Chapter Twenty-Two

Henry sat alone in his room, perched on the bed that was still rumpled from their lovemaking. Before she had gone, she'd taken the letters, and no doubt now she was working to re-establish her freedom and independence from Knight. Yet another thing she would not let him help her with.

He had made a mess of things. Asking her to marry him the way he had, as though he had planned it from the off instead of realising that he could not bear to see her walk out of the door and away from him again. She had done that once before; he had not thought himself strong enough to bear it again.

Yet she had. And he was now learning the depth of his endurance.

There was only one thing for it: to leave the house party and return to London. But first he would have to explain the situation to Miss Winton and beg for her forgiveness. And to Comerford, who would no doubt brand him the fool he was. Comerford, who had never harboured more than a light-hearted tendre for a girl, and who had never been rejected. At least, not to Henry's knowledge.

After a long time, during which the sun set and Henry had ample time to relive every mistake regarding Louisa he had ever made, he dressed and gave his reflection a cursory glance. Acceptable, though he looked gaunt.

As luck would have it, he encountered Comerford on his way downstairs. The other man started, giving him a once-over. "Good God, man," he said. "You look awful."

"Thank you," Henry said dryly.

"What happened? Your father finally gambled away the clothes on his back?"

At the mention of his father, Henry felt another surge of guilt. Duty dictated that he marry Miss Winton and use her dowry to save the estate before his father gambled the whole thing away. If he did not, everyone would suffer.

The surety he had felt in his bedchamber, Louisa dressed before him, vanished in the candlelit dark. "I hope not," he said, "but it is always a possibility."

"Then what?"

"Louisa."

Comerford glanced around them, then nodded downstairs. "My study. We can talk there without disturbance. And it looks like you need a stiff drink."

"That's not—"

"Very well. I need a stiff drink, if you're about to tell me what I think you are." He motioned to the hallway. "They can manage without us for a while."

There was no point arguing, and Henry followed his friend into the study, shutting the door behind him. George lit a candle and sat in the chair behind the desk. It looked as though many of the papers had been pushed to one side in a hurry, leaving a bare expanse of wood, and Henry decided he wanted no more details. He also decided to stand by the window rather than sitting in the only other chair. Just in case.

"So you and Louisa," Comerford said.

"Yes."

"I take it the experience didn't go well?"

"The experience itself went well enough, I think," Henry said curtly, although he tried not to think too hard about his initial embarrassment. "It was what came after that was the problem."

Comerford sighed. "What did you do?"

Henry kept his back ramrod straight. "Asked her to marry me."

"That'll do it," Comerford muttered.

"I hadn't intended to. Not like that, at least. And before we were intimate, I thought for certain she would never . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly exhausted. This was precisely what he had feared would happen if he allowed himself to get too close. But being with her had been so explosive, so gentle, so tender, so wonderful, that he had allowed himself to believe she felt the same.

"She's not a maiden, Henry," Comerford said gently. "A tumble isn't going to be enough to—"

"That wasn't my intention!"

"I know. But perhaps she doesn't."

"What indication have I given that I was intending to coerce her into marriage? My helping her was not in the vain hope that she would relent against me. We just . . ." Got carried away . The excuse was as flimsy as it was unfair. He had wanted her; she had told him that it was not to be transactional, that she was not being with him out of gratitude but desire, and he had agreed. Because in that moment, more than anything, he had wanted to know what it would be like to kiss her.

And then, when they had crossed over the threshold of no return, he had understood that he would never want just once.

But at no point had he been with her to manipulate her into marrying him, or even in the belief that the act itself would force her into his life. More that he had believed, foolishly, that the emotional charge of the moment would touch something in her heart.

Comerford poured two brandies and pushed one towards him. "Drink that," he said, and downed his. "You look like you need it more than I."

"I can't stay here."

"What of Knight?"

"She won't accept my help. Not now. Especially not now." Henry accepted the drink and tossed it back, its unfamiliar burn settling in the back of his throat. "I should never have . . . any of it. And she will only wish me gone if I remain. It's better I go."

"And Miss Winton?"

He shook his head slowly. "I can't. Not after—I can't, George."

"Damn bad business," Comerford agreed. "But I can't say I'm particularly sorry about that . She'd make you a dull wife."

Henry grimaced. "Don't be cruel. She's an admirable lady."

"Perhaps," Comerford admitted, "but she can be admirable from a distance, which is precisely where I want to keep her. Unlike you, my friend, I cannot choose to sacrifice myself to a life devoid of warmth and happiness." He gave an overwrought, dramatic sight. "I am not so noble."

"Don't be ridiculous. If I were not—if it were not for Louisa, I would be perfectly happy to marry her."

"Have you told her that your interests have changed?"

"No," Henry said, and gave up, slumping into the chair. "Another thing I must do before I leave."

"When do you intend to go?"

"Tomorrow, first light."

Comerford nodded slowly. "Very well. Is there anything else?"

"Where is Caroline?" Henry asked, raising his gaze. "I would like to speak with her."

Caroline stretched across the bed with idle sensuality, not seeming to notice that her bosom spilled over the confines of her dress, or that she was displaying her curves to advantage. A display that was wasted on Louisa.

"I knew it would come to this," Caroline drawled in not insignificant delight. "I knew you would bed him."

"Don't be crude."

"Why, darling? Am I wrong?" Caroline watched her with dancing eyes. "You have not objected to me referring in that way to any of your past lovers."

"You know Henry is different." Louisa stared at her pen and the dashed copies she had made of Knight's letters. Soon, she would have to return them and decide on her next course of action. Presumably it would involve leaving Worthington Hall for London, especially if she was to catch Thomas Hyatt before Knight had a chance to confront him.

And perhaps talk to Prinny.

"How is Henry different?" Caroline asked, and Louisa's stomach dropped when she recalled the way he had asked her to marry him, then almost as urgently recanted it. The way he had all but admitted he would not have asked her if it were not for her fortune.

She gripped the desk and drew in a long breath. "He proposed."

Caroline gave a delighted gasp. "Directly after the deed?"

"As I was leaving."

"Poor boy. I suppose you rejected him?"

"Naturally," Louisa said, her voice sharp. "The fact he had the gall to ask me after everything—I told him it was not transactional, our coming together. He knows I have not forgiven him."

Have you not? whispered a voice in the back of her head.

She shook it away angrily. If he had just married her as she had asked, as she had begged , then none of this would be happening now. Not Bolton, not Knight, not the obliteration of her dreams.

The anger was harder to hold on to now, however, with Caroline's probing questions and Henry's shattered expression in the back of her mind.

He ought not to have asked her. Not like that.

"Your fortune may be an advantage," Caroline said, "but I hardly think it is the source of your hold on him."

"My hold on him is that he's experienced no other lady," she said, gathering the ink-smeared paper together. "That is all."

"I've seen the way he looks at you." Caroline shuffled to the edge of the bed and peered at her. "I tell you, no gentleman has ever looked at me like that, even when I'm in nothing but silk."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Did he tell you he loves you?"

The recollection of the anguished way he'd told her that he cared for her played across her mind, and she grimaced. "Not in so many words."

"But he does?"

"Yes."

"And yet you still turned him down?"

She toyed with the truth for a moment, but if there was ever a lady not to judge, it was Caroline. "I have reason," she said carefully, "to believe I am barren."

Caroline blinked. "Oh?"

"And more to the point, I have no desire for children."

"Ah."

"Henry is the son of an earl. There are expectations—he, no doubt, will have expectations—that I cannot and do not wish to fill. There are other reasons, too, but that is a consideration. I am not the wife for him, no matter what he thinks. And," she added matter-of-factly, "it's a good thing I married Bolton first. As a girl, I never realised, or I would never have asked Henry to marry me in the first place."

"A little precipitous, don't you think?" Caroline asked, raising her brows. "Does he know?"

"No, though I doubt that would change anything. He knows his duty, Caroline, and it is not to marry a lady incapable of bearing him children."

"You should tell him."

"Why, to torture him more?" She snorted. "I see no reason for it."

"Well, that's my recommendation. Take it or leave it." Caroline gave a one-shouldered shrug. "But if you want to stay single, you have my full support, darling." Her smile was sultry and heavy-lidded. "And we can kick up a fuss across London together, just like old times."

Louisa dropped back in her chair in front of the letters. "I'll finish these before we go down for dinner. No need to wait for me."

Henry found Caroline on her way down to dinner, and he immediately beckoned her to one side, into the library. With a curious glance at him, she reclined gracefully on a chair. She had a particular way of presenting herself, as though she was conscious of how she looked to others, and it was of extreme importance that they never found her wanting.

She was not in his style, but he couldn't deny her beauty. Plump and golden, almost angelic, until one got a good look at her grey eyes and saw the knowing gleam there. She had always discomfited Henry a little, largely because she was a worldly woman in ways he had never experienced, and partly because she looked at him as though she would very much like to run her tongue along every part of bare skin she could see.

Today, however, there was nothing but sharp curiosity in her gaze.

"I take it Louisa told you what happened between us," he said.

A brow arched, and her mouth curved into a seductive smile. "She did. May I offer you my congratulations? Thirty is a long time to wait, but if I know Louisa, she made it worth your while."

His jaw tightened. "I would rather not talk about that."

"I will say I think your proposal was poorly thought out," she continued as though she had not heard him. "You have to know how she would take it."

"I had not intended to ask her in that way."

"I see. Transported by delight?" She nodded sagely. "It happens. But a proposal in a rumpled bed does not give quite the right impression."

"I know . Discussing this is not why I brought you here."

"No? I thought you would want to know best how to win her."

"I rather think it will be too late," he said dryly.

She gave a disconcerting nod, and his heart gave another crack. Soon he would be all disparate pieces. "Yes, you may well be right. What is it, then?"

"Louisa has some letters she took from Knight. Do you know anything about them?"

Caroline frowned. "When I left her, she was transcribing them."

"She has every intention of delivering them back to Knight's room herself, but while I have every belief in her capability, I suspect she may well be in danger if she persists. He is volatile, and she is fearless, and—"

"You two are such a pair of fools," Caroline said, blonde curls bouncing as she almost laughed. "Very well, darling. I will steal back the letters she stole, and I will deliver them into your waiting hands."

"Thank you."

"Do you intend to marry Miss Winton?"

He hesitated, but there was little point avoiding the truth. "No."

"Then you should tell her. When do you leave for London?"

"How do you know I intend to leave?"

"Because if I were you, darling, I would not want to stay."

Well, she was hardly wrong there. "I think I've played my part here. I leave tomorrow morning."

Caroline gave a luxurious stretch, and although her luscious curves held no appeal for Henry, he could see why Comerford was so captivated. "Very well," she said in a low, throaty voice. "Out of pity for you and love of my friend, I will bring Miss Winton here so you may speak with her. That's your intent, is it not?"

Resignation settled over him. "Yes."

"You may thank me later. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Asking her to persuade Louisa to accept his suit was out of the question; he doubted she would be so inclined. She was another widow with no clear intention of marrying again. No doubt she had already taken him in dislike.

"No," he said. "Except . . . You must know, Lady—Caroline, that my regard for Louisa is not monetary. Years ago, when I refused her, it was as much for her sake as mine. My family commitments, my lack of ability to provide for her—she knows this."

Caroline tilted her head. "And yet you come back into her life, make it plain you must marry, and at the first possible moment, you offer her marriage." She clucked her tongue. "I wash my hands of the two of you." She rose, brushing down her dress. "Wait here. I'll bring Miss Winton to you. And, Eynsham, if you don't mind me saying, you should tell Louisa you love her. Maybe it will achieve nothing. But perhaps . . ." She raised a plump shoulder. "Good luck."

He was distinctly certain he would need it.