Chapter 10

Anthony was a coward. For a war hero, he wasn't very smart when it came to matters of the heart. He knew this, and yet, he continued to stay away from Miranda, sequestered as he was in his small cottage in Braithwaite as Christmas Day came to a bitter close. He was feeling the sting of rejection, but he knew it wasn't because of his appearance. Miranda loved him. He'd known it ever since she was fifteen years old and looked at him with stars of hope in her innocent eyes. And yet, he had asked her to save him when he couldn't manage to do it himself.

He sat with his head in his hands, the fireplace glow as his only light source, and called himself every derogatory name he could recall. He hadn't wanted things to end this way, truly he didn't, but he didn't know how to come back from the brink of despair. He was terrified that he would falter and find himself going down the same dark path he'd been on after he'd been released from service. Like a dead leaf falling off the tree in the autumn, he was adrift on the breeze without any clear indication of what to do. People went out of their way to give him a wide berth on the street and because of his hideousness, he knew he couldn't return to his family. To Miranda. He would be doing them a disservice.

He had considered ending it all so many times.

But then, he would remember the letters. Like a drowning man on the sea searching for some way to lift himself out of the mire, he would tear the worn ribbon off of the stack and read each one over and over again. They had started out in the handwriting of a child, but as the years passed, he could see the differences in the style. He would long imagine how she had matured, and looked forward to the day they were reunited once more. All of that was before his battle wounds, of course, but even afterward, he would be comforted by the warm homecoming he might have received. He pictured dancing the waltz with her at her come out ball, and coming by to pay an afternoon call, perhaps taking her riding in the park.

His chest ached, because he knew it would never happen. The pain would rip him apart as acute as the day that bayonet had removed the sight from his eye.

He looked at the letters sitting on the floor between his feet. They were still tied with that worn ribbon, each page barely held together, the folds carefully preserved in permanent creases. There were faded splatters of mud, blood, and his own tears that coated the outside. They were a reminder of everything that he'd yearned for, prayed for, but could never have.

He glanced at the fireplace and could feel the familiar well of emotion rising up within him. If he destroyed these letters, he knew it would all be over. There would be no other beacon of hope to guide his way to Miranda. But what was the point now that she was gone? He no longer had anything to live for.

And yet, as he stared at that pile of papers, he couldn't find the strength to do even that. He was consumed with Miranda, with the love that he felt for her but was unable to express for fear his sleeping demons would resurface with a vengeance.

It was time to let go.

He closed his eyes tightly, and then opened them again when he heard a brisk knock at his front door. He shot to his feet, expecting to see Miranda on the other side. He shoved the letters under his chair and then strode forward and threw open the door.

Jacob stood there.

With a mutinous expression on his face, Anthony should have been prepared for the fist that came crashing toward him and set him on his backside, but nevertheless, he knew he deserved it.

"You deserved that."

Anthony hung his head at the sound of disgust in his friend's tone. "I know." He slowly picked himself off the floor and faced Miranda's brother once more. He held his hands up in supplication as a trickle fell from his nose. "You still have a mean right hook."

"I've learned more than that through the years," Jacob shot back. "But most of all, I know how to tell if my sister has been sobbing all through the night."

Anthony hadn't thought it possible, but his heart sank even further. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Jacob looked at him expectantly, but when nothing was forthcoming, he demanded, "Is that all you have to say for yourself?" He shook his head in disbelief. "When you came to see me at the estate and I invited you for Christmas, it wasn't just because I was glad to see you among the living again, but because I felt sorry for you. There, I said it. But I never intended for you to make the holiday this terrible for my sister. She's suffered enough, but all you can do is think about your own selfishness."

Instead of retaliating, Anthony accepted every barb that was thrown at him, because he knew Jacob was right. "I don't know how to fix this," he admitted miserably.

"Why don't you start by telling her you love her? That you have for years, that you never stopped loving her?" he suggested.

Anthony shoved a hand through his hair. "I don't want to condemn her to more upset. What if I can never get past this?" He waved a hand at his face, but they both knew, as former military men who had fought a difficult battle, that the scars went much deeper than that.

"We don't know," Jacob returned evenly. "I may not bear the outward appearance you do, but when I say I struggle with what I saw, it gets very difficult to endure at times. It's not as if I can confide in my wife, because she wasn't there. She doesn't understand, and I certainly don't want to offer all the horrific details." His gaze was firm when he continued. "But neither was I going to let those hard emotions take any more away from me than they already had. I decided I was going to be stronger than that. I wanted to live, when so many around me had perished, so that's what I'm doing. I have a family now, and although I won't lie and say it goes away, the innocence and love I have surrounded myself with has made it bearable. The same can be said for you if you will allow it. But it has to be your choice. I could hit you all day long and demand that you see the error of your ways, but that would accomplish nothing except to pacify my own upset in seeing Miranda so despondent, although she does her best to hide it, I know my sister well enough to see she's unhappy. More so, I think than when our mother died, and I thought that might very well destroy her. Would you condemn her forever because of your own reluctance?"

Anthony frowned. Jacob had given him a lot to consider, but it wasn't anything he hadn't already discussed on his own. "I… will have to think on it, Jacob. That's all I can promise."

"The problem is you've done too much thinking. You have imprisoned yourself in this place. You might have thought it was a safe haven, but we both know the truth. I hope you do the right thing—for your sake, as well as for Miranda's." With that, Jacob turned on his heel and left.

Anthony slowly closed the front door. But it was a long time before he removed his fist and pushed away from the frame. He returned to his chair and gathered the letters in his grasp. He considered them for a long time, and then he lifted his chin, squared his jaw, and entered his chamber.

Miranda walked inside the front door of the townhouse she'd once shared with her parents. After spending the holiday season among excited family members and a populated hotel, the silence and calm of home was almost deafening, but all for the wrong reasons.

Jacob and Elaine had chosen to remain in Cumbria through the new year, but Miranda had left on Boxing Day, the morning after Christmas, finding that her enjoyment had waned drastically. Of course, they had urged her to stay, but she wasn't sure she would be able to keep a brave face any longer.

Both her brother and sister had given her a lingering hug upon her departure with the promise that they would visit her as soon as they returned.

As Miranda glanced about the expanse, she almost wished she'd remained, but it would have been impossible. Her nerves were taut, because she kept expecting to see Anthony—who never appeared. At least here, she could take heart with the certainty that he wouldn't suddenly be standing in front of her.

Deciding that a bit of holiday spirit might lift her own, Miranda sent the housekeeper on an errand for some greenery, a few extra candles, and even a pink poinsettia, that had been her mother's favorite. When the servant returned, the evergreen bough with its few pine cones were draped over the parlor mantel, the flower placed on a side table, and a wreath with a bright red ribbon hung above one of the floor-length windows.

With the gentle glow of the fireplace and the flickering candles, Miranda decided that it did help a bit. She decided to dress for dinner that evening, in the new, blue satin gown with its gold ribbon about the bodice that Elaine had given her for Christmas, along with a lovely peacock shawl. She'd even asked her maid to style her hair, and donned a small, diamond tiara and teardrop earrings to complete the ensemble. It had been so long that she'd worn anything other than half mourning, that she was almost surprised by her appearance. There was a certain glow about her that had been lacking until then, but a morose heart would surely be exacerbated by dreary attire. It was almost a shame that she had dressed up for nothing. No one would see her looking the best she had in a long time. Then again, she wasn't doing it for anyone but herself.

She went downstairs with a hint of a smile on her face, just as there was a knock at the front door. One of the footmen opened it, and although Miranda couldn't see who was on the other side, the sound of the murmured, deep voice carried across the marble foyer.

"Who is it, Evans?"

The footman reluctantly stepped aside as a well-dressed gentleman walked into view. "I don't believe I need an introduction."

Miranda was halfway down the stairs, but she stopped and clutched the railing with her gloved hands. She started to utter Anthony's name, but if it hadn't been for the sight of his wounded eye, she might not have believed it was him. He was dressed as fine as any gentleman of the ton in black trousers and a matching jacket, a white cambric shirt and cravat and even a maroon waistcoat. She had always thought he was handsome, but standing there in tall, shiny black boots, he was devastating.

When the silence lingered, he smiled slightly. "May I come in?"

"Of course," she returned breathlessly, already forgetting that he'd broken her heart. She slowly descended the rest of the stairs as the footman disappeared from view. When she reached the foyer and she stood staring at Anthony on a more intimate level, she offered, "Would you care to join me in the parlor?"

He extended his arm to her. "It would be an honor."

As they headed that way, he glanced back at the staircase. "I have good memories of that banister," he noted.

"Do you?" she said, her voice still little more than a whisper.

"Indeed." He turned her to face him in the middle of the room. His focus roamed over her face. "You have always looked so enchanting by candlelight."

Miranda's heart was pounding. "I didn't think you'd noticed me all those years ago."

"I've always noticed you." His smile grew. "That precocious girl who dared to take a risk, who wrote to a poor, aggrieved soldier on the battlefield, to the woman who brought a man back from the depths of hell."

"But…" She swallowed hard. "You act as though you've never left."

"I didn't think I had either, until I read your letters again." He reached into his jacket and withdrew a packet of sad looking papers in a bundle of faded ribbon. He set them on a nearby table. "When I actually looked past my own grief, I started to comprehend yours. You didn't just write to me to try to make me feel better, you did it so you could deal with your own sadness. I'm just sorry it took me all this time to finally push aside my upset to help comfort you when you need me."

"Is that why you're here now?" she whispered. "To comfort me?"

"Yes." He nodded. "But so much more than that. To start, I want a dance with you. The one I should have guided you in on the day of your come out ball."

She tilted her head to the side. "But there's no music."

"Then we shall have to make our own." He took her into his arms and, using his smooth baritone to hum a familiar tune, he guided her about the middle of the parlor. He never took his gaze from her face, and Miranda wondered if she was dreaming, for surely this couldn't be real. It was as if every fantasy she'd ever entertained was coming to fruition. After such a devastating departure, she was convinced she would never see him again, and especially not in London looking as he did.

As they danced, she asked, "What made you decide to visit in such formal attire?"

He lifted a brow in the coy way she had long remembered. The sort of action that had first caused her heart to melt around him. "How else might I court you properly?"

She stilled mid-stride. "Court me?" Again, her pulse picked up pace. "Do you mean to say that you're going to stay in London?"

"It would be deucedly inconvenient to court you otherwise, don't you agree?" he teased.

She blinked. "Does that mean you intend to return to society?"

He laughed. "I would be sorely disappointing my mother if I went back on my word now, not to mention the exorbitant amount of funds I used to procure all of the items I'm wearing at present." He learned forward, as if to impart a secret. "I even employed a valet."

She found all of this quite unbelievable. "Where are you staying?"

"With my parents for the time being, but I intend to secure my own lodgings very soon."

"This is impossible…" she breathed. She put a hand to her forehead wondering if she was dreaming, or if she'd suddenly gone mad.

He reached out and gently lifted her chin. "Not when it comes to proving how much I love you, Miranda. You were there with me during my darkest days. It's only fair that you should be a part of it during the light, because that's what you are to me. I stayed away, thinking that I would drag you down, but the truth is, I drag myself down. You are the one who lifts me up. I don't want to try to survive without you. Please tell me I'm not too late to win your regard. I won't ask for your hand again, not until you're ready. If you never are, then I'll be content to just be near you, to be your friend, but just don't let me go."

The fresh sting of tears assaulted Miranda's eyes, but this time, it was joy and happiness, not melancholy. "Oh, Anthony…" She reached up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his for a chaste kiss. "I loved you then, and I love you still. I always have, and I always will."