Chapter 21

Destruction, thy name is Quinton. He deserved every bit of ruined roof that fell atop his head, every mother’s cry winging on the wind. He hoped they haunted him. Four cottages ruined. eighteen people, his people, without homes.

“Where is everyone sleeping?” he asked his estate manager.

“Can’t say.” Mr. Rilston, his estate manager, was bald of head and strong of arm, and he’d never failed Quinton. Now he frowned beneath bushy gray brows. “I’ve not been concerned about—”

“Find out. And if anyone does not have a place to sleep, put them up at the inn. And if the inn runs out of rooms, we’ll find space at Bluevale House. Do you understand?”

He pressed his lips like he understood well and disapproved, but he said only, “Yes, my lord.”

Quinton faced the next disaster. The final cottage destroyed by the storm seemed to be the worst. Roof snapped right off, entirely gone, bits of it scattered about the house like sheep in a field. A wall gone, too. Clothing lay sodden on the floor, smashed into mud. Earthenware dishes, shattered and jagged, littered the ground. A crib overturned, spindles broken.

“A child lived here.”

“At all the cottages, my lord.”

“Bloody hell. I’ve sent an epistle to Mr. Catcher. The architect I’ve chosen. I’m hoping he’ll visit and make suggestions for proofing the cottages against such disasters.”

“Are you sure you want Catcher, my lord? When Mr. Barnaby was here, he suggested Mr. Simon Parker should be—”

“I’d hire Simon Parker to wash my arse before I hired him to build a cottage. His designs are flimsy. I’ll hear no more on the subject.” He’d not subject these people to more inferior housing. He’d build them palaces before he did that. “Is everyone well? Was anyone hurt?”

“A few minor injuries, but they’ve already seen the village doctor.”

Quinton scrubbed his palms down his face, the scruff on his cheeks and jaw scraping soft skin. He’d not even shaved for his wedding, not felt he had time, busy as he’d been preparing to leave. He’d not even changed his clothes after. He stood there a ragged, married man in rumpled finery with a two-day beard, disgraced.

He climbed atop his horse, a running list of things to do in his head, blocking out the questions that pinched at his heart. How did Lottie fare? Did she regret marrying him? Would she give him a tongue lashing when he next saw her? Would she do other more delightful things with her tongue? Likely not that last one, not after his abrupt departure. He’d barely registered the ceremony. Guilt had crashed through him the entire time. He remembered only taking her hand, slipping the ring on her finger, saying the vows. He’d never had the words to say how he felt for her, had silenced his heart too long for that. But wedding vows sang his feelings for him. He worshiped her. Everything he had belonged to her.

And yet…

And yet he’d let that obsession distract him from his purpose.

She was his weakness.

The village rose into view, and despite the muddy streets from two days straight of rains, everyone seemed to be spilled into them, bustling about, purposeful and… jolly?

He jumped off his horse and pushed into what appeared to be the most crowded part of the gathering, the center of the activity, jostling shoulders and dodging hats. The people of Dewmore, the village nearest Bluevale and the duke’s country seat Clearford Castle, chuckled and chatted as if Quinton had not shoved their worlds over a very high cliff. They all craned their necks to see something in the center of the bustle, someone calling out orders above the heads of all the others. The woman’s voice seemed to move the crowd; they obeyed her every word, repeating it, bringing her what she asked for.

He understood the impulse. For that familiar voice, he’d do the same, had done the same to the detriment of these people.

The crowd parted, and there she was—Lottie, his wife, her shoulders back, her hem muddy, her hair tousled and wild, her figure perfection in a perfectly tailored, amethyst riding habit. A baby bouncing on her knees.

He rubbed his fists into his eyes. Surely, he hallucinated. But when he opened them once more, she remained. Lottie, golden and lovely where she shouldn’t be. Where he’d never expected her to be.

“What’s she doing here?” he mumbled.

“Organizing us as only Lady Charlotte can,” a man shoulder to shoulder with him said through a chuckle. The families of both houses near Dewmore were friendly patrons of the village inhabitants, and that familiarity laced the man’s voice. “And didn’t we need it.”

“Organizing… how?”

“She’s got everyone rummaging through their things to see what they can donate to the families that lost their homes. She’s made a list, she has all our skills, and gained promises from all of us that we would use them to help the families in whatever way we could. Set up a sort of trade between all of us. And she needed help handing out the things she brought with her.” The man nodded at a carriage, one of Quinton’s he’d left stored in the mews behind his London townhome, at the back of the square near the inn.

She’d rode in a coach, alone, likely biting back her fear.

“What did she bring?” he asked, setting each word carefully into the air. No particular tone in his voice because his body hadn’t quite settled on a particular emotion to feel. So many cried out for acknowledgement.

“All sorts of stuff from London. Food, linens, clothes. Dolls and toys for the children. She’s already found beds for everyone whose home fell. Most at the inn. Some, even at Bluevale House. Those with the youngest children.” The man chuckled. “Won’t the viscount be surprised by that? Babes crying at all hours. But what with knowing the lady her whole life, maybe he won’t be. He knows what she’s about. Likely why he married her. We’ve been celebratin’ since we heard the news. The two great houses united. Ya ask me, he married the best he could with her.”

“I have married the best I could. None better than her.” And God, wasn’t that the truth.

The man finally looked at him, jumped a little. “My lord! Didn’t recognize you with all that mud. Don’t look a bit like yerself. Congratulations on your wife. Everyone here’s always liked her.”

As had Quinton. Except for several misguided years when he’d been attempting to deny his own damn heart. And there she sat like a queen among her subjects, his people, and her taking care of them better than he could, making them smile, giving them hope. His heart squirmed with shame. And pride.

She was magnificent.

He pressed through the crowd, determined to reach her, touch her… explain.

About why he’d left her this morning with barely a word of explanation.

“Lord Noble.” Lottie’s voice calling him.

He found her gaze above the heads of the crowd, and he found it cold.

She stood, and the crowd parted for her where they hadn’t for him. She handed the baby off to another woman before marching right up to him, her expression impassive, unreadable.

His fingers twitched, ready to reach for her. He didn’t. “When did you arrive?”

“According to Mrs. Welk, a half hour after her rolls left the oven and an hour after you left to inspect the damaged cottages.”

“How… was the journey?” She’d been alone in a conveyance, terrified but determined. He glanced nervously at his coach open and empty at the back of the square.

“As I expected it to be.” A catch in her voice. “But I had many other concerns to occupy my mind. My irrational fears are of no import.”

“Like Hell. Lottie, you mustn’t—”

“I must. I did. And while I entertained our wedding guests, I had a footman and my maid fill the coach with provisions and necessities. I hope you do not mind, but I’ve offered Bluevale as a temporary residence until other accommodations can be arranged.”

He shook his head. “I know. Of course. It’s what I planned to do. Lottie, I—”

“Let us return to Bluevale. These ladies have everything well in hand now, and I can return tomorrow to Dewmore to see if anything else needs doing. Will you remain here longer, or will you leave with me?”

“Leave with you.” Where in God’s cursed earth had his backbone gone? Perhaps she’d stripped it from his body and added it to her own.

Or he’d given it to her when he’d fled this morning.

“Excellent.” She tilted her head just slightly. “Do you see how that’s done? I have intentions to make myself scarce, and I give you details so you do not have to fret.” She raised a brow and strode away from him, head held high, neck long and partially hidden by a few undone bouncing golden curls.

He remained immobile, not breathing, for likely longer than healthy. Some revelation seemed at hand, but his brain moved too slowly to see it clearly yet. He launched into movement, scurrying after her to be the one to help her mount her horse. Then he mounted his own, and they made their way toward Bluevale in silence, his brain wading through memory and slowly forming thoughts to arrive… where? At what truth?

The destination, whatever it was, did not feel like a comfortable place to be. He approached a cliff. No bridge in sight. Just rocks, sharp and killing, down below. And the growing silence between them as their mounts clopped toward home? A dangerous absence of words. Likely every bit of distance covered in which he did not apologize brought him closer to that ever-escalating cliff edge. He tried several times to speak, licking his lips, opening his mouth. Then the words died on his tongue. All of them incomplete, feeble.

When they dismounted, handed the horses off to a stable hand, and entered Bluevale, she marched right down the hall and into a drawing room, reminding him she was no stranger in his home.

The last time he’d seen her here was a few days before his father’s funeral. The entire Merriweather family had arrived to offer their condolences. Lottie had sat pale and silent on the edges of the room, and he’d suffered through an hour of soft conversation. Then as the duke and his family were filing out of the room, their visit over, and Quinton standing by the door, head hung, studying his dusty boots, he’d felt a tap—no, a poke—on his shoulder. He’d looked up to find Lottie sliding into the hallway, poking her tongue out at him. And despite his grief, despite the black hole that it had opened up in his chest, he’d laughed. And that laugh had sparked a bit of joy to remind him that life would not always be so dark and empty. The joy had not lasted long. The day they’d buried his father, he’d almost been swallowed whole again.

But Lottie had always been able to do that, stick her tongue out, poke him, prod him out of his feelings. Some might be insulted at the disrespect to their hollow grief. Quinton had needed the silliness to remind him life lay beyond the darkness.

She stood at the window, staring out, her back to him, her velvet riding habit caressing every curve he now had a right to touch. He’d always thought he would grow bored once a woman’s body was his to admire whenever he wished. He wouldn’t though. The one night they’d spent together had started an unquenchable fire for his wife that would never be extinguished.

Princess lay at her feet.

“You brought the dog,” he said, the words unplanned.

“Yes. She comforts me.” Her words sounded lifeless. “And she is mine now, too.” She turned and walked toward him, each step chosen carefully, seeming heavy as sin. When she stood just before him, he realized what weighed her down so. Tears. Falling silently from her eyes.

With trembling hands, he cupped her cheeks and wiped them from her face. “How long have you cried?” And why hadn’t he noticed?

She jerked out of his embrace. “Do not touch me.” The tears came again, sliding quickly, and she dashed them away. God, his Lottie crying. He had not seen her grief since the day her parents died. Her rage, yes, her wicked humor. But not her tears. And he’d caused them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “The cottages have fallen. I’m needed at Bluevale. That’s all it would have taken. But you shoved me into a carriage with nothing but a grunt about an emergency after looking like you were attending your own execution the entire length of our wedding. After smelling of whisky as if you had needed it to stand up beside me. You are treating me as if I cannot help. As if I have no place in the difficulties of your life. As if you do not want me in any way.” She tore away from him, and when she whirled at the end of the room and stomped back his way, her cheeks flaming and her eyes a cold, sharp blue. “Do you think I will narrow my existence for you? Pretty and perfect in a ballroom and rumpled for your pleasure in bed? Those are my only two roles? Do you think I will sit quietly, disinterested in the rest of your life? I will not. I am strong, though you do not see it, and I can be more to you than… than whatever it is you want me to be. An empty-headed hostess. A body to plow into.”

He winced. “You’re more than that Lottie.” He bit his tongue, swallowed, tried again. “It was badly done of me. I was not thinking clearly this morning. I—”

“That’s all you have to say?” She flung her arms out wide, let them drop to her sides.

“Rage at me, Lottie. I deserve it. Just don’t cry.”

“Do you blame me for this?” she demanded.

He winced. He had. She’d distracted him. Wasn’t that what Barnaby had said? Not quite Quinton’s thoughts, though, not quite his verdict.

Her lips thinned. “I asked you to tell me about the cottages. More than once. If I’d known—”

“I blame myself!” he cried, his voice like knives on his throat.

Something in her shifted, softened perhaps, and she took a single step toward him. “You hired an architect, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And builders?”

“Yes.”

“Could you have completed the project sooner? Before the storm?” She took another step closer.

“No, but—”

“Did you know a single storm would pull them to the ground?”

“My father had them rebuilt before his death. I knew there were problems, was determined to fix them, but I didn’t… I didn’t know.” And he should have. “Maybe I would have had I not allowed my heart to wake up, to want you, had I not given into my fascination with you.”

“You would have still been in London when the cottages fell. You won’t wield the hammer to fix their homes. You’re no carpenter, no god, either. Most peers would not have returned, even to console their people.”

“I am not most people.”

“I know. It’s why I love you.” She hung her head, pushed the heel of her hand across her cheek bone, and his gut twisted. She loved him. But said with such sorrow. “You do blame me after all, I see. If not for your fascination with me, none of this would have happened, hm? Do you not hear how foolish that sounds, my lord?”

Anger flared, a means of protecting himself when his skin already glowed purple with self-inflicted bruises. “I should be strong enough to evade the distractions of a pretty woman. But I am not strong enough to resist you. You are my—”

“I am no man’s weakness!” she cried, pounding a fist against her chest.

Her words echoed around them, and when he reached for her, a natural impulse to soothe her that happened without conscious thought, she shrank away from him, her body making a rigid line of her usually soft curves. Then she began to shake and dropped into a puddle of velvet on the ground. She lifted her face defiantly, though, the spark in her eyes beginning to dim.

“I’m stronger than you, Quinton Chance.” Her eyes watered as she spoke, glassing over with sorrow or frustration or whatever other pain he’d given her today.

He wanted to kneel beside her, pull her into his arms as he had the day of her parents’ funerals, as he had the day he’d proposed to her. But something kept him on his feet, a distanced observer. The sight of a softly weeping Lottie could be counted among the many injustices of the world. Entirely wrong. The only reason he could contrive for Lottie, broken on the floor—play acting. She must be.

Because the Lady Charlotte Merriweather he knew never melted, met every challenge with the sword of her wit and the shield of her courage.

Loving her would never weaken him. It could only build him up, make him stronger.

And he’d broken her.

Slowly, he dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels, close, her skirts beneath his trousers, but careful not to touch her. He did not know if he could make it better, but he could try.

“My entire life, my father lived for his duty. My mother and I—that’s all we were to him. Duty. He was kind and he cared for us, but in the same way he cared for everyone and everything else, as if he were scared to get any closer. I suppose I learned to love timidly and from afar from him.”

Lottie remained unmoving, slumped, her shoulders shuddering up and down in jerky motions with each difficult breath.

He licked his lips and started again. “My mother’s love is messier, more visceral. Hugs and scoldings and tears. I have both in me, I fear, Mother and Father—cold, walled-up emotion and passionate feeling. But the day they buried my father… I’d never cried like that before. I’d never felt so wounded. I’d been his duty, but he’d been proud of me. He’d loved as best he could with a broken heart. And I felt alone, weak, unable to live up to the example he’d set for me without him by my side to teach me how. I told you he loved his first wife. And in that love, he lost sight of duty.”

She snorted. She was listening. And being irreverent about it. A fledgling hope leapt in his chest.

He spoke faster now. “That day Barnaby caught me crying and you comforting me—he reminded me of that, of my father’s heartbreak, his mistakes. He seemed so strong. Not a single tear or even a watery eye from him. And he and my father had been dear to one another. He’d been made of stone that day, and I wanted to be like him. So, when he told me to put my heart to sleep or risk losing sight of what matters, risk being weak, I listened. A means of survival, I suppose. I couldn’t privilege my heart when so many others needed me without distraction.”

She sniffed, barely tilted her chin, and peered at him only from the corner of her eyes. “Distraction. Hmph. Love makes you stronger.”

There she was, his Lottie, challenging him. He wanted to weep. But was she right?

Instead, he said, “So I put my heart to sleep, tried to forget how I loved you.” He swallowed. “How I love you.”

She lifted her head then, her eyes wary, still wet from crying. “You love me?”

“Too much. It consumes me, and I lose sight of everything else. Duty and passion—different types of loving. I cannot afford to love with passion. Men cannot. We must love through duty or put too many others at risk.”

Her brows furrowed, and she studied him, then sighed, and climbed to her feet, pinching her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “And you think women risk nothing by loving with passion? If that were true, no one would have cared about that book I dropped in Hyde Park. We risk everything when we love, when we feel. And all we ask is that the men we love take that risk with us.”

“Lottie,” he said, rising, “I’m sorry.”

She made her steady way toward the door. “So am I. That you do not think yourself capable of holding duty and passion in your heart at the same time, that you do not think yourself strong enough for it. Barnaby’s a disaster.” She winced and rubbed her temples.

“Your head is hurting. Let’s take you upstairs.” He reached for her arm. “I’ll—”

“No.” She brushed his touch away. “A maid will show me to the viscountess’s chamber.”

“Let me help you.”

In the doorway, she faced him, the pain of a coming megrim lining her face. But a pain more soul-centered rounding her shoulders. “I do not wish to allow my weaknesses to distract you, my lord. I’ll help myself.” She left, burning a Lottie shape of amethyst velvet into his memory.

Bloody hell. He found a bottle of whisky and took two slugs of it without a cup, pouring the fire down his throat, letting it unsettle his belly and dull his senses.

I do not wish my weaknesses to distract you.

When she said it that way, it sounded bloody absurd. As if he couldn’t tuck her into bed in a dark room with a warm tea and do whatever else needed to be done. Or hand off his responsibilities temporarily to Mr. Rilston…

As if he could not have married Lottie with a bloody smile on his face, told her where he needed to be, and let her help him get there instead of shutting her out.

Princess lifted her head from near the windows and whined.

“You’re right, girl. I’m a bloody fool.”

He abandoned the bottle where he’d found it and stomped toward the kitchen. “Cook! Lady Noble needs a special tea. Now! I’ll show you how to make it.” When he brought Lottie a cup, steaming between his bare hands, he used his boot to knock. No response. He kicked again.

“Lottie!” Hell. He should be quieter. “Lottie.” That time a whisper.

The door slightly down the hall to his left swung open, and Lottie stuck her head out, a line as deep at the Thames between her brows.

He could frown, too, and he did. First at her, then at the door he’d been kicking at, then at her once more. “You’re not in our room.”

“I’m not in your room, my lord. I am, however, in the viscountess’s room, my room.”

Wrong, everything wrong.

He held out the tea. “Drink this.”

“I won’t if I don’t wish to.” But she took the cup.

“Lottie, I thought we’d share a room. Of course we will.”

“I need rest. And quiet. And darkness.” She winced, slammed her eyes shut, and leaned against the doorframe, the liquid sloshing in her cup.

“That bad?”

“I get dizzy.” Spoken with closed eyes. “A bit nauseous. Particularly when…”

“When what?”

“Nothing.” The word almost silent. “Thank you for the tea. Now please let me rest. Alone.” She slunk back into her room and closed the door.

Alone in the hall, Quinton thought back to every decision that had brought him here.

“I’m a bloody idiot,” he mumbled.

But how could he prove to her that he could change?