Chapter 2

TWO

Two weeks later…

"I cannot do this."

Edwina's whispered protest was so soft most would not have heard it. But he was deeply attuned to his sister's moods. More so in the past six months than any other time in their lives. "You can, Winnie. You can and you will. Thomas would not have wanted you to lock yourself away in that house to rot, nor would he have wanted you to suffer in London. You hate it there."

She shook her head. "I couldn't stay here. Not then. Not after—" She broke off, unable to discuss the horrid details of her late husband's murder.

"It's time for you to claim your place here. You are a young woman with a whole life ahead of you. A life that he would have wanted you to live." It had been only a week since his sister had returned to Highgate-on-Trent, to the home that she had shared with her husband. The very day after Thomas' funeral, he'd plopped his sister in his landau and taken her away from Highgate and all the memories that were causing her such pain. Edwina had stayed with him in London for six months and she had hated every minute of it. Only the thought of coming home alone to that empty house had prevented her from fleeing the city.

She shuddered softly. "He would want that, but it still feels terribly wrong. Every laugh, every smile—I feel so guilty. Thomas should still be here."

There was nothing he could say to that because she was right. Her young, vital and overwhelmingly kind husband should have still been there with her. But on a darkened road in Lincolnshire, he'd ran afoul of some footpad with a wicked blade. had ended all that, leaving his younger sister a widow far too soon. They'd been married for only a few short years, but it seemed to him that Thomas and Adina had been meant for one another. From the moment they had met, there had been no other for either of them.

But it wasn't only the loss of her husband that his sister grieved. Edwina had been heartbroken that they had been unable to start a family in the time they had been together. Now, with those chances gone forever, she wasn't simply grief stricken—she was heartsick with the loss of what was and what might have been.

"You're in half mourning, Win," he said. "These will be quiet, small events. It's not as though you'll be dancing a country reel or promenading on Rotten Row. It's a small gathering with neighbors and friends. With people who know you and people who knew Thomas, as well. It's an opportunity to remember him with others who grieve his loss, as well."

She sighed, but her hand still trembled on his arm. "You're right, of course. I know that you are. And I'm certain that once I've attended a few of these, then I will be fine. I will be fine and you can return to your life in London without having to worry for or dance attendance on me. It's been so unbelievably kind of you to put your entire life on hold since Thomas died. I detest that I have been so insufferably fragile in all of this."

He wouldn't call her fragile. But he would own that Edwina did not understand her own strength. Lesser women would have broken under the strain of such loss. And had. Their own mother had done so, after all. "You are my only family, Win. It's just the two of us and has been for some time. There is nowhere I would rather be," he insisted. And that was true. He missed London, of course. But when he returned to the city, he had no doubt that he would miss his sister more intensely.

They walked in silence the remainder of the way up the lane to the house of Mrs. Eugenia Frye, also a very young widow. She was hosting a small gathering, a simple luncheon for a few members of the community. They'd been invited to attend after the morning's church services—a truly painful experience. Normally, it was all one could do to maintain consciousness during church services. But the vitriolic vicar with his obvious anger and hatred for women had certainly kept them all on the edges of their seat.

Reaching for the knocker on the door, he lifted it then let it fall, striking the brass plate beneath. Moments later, the door was opened by a man servant. The house was well appointed but not so grand that he imagined the man would have the title of butler. More likely, the fellow wore many hats. "Mrs. Edwina Hollander and her brother, Mr. Desmond Crane," he said.

The servant nodded and then stepped back. "Indeed, sir, madam. Do come in. Mrs. Frye is expecting you. She and the other guests are gathered in the garden at present."

As it was likely the last truly warm day they would have with the autumn upon them, the idea of congregating outdoors appealed to him. They followed the aging retainer through the house, exited via a set of glass doors and then went down a small set of terribly uneven but still charmingly rustic stone steps. But the garden beyond was lovely and well worth it. And there was nothing rustic about the garden. Well manicured, beautifully landscaped and quite formal in design, it was truly remarkable. Late as it was in the season, it was still festooned with a wealth of roses in every shade imaginable.

"It's quite lovely," he remarked.

"It is," Edwina concurred. "I have spoken with Mrs. Frye at church before—well before. And at other events and she has always been remarkably pleasant, but this is my first visit to her home. I must say it is quite beautifully done up."

Desmond was no longer listening. His gaze had settled on a guest of Mrs. Frye's. Amongst the roses, stood a woman unlike any he had ever seen. One single glance at the mysterious lady and the urge to flee back to London had been eradicated entirely. With her coal black hair and large whiskey colored eyes, offset by her milky complexion, she was both exotic and quintessentially English all at once. And compelling. It wasn't simply that she was beautiful, though she was that. He could not look away from her. There was a magnetic quality about her that drew him inexplicably.

In that instant, she looked up, meeting his gaze. What had been merely a spark of interest erupted into a blaze. He wanted to know her intimately in every way—far beyond merely the physical. He wanted to know what was going on in her mind, what made those amber eyes so watchful and wary. In truth, he wanted to fill his every sense with her. Sight, sound, fragrance, touch and taste. Her berry pink lips would be the place to start, but certainly not where he wished to stop.

Edwina grew silent, her words trailing off. In truth, he hadn't even realized that she'd continued speaking until there was a sudden lull managed to penetrate the fog that had settled in his brain. All at simply sighting a woman. A woman, he thought, who would likely alter his life forever.

"You are not listening to me, Desmond! Whatever has you so distracted?"

"Who is she?" He asked, ignoring his sister's question and proving her point.

"Who, Desmond?"

"That woman with the dark hair. I've never seen her before. Admittedly we've only been to church twice since our arrival in Highgate, but one would think we would have encountered her at some point," he mused.

Edwina gasped softly. "Oh, Desmond, I should certainly think not. That is is Miss Goodwynne and she'd never show her face at the church. Not with all that Reverend Stalker has accused her of."

That caught his attention. After attending two services with that man at the helm, he would be quite content to never step foot in the small village church again. He was odious, hate filled and full of condemnation and superiority. Was his apparent rage directed at Miss Goodwynne? "What has that pious, pompous toad said of her?"

"Nothing that isn't presumed to be true—at least partially. Certainly nothing that she has denied… She is purported to be a witch, Desmond."

He blinked at his sister for a moment, waiting on her to laugh at such a ridiculous accusation. But she did not. She remained quite earnest. "Win, that is the stuff of nonsense and legend. Surely you cannot believe such drivel."

Edwina said nothing. But her gaze traveled from him to the enigmatic and mesmerizing Miss Goodwynne, her brow furrowed with concern. That was answer enough.