Chapter Forty-Six

Two Weeks Later

S hifting in his seat, Joss peered out the window for likely the hundredth time. The carriage seemed to be crawling at a snail's pace. The closer they came to Eastvale, Vincent's estate, the slower each mile seemed to pass.

"The view has not altered significantly since last you looked... a mere five seconds ago," Vincent observed, sounding at once amused and annoyed.

"Your eagerness to see Honoria has had you looking out the window with no less frequency." There was perhaps more snap to his words and tone than Joss had intended, but he was more than a bit on edge.

"Oh, I do not deny it. I cannot wait to see my wife again. But I love her. Is your eagerness to see Hettie an indication that a shift has occurred in your stance on the existence of that particular emotion?"

The question, posed in a very bemused tone, grated on his nerves. "You know better than that. I'm happy that you have found what you believe to be love... and perhaps for you and Honoria it is real. But it's not for me. It'll never be for me."

Vincent shook his head in exasperation. "If you do not love Hettie, why such eagerness? No, not eagerness. Longing. It's a far different thing than simply the need to slake one's lust."

"For fuck's sake, must you poke at everything?" The exasperation in his tone was unmistakable. "We're not all sentimental fools under the surface, Vincent. Some would say, based on your current behavior, that the Hound of Whitehall has been turned into a lapdog."

No one said that. But it was a low blow and one that he hoped would end the conversation. The truth was, that might have been speculated as a possible truth two weeks earlier, before Ardmore had made his play. Before Vincent had once more established why he had control of so many vast enterprises, both legal and otherwise, in London. The unscrupulous moneylender, while not broken, was still beaten. The lines demarcating the territories ruled by each of them had been reestablished quite firmly. There had been a few injuries. A bit of blood shed and a couple of teeth on the floor. But in the end, the Hound of Whitehall had kept all that he'd earned over the years.

It had come down to a singular challenge. A boxing match. The two competing lords of the underworld squared off toe to toe and pummeled one another until one submitted. Obviously, it hadn't been Vincent. Courtesy of Stavers's many lessons, each of them could more than hold their own in the ring. Ardmore had conceded defeat and retreated to the east end of London, and Vincent would continue running everything west of the bridge. Hardly a lapdog.

"I'm merely pointing out, Joss, that for a man who proclaims himself incapable of love, you do seem to have missed your new bride a great deal."

Rather than continue the debate, Joss remained silent. Primarily because he could not refute Vincent's assertion. He had missed her. While they'd been focused on finding Arthur Ernsdale's murderer, they'd spent more time together. Almost daily in fact. And somehow, even in that short time, he'd grown quite accustomed to her presence. Sharing a word or two in passing, seeing one another at meal times, and, on a few occasions, slipping into one another's room for more intimate encounters—and for two weeks, he hadn't laid eyes on her. Was it any wonder he was eager to see her?

But missing someone was not the same as loving them. One could miss things and people that one only liked or had a fondness for. Those were perfectly reasonable feelings to have for someone. Liking or fondness for someone or something meant that losing that someone or something would not be devastating. No attachment meant no loss, no grief. Because the pain of losing things—or people—that truly mattered was something he had no wish to endure. Not ever again.

"Why are you so determined not to feel anything?" Vincent asked. "Or is it the other way around?"

"What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means that perhaps it isn't that you think yourself incapable of loving someone so much as you think yourself completely unworthy of being loved," the other man mused. "I should hope such a foolish thought, if it ever entered your mind, would be dismissed as being both asinine and baseless."

It had. That thought had plagued him for all of his life. Try to dismiss it as he might, he had never succeeded. "You do not know when to quit."

"Are we going to brawl in the carriage, then? I think not. Answer the question, Joss."

"Because I don't bloody well deserve her, do I?"

Vincent was quiet for a moment. "No one does. Not a man alive is worthy of a woman like Honoria or like her sister. But that's not stopping me from seizing what happiness I can. I very nearly cocked it up too, you know? It's a hard thing—to just hand someone the power to break you. But if you hand the power to the right person, it will only make you stronger."

"Shall I confess my feelings for her to you so that you'll shut the hell up?"

Vincent shrugged. "I'm not the one who needs to hear them, am I?"

Banging on the roof of the carriage, Joss shouted, "Can't this bloody thing go any faster?"

With a satisfying jolt, the horses shot forward and the carriage picked up speed. And neither of them spoke for the remainder of the journey—Vincent because he'd said all he needed to, and Joss because he was digesting all that had been said.

*

Hettie squirmed on the settee. It seemed to have happened quite overnight. She'd woken up one morning and her belly had grown quite round. Not large, and certainly easily concealed beneath her gowns, but still very present. And not entirely comfortable. She felt thrown off balance by that small bump. But perhaps it was that it made the very abstract notion of her child far more substantive. It wasn't just something in the distant future. It wasn't just being nauseous or any of the other symptoms associated with early pregnancy that could just as easily be some other illness. It was now an undeniable physical presence, even if still in her womb.

"Why are you so antsy?"

"Likely because my clothes have grown too tight," she replied balefully. "Why else would I be?"

"Because you miss your husband?" Honoria voiced it as a question, but it didn't feel like one. It felt as if her sister knew the answer already.

Hettie simply elected not to answer. There was no need. If she admitted the truth, she'd only be confirming Honoria's suspicions. If she denied it, then her sister would instantly recognize the lie.

Honoria, after receiving no response, simply forged ahead. "I've received word. Vincent sent a courier ahead of them. They will be here this afternoon."

The relief Hettie felt at that bit of news was overwhelming. "Well, that is wonderful to hear. I know you've been terribly worried about Vincent."

"Yes, I have. And you've been worried about Joss. I know because you've moped around here looking utterly miserable. You are pale and have shadows under your eyes," Honoria observed.

Hettie was well aware of her appearance. She'd looked at herself in the mirror, after all. The sleepless nights she had endured for the last fortnight had taken their toll on her. But it stung to have it pointed out. "Your flattery will go to my head, sister."

Honoria waved away the sarcastic rejoinder. "You are lovely, as always. But I am worried for you. This cannot be good for you or for your baby."

"I am fine. And so is my child," Hettie snapped. It was a reflexive action, to be so defensive, mostly because she had been worrying about that matter herself. But giving it voice made those fears far too real for her.

"Perhaps I can have the housekeeper prepare a sleeping draught for you?"

"If I feel I need one, I will ask for it myself. I am with child, Honoria. That does not mean I am one!"

Honoria grew quiet then. That quiet was almost worse than her helpful suggestions because her silence allowed Hettie to stew in her own guilt for lashing out at her sister for simply caring about her well being.

"I apologize. I fear my temper is quite short and... well, I do have a great deal pressing on my mind. But that is no excuse for being short with you," she admitted somewhat grudgingly.

"I know. I know you're worried about what happens when Joss joins you here. I know you're worried about your child. About your marriage. About all the things that could possibly go right and possibly go wrong. But you are not alone. I am here for you. Always. Whatever may occur."

"I appreciate your support, but it is my dearest hope that it will not be needed. But I have no notion what is on his mind. His correspondence has been limited and perfunctory at best."

Honoria seated herself beside Hettie and took her hand. "If it is any great consolation, Vincent's letters have indicated that your husband is quite surly and put out."

"Why would that be a consolation? The last thing I wish to deal with is a surly man!"

Honoria shook her head. "Have you considered that perhaps he is surly only because he is absent from you?"

No. She had not considered it. In truth, she couldn't imagine that to be the case. Surely if it were, his letters would have indicated some degree of emotion—that he missed her, that he wished to see her. The salutation was always direct, the body of the letter was short and succinct, and they were signed, very simply, J. Ettinger. They might have been business associates for all that the letters indicated any sort of relationship between them.

"He writes to you every day?" Hettie asked the question with a pang of envy. While Vincent and Joss had been in London taking care of the threat to Vincent's empire—in ways she had no wish to know of—Honoria had still been ever present in Vincent's mind. That much was clear from what he wrote to her. A pang of jealousy swept through her, followed by a wave of guilt.

O, what a bitter thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes. The quotation wasn't quite right for the situation as her sister was the one whose happiness highlighted her own dismal state, but the sentiment of it certainly was. No one had a greater understanding of the follies and feats of man than William Shakespeare. And Hettie was honest enough with herself to admit that she envied her sister. She did not begrudge her the happiness she had found with Vincent Carrow, but there was a part of her that desperately longed for such happiness herself.

"He does... Joss has written you. Surely that indicates something of his feelings."

Hettie nodded. "He has written... briefly, almost to the point of curtness, and has done so with such infrequency that it indicates I am little more than an afterthought."

"I had thought your sleeplessness and worry were simply out of fear for his safety. Now, I wonder if it isn't something else altogether. Are you happy, Hettie? Truly happy?" Honoria asked, her concern evident in the gentleness of her tone.

Hettie considered the question carefully, sipping her tea to bide her time until she could answer both honestly and reassuringly. "I am not unhappy. My expectations have been carefully managed. Content is, I suppose, a more accurate description."

Honoria's eyebrows lifted, her eyes wide with incredulity. "Content? Hettie, contentment is a feeling for fat puppies with full bellies and old men dandling grandchildren on their knee. It is not how a woman ought to describe her life when she is newly married to a man..." Honoria trailed off.

"To a man that she loves?" Hettie suggested.

"You haven't said so. I have assumed," Honoria admitted.

A sigh escaped her. "Not everyone is destined for a great love story. Sadly, as we both know, not every marriage is built on a grand romance or even romance at all."

"Do you deny that you are in love with him?"

She wanted to. But lying to her sister was not something she had ever done with any real degree of success. "No. I am not denying it. I am merely saying that I have made peace with the fact that he does not love me. He is kind to me—unfailingly. Considerate, mostly, if somewhat distant, and, by every measure that one could count, a good husband. Our relationship is passionate." But not loving.

"Clearly passion is not lacking. Otherwise you would not need to have married one another at all!" Honoria said, quite miffed at the whole thing. "Hettie, can you really live with him this way? Loving him when you feel he does not return the sentiment?"

"I may not have what you do," Hettie said softly. "But very few people do. We both know that there are far worse fates than to have a marriage that is... simply satisfactory."