Chapter Fourteen

PRESENT DAY

March 1815

Louisa should not have been surprised to see Henry arrive at her side like a smartly dressed, disturbingly handsome guard dog the moment Knight showed any interest in her. It was just like Henry to ignore her until the moment she least wanted him.

If Knight was going to make any threats against her, she would rather he did it here than wait for a time they were both alone. That was when she feared he might take revenge, or enact some kind of retribution. In the middle of a drawing room, she was safe.

Henry, it transpired, was unaware of that.

She tamped down on the thrill that his proximity brought her, smothering it until she could convince herself it no longer existed. Instead, she gave him a cool smile, and glanced across at Mr Knight. "Gentlemen," she said smoothly.

Mr Knight glanced up at Henry and the sneer that lurked just under his smile rose to the fore. "Lady Bolton," he said. "I see you have not come undefended."

She held up a hand to prevent Henry from speaking, and his lips pressed tight with the effort of keeping quiet. To her relief, however, he maintained his menacing silence. Heavens, but he really was good at brooding. She suspected it was the severity of his cheekbones—of all his face, softened only by a sinfully soft mouth.

"Mr Knight," she said, doing her best to pretend that Henry didn't exist. Unfortunately, the very magnetism of his presence prevented her from doing that. "What a surprise to see you here."

His eyes narrowed very slightly, though the smile was still on his lips. She had never come across a man so adept at hiding his true feelings behind an expression of bland geniality. If she had not been looking at his eyes, relentlessly cold, she might never have noticed. "Is it, Lady Bolton?"

"Why, yes. What else would it be?"

"Planned by yours truly, of course." He gave her a small bow as if acknowledging a hand well played. "Are you close with Comerford?"

"That," Henry said pleasantly, "would be me."

No, Louisa had been wrong: Knight was not the only gentleman she knew who could hide murder behind a smile. Henry was doing it too, the threat so subtle in his voice that it could have almost passed for warm.

"This doesn't have to be unpleasant," she interjected, placing a hand on Henry's arm in quiet warning. His gaze flicked down to the contact, but he said nothing. "Unless you would like to revoke your claim on my money, Mr Knight, now you see how well connected I am."

His sneer became rather more fully formed. "Was that your intention? Yes, I know you have no doubt won the hearts of half the gentlemen here, but that is not going to be enough for me to change my mind. As for him"—his gaze flicked to Henry—"I suspect he could benefit from your fortune just as much as me."

Henry tensed under her fingers, and she tightened them. Not here and not now. That was Knight's intention, to make them forget themselves and cause a scene. But she would not fall for it, and she certainly would not let Henry make a fool of herself.

"Yes, indeed," Knight said, glancing at the contact. "Put your dog on a leash. I admire the control you have over him."

To her surprise, Henry smiled, showing a few too many white teeth for the expression to be anything other than mildly dangerous. Another thrill ran down Louisa's spine. She had changed, a product of the things she'd had to do to survive, but so had he, and although naturally she still despised him, she could admit that the changes sat well on him.

"You were not a member of the ton the last time I was in London," Henry said. "Newcomers are not often accepted, and easily removed if they are not to taste. You may have a hold over Lady Bolton, but you have none over me. I am the Viscount Eynsham and my father is the Earl of Shrewsbury. Pit yourself against me and see who will win."

"Don't worry," Knight said with deliberate slowness. "I fully intend to."

At the first opportunity, Louisa dragged Henry through Worthington Hall. They were both familiar with the house and their host, and she had no compulsion in leaving them behind. Henry was quiet as she led him through a side door and out onto a lawn.

The sun was misty overhead, small clouds floating past on a soft breeze, and there was still enough of a chill to the air that she wrapped her arms around herself as she made her way towards the small lavender maze. Soon, the purple buds would bloom and the garden would be awash with bees, but winter still held its grip on the countryside, and only the occasional daffodil dared defy it.

It would be a beautiful scene to paint. She had, albeit reluctantly, left her paints at home, but she had brought her sketchpad. At some point during the proceedings, she would have to come here to sketch. For now, however, she led him through to the maze where they would be concealed from the house.

His eyes lit with wry amusement as he took in their surroundings, so like the first time they had met.

And yet so very different.

"Are you cold?" he asked, and shrugged out of his coat, placing it over her shoulders. She was cold, but the spontaneity of the action, along with the burst of his scent that accompanied the wool, left her momentarily speechless.

She ought to give it back. Instead, she tugged it closer and glared up at him. "When I said I would accept your help, I did not mean I needed you to defend me at every possible moment."

"Would you have preferred George?" he asked. "He would have joined you if I had not."

"George—" She was not entirely sure where she had contrived to find such officious and interfering friends.

"From what I understand, he doesn't know the whole," Henry continued as though she hadn't spoken. "I thought I would spare you from the inevitable explanations. Besides, he seemed comfortably ensconced with your friend."

"Caroline."

"Quite."

"Do you disapprove?" she challenged.

"Of Caroline?"

"And George."

"What business is it of mine?"

"I hardly know, but you have no compunction about involving yourself in my business." She scowled, disliking the slight feeling of gratification that unfurled in her stomach.

" You are determined to dive headlong into danger. All I'm trying to do is protect you from yourself." For the first time, he seemed frustrated.

"Do you expect me to thank you?"

"I would not be so deluded," he muttered.

She pushed away from the hedge at her back and advanced on him until there was nowhere for him to go. A spark lit in his eyes that felt as though it travelled down her spine. "I asked one thing of you nine years ago, and I would never dream of asking anything of you again."

His chest rose on a single breath, looking down at her as though he was almost afraid of her proximity. The rush of power the thought brought with it was intoxicating.

"I'm not doing this so you'll thank me," he said, eyes boring into hers with such ferocity, she half feared he could read her thoughts from the top of her head.

Then again, if he did so, he would probably be scandalised.

"You're certain?" She lowered her voice and placed her hand on his arm the way she had before, walking her fingers up to the curve of his bicep. "You're not hoping that I'll give you my favours?"

He caught her wrist and thrust it away from him, real anger crossing his face. "That would hardly mean what it once did, Louisa."

"Ah, so you're jealous. Were you hoping I'd wait for you?"

He shook his head, jaw tight, eyes hooded. "This conversation is over. If you have any intention of going through Knight's room, let me know and I'll accompany you."

"You have no obligation to."

The winter blue of his eyes had darkened to navy as they travelled across her face. "Perhaps not to you," he said, "but I have that obligation towards myself."

"Does it relieve your guilt?" The bitterness in her voice shocked her, and his brows caught together, the anger in his face briefly shattered by agony.

He should not look at her like that.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and she did her best not to look at it. No matter what passed between them now, no matter what want still lingered in the space that separated them, the past would always sit there too. A drop of ink in otherwise clear water.

Some hurts were too great to overcome.

But when he looked at her like that, as though he were not indifferent after all, she wished their future could hold something different.

Her breath caught as he came closer, taking her hands in his. "I'm not doing this for your forgiveness," he said, his thumbs skimming across her knuckles. Somehow, despite the fact she had taken men to her bed and bid them farewell the next morning, this felt shockingly intimate. Skin against skin. His fingers, rough and calloused, curling around hers. The ember of desire that she had carried nine years or more shifted, burst into flame. "I know I don't deserve it. I'm doing this because no man should be able to take advantage of someone in a vulnerable position and threaten them without consequence. And because this is the last thing I can do for you."

"Before your marriage?" she whispered.

"Yes." His voice was grim. He was still holding her hands. "If I had accepted you that day, Bolton would never have married you. I carry the weight of that."

Something shifted inside her, an acknowledgement of his regret, the depth of it, the power it held over him.

She had suffered. But perhaps, she thought, she might not have been the only one.

The thought was fleeting, and she pushed it aside, not wanting to give way to it. Everything was easier if she could believe the worst, if she could not acknowledge that he had done his best for her all those years ago.

"But you did not marry me," she said quietly.

"No."

She freed her hands from his and stepped back, giving them much-needed space. After everything, knowing he was to marry someone else should not have been a sting, but she no longer understood her emotions when it came to Henry Beaumont. "I hope you are happy with Miss Winton," she said, and did her best to mean it as she left him in a maze for the second time in her life.

This time, however, there was no breathless anticipation. He was not an unknown, nothing but a name to place him; he was the man who had ruined her more thoroughly than Bolton ever could, and she could not risk letting him close enough to do it again.