THEY WERE ALL sitting in the parlor as near to the fire as they dared now that Hob had brought in the morning post. There were letters for everyone. Crispin had several, most of which he put in his pocket, but he read aloud from one in which a friend of his, a man whose name she recognized from reading the Times, described with lively detail his days spent hiking in Northumberland.
Magnus sat on a chair idly sketching while Eleanor knit. When Crispin had finished reading his letter and they had exchanged news or excerpts from the other correspondence, Portia cleared her throat and said, “I have happy news.”
Eleanor put down her knitting and beamed at her. “I adore happy news, and I should very much like to hear yours.”
“Jeremy and I have advanced the date of our wedding.”
In the silence that followed, Eleanor drew her eyebrows together. “But the day’s been set for weeks now.”
“We’ve decided to be married sooner. Not October, Eleanor, but May.”
“May? Next year, do you mean?”
“No. Next month. Nothing fancy. There’s no time for anything but the simplest of ceremonies, and we’ve decided we prefer it that way.”
Eleanor’s hands stilled. “But May is when we’ll be in London. For the end of the season.”
“You and Magnus may still go, of course.”
“When did you decide this?”
“I wrote to Mr. Stewart just a few days ago.” She was aware of Crispin’s silence, the way he watched her. “He agreed a May wedding was more convenient than October. I should like it very much, Magnus, if we could be married here at Doyle’s Grange on the last Sunday in May. As soon as the last of the banns are called.”
Eleanor’s hands fluttered. “I’ve told everyone you’re to be married in October. In West Aubry. ”
Her stomach folded in on itself. She glanced at her brother, hoping to see in his face confirmation that he supported her in this change. Magnus did not meet Portia’s eyes.
Eleanor smiled radiantly. “You see? It’s not convenient at all. I assure you, I am happy to be of assistance in bringing your wedding about in a suitable manner. At a suitable and convenient time.”
“Jeremy and I are settled on this.”
“I excel at managing such matters.”
“I’m sure you do.”
She leaned close and gave Portia’s arm a squeeze. “Your parents would have wanted you to have a lovely wedding
, attended by the people you love. You’ve not had a mother’s firm guidance nor been able to see your father’s pleasure at seeing you properly married. The way I saw how happy mine were when Magnus and I were married.”
Resentment bubbled up even as she told herself that Eleanor only wished for her wedding to be perfect. But she wanted nothing more than to be gone from Doyle’s Grange. She did not want to continue an intruder on her brother’s new life. She wanted to be away from a world where the Viscount Northword could destroy her peace of mind. “I appreciate that. Truly, I do.” Lord, she could feel Crispin’s gaze. “But Jeremy and I are in accord that this change in date is for the best.”
“You have a sister now, my dear. Wiser and more experienced in such matters. I’ll take care of everything. You ought to be married in the church at West Aubry, with your brother presiding. You can’t have seen my guest list, the people I’ve invited for October. Or Mr. Stewart’s guests for that matter. I have the list from his mother, you know.”
“Have you?”
“With your brother so newly established in his living, you would be very selfish to insist on being married anywhere but in West Aubry. Will you deny his parishioners the sight of their spiritual leader living by example what he preaches to them every Sunday? No, my darling Portia, they deserve to see his sister married in their church, by the man who guides them spiritually.”
Magnus cleared his throat. “I think I can as well see my sister married here as at West Aubry.”
“But, my dear.” She blinked several times.
Portia cast about for anything to stop the tears that threatened. “Magnus is so new to his living, and you have so many expenses just now. The Grange, the work at the vicarage. I don’t wish for there to be any fuss. It’s not as if I’m a young bride. No, no, Eleanor, I must decline all that, despite your generous offer of assistance. We shall have a small ceremony attended by family only.”
Crispin leaned forward, and Portia’s stomach hollowed out. His hands had touched her, stroked her, and she wanted to hold the remembered sensations close. “The last Sunday in May, you say?”
“Yes, my lord.” Portia wanted to kick him for reminding Eleanor of that. “I know you’re to be back in London by then, but it’s all settled.” She held out a hand and smiled. “I will gladly accept your good wishes.”
He did not take her hand or return her smile. “You cannot think for a moment that I would miss your wedding.” Just now he reminded her so strongly of his father that she felt an echo of the dread she’d felt when in the presence of the late Lord Northword. “I wouldn’t. Not for the world.”
She allowed him to see her opinion of that. Magnus got up and put more coal on the fire, a welcome distraction, actually.
Crispin wasn’t having any of it. “If I must rearrange a meeting or two, then I shall, and there’s an end to it. I will be here. The last Sunday in May.”
This, then, was her way out. He’d given her the rope that would save her. “Thank you, my lord. How kind. It will mean a great deal to have you there.”
Eleanor gave her a panicked look. “But Portia, the house is so very small. If you’re to be married here, where will everyone stay? There’s no place suitable for Mr. Stewart and his family to stay in Up Aubry, and Aubry Sock is too far away. As is West Aubry from the Grange. No, the wedding must take place where we can accommodate the people who will insist on being here.” Her voice trembled. “Doyle’s Grange is lovely. I adore it, but there is so little room for guests—and when it is in this condition… In West Aubry, there’s the vicarage and several inns where guests might be made quite comfortable.”
Once again, Crispin settled everything. “Your guests are welcome to stay at Wordless. There’s plenty of time to open up the house, Mrs. Temple. I am happy to do so.”
“Brilliant, Word. And generous. You see?” Magnus said to Eleanor. “It’s settled as easily as that.”
“Northword Hill is at your complete disposal.” Crispin looked to Magnus. “You are not to be out of pocket for this, do I make myself clear? Whatever staff you hire will be employed by me. My valet will be more than happy to assist with the arrangements. I know Mrs. Temple will manage everything beautifully, and I shan’t have to worry about a thing. Nor will Portia.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Portia said. She smiled with pure relief. “That is very kind of you to offer your home.”
He waved a hand. “It’s the least I can do.” Then he gazed at Portia. “I look forward to meeting Mr. Stewart.”
Chapter Ten
Three days later
PORTIA STOOD IN FRONT of the lavender, scissors in hand. The rowan tree was to her right, leaves no longer drooping, just as Hob had foretold. She broke off one of the forming lavender blossom heads and rolled it between her fingers. Even this early in the season, the scent was lovely. Her heart pinched at the thought that she would not be here to see it in full bloom. Nor any of the rest of the garden.
Jeremy and his mother had arrived several hours ago and after much ado, Mrs. Stewart was resting upstairs. Jeremy, Magnus, and Crispin were ensconced in the back parlor while Eleanor was driving the servants to distraction overseeing preparations for her and Magnus’s departure for Brighton. Portia had escaped the chaos at the first opportunity.
Boot heels clicked on the stone steps. Not her sister-in-law, thank God. Too fast to be Magnus. Her brother never walked when he could stroll nor hurried when he could walk. Hob never moved that quickly either. Those footsteps came too quickly for anyone but Crispin.
She turned and saw him striding toward her in his tasseled Hessians and snug breeches. The lawn was muddy from the most recent rain, and he had to slow down, not much, but some, when he left the path to head her direction. When he reached her, she curtseyed and then, from deviltry, added, “Good afternoon, my lord.”
He stopped in front of her seconds before she would have been required to move, if only to avoid being run over. He ended up too close. He’d walked out without a hat, which she found absurdly thrilling despite it being obvious he’d come here with his annoyance in tow. She stood her ground. Besides, two steps back, and she’d be standing in the lavender.
“Is that woman somewhere near?” He lifted a warning hand. “You know who and what I mean. Can she see or hear us right now?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then don’t curtsey.” His mouth thinned. “It’s not necessary. Not when it’s just the two of us.”
“You think not?”
“That hasn’t changed.” He jammed his hands into his coat pockets. He was splendid in high passion, and it made her sorry for the anger that zinged between them. “She isn’t here to cry mock tears and convince us all she mustn’t be upset lest she melt away in a puddle of grand emotion.”
She crushed the bits of lavender in her free hand and let the bruised and torn pieces fall to the ground between them. “Why are you here?” She waved a hand. “Out here, I mean. Glaring at me as if I’ve gone into your room and mixed up all your papers. Or poured ink on your best shirts.”
His mouth twitched down. “As if you couldn’t guess.”
“I can’t.”
He worked his jaw, and she was tempted to take a step back. She didn’t though. “What the deuce, Portia?”
“Don’t scowl like that.” Never mind that he was glaring at her, he was all bluster. Eleanor was inside the house and could not see them. With the side of her thumb, she smoothed away the furrow in his forehead. She had the private pleasure of seeing him struggle to master himself, and it made her feel better, knowing that he might be feeling as to sea as she did. “Did no one tell you your face will freeze in that expression?”
He took her hand and held it. “You can’t be serious about this fellow.”
She pasted on a smile, but that did nothing for the lurch in her chest. “I like his mother.”
“A delightful woman, I grant you that.” He’d always been scrupulous in that way, honest even when it would
have been easier not to be. “I can’t say I find her son equally delightful.”
“Stop.”
“Your face will freeze like that,” he said.
“If it does, at least I won’t spend the rest of my life with an ogre’s glower.”
He burst out in laughter, and she tried not to and failed. “Imp.”
“The largest imp there ever was.” She curtseyed to him, and she almost, almost, felt as if all was well between them. It wasn’t. It never could be, no matter how many times they fell into sin or avoided it.
“Portia.” Crispin threw an arm wide. “Fifty if he’s a day. I don’t care how much you like his mother. What do you mean by this?”
She freed her hand from his and clasped her hands behind her back. She never had liked dealing with what people meant rather than what they were saying and right now Crispin was not saying what he meant. “I don’t understand what you’re asking. What do I mean by this? What do you mean?”
“I’m not asking you anything.”
“My mistake.” She tapped her toe, and even though on the grass her boot made no noise, her irritation with him was plain enough.
“I’m demanding that you explain why you’re marrying a man old enough to be your father.”
“Sit, Fido,” she murmured. “Good dog.”
He took a step forward. “Don’t make light of this. You don’t love him. Don’t insult me by telling me you do. I know when a woman’s in love.”
“I’m sure you do.” And that came out too hard and too resentful.
“Mrs. Temple is right. You don’t love him.”
She set free her hands to break off another stalk of lavender and tap his chest with it. “You’re a worse bully than her.”
“I’ve not bullied you since you were ten. You wouldn’t stand for that from me.” He flexed his fingers then crossed his arms and glared at her. “Do you love him?”
So much was already broken with her life, she did not wish to have it fracture now by telling him things she did not care to admit to herself. Before Crispin arrived, she had been at peace with her decision to marry, indeed, she had been near to desperate to leave Doyle’s Grange, and the sooner the better. She reached behind her and broke off another stalk of lavender.