Chapter Thirty-One

Henry left London with a remarkable lack of fanfare, and a considerable hangover. He only had the vaguest recollections of what had occurred after he had travelled with Markham to Knight's house, gained entry by the back door thanks to a key Markham had, and walked off with the painting.

After that, however, Henry's memory became a little fuzzy. He suspected he had made a fool of himself in front of Louisa's butler, and considering the amused looks Oliver was directing him, he had made a fool of himself in front of his brother, too.

It was the damnedest thing. If he could have, he would have slept the entire day through—a rarity for him—but unfortunately duty called, and as he had arranged for the house to be advertised the moment they vacated, he could not tarry in London.

The pounding in his head was only made worse by the movement of the coach and the grinning, solicitous comments of his brother.

At least it was not a long journey to Kent, and he told himself that the moment he arrived, he would rest. Perhaps even eat something, because his stomach had been roiling ever since he had awoken.

Then was the task of repairing the estate as far as was within his power. Unfortunately, aside from advising his father strongly, as he was not in full control of the estate there was very little he could do in terms of funds. But he could certainly organise things, endeavour for the staff to be paid, and pay visits to the tenants, seeing their quality of life and if there was anything they could all do to work together and improve the outcome of the land.

"Perhaps when we return to London, you will find a wife," his mother said cajolingly.

"I doubt it," he said.

"I'll marry well," Oliver said. " And study hard." He gave his brother a sanctimonious look. "Just like you hoped for me, Henry."

Henry closed his eyes and wished very much for the journey to be over.

Thankfully, it wasn't long before they pulled up the gravel avenue to Beaumont Place, and Oliver tumbled out with all the enthusiasm of youth. Nathanial and Theo were already there, and just as Henry was wishing for peace, they found a way to grant it him.

"You must come and visit us, Mama," Theo said. "Charles is at home, and it would be a very great shame for you to miss out on seeing him. You know he has a fondness for you. Plus, we asked Cook to have dinner ready for when you arrived. We thought you'd be hungry."

The very thought of food turned his stomach, but Theo tugged him aside, peering into his face with some concern. "You look haggard," she said.

"Thank you," he said dryly.

"Stay here. We'll entertain Mama and Oliver and send them back later on tonight. I know you will not mind missing Charles."

His head felt heavy, and his mouth was dry. "It's not Charles, Theo. I dislike babies in general."

Instead of teasing him about how he would have to suffer children of his own one day, she merely patted his arm. "Sleep it off," she advised. "You will feel better for it."

He grunted, saw to it that the servants were unpacking their trunks, and took himself off to the drawing room. He was not such a weakling that he would retire to his room to sleep it off, but a nap on the sofa would do him very well. His last thought as he closed his aching eyes was that the last time he had been in this room, Louisa had been there too, helping him hunt down his sister.

She followed him into his dreams.

When Louisa arrived at the Shrewsbury house in Grosvenor Square, she discovered that it was already being shut up. When she enquired, she was informed that the master of the house was selling and that the family had just departed for the country.

She ground her teeth together in frustration. By the looks of it, she had missed them by a matter of hours. Perhaps less. If Knight had not come to see her, there was a chance she would have discovered the family on the cusp of leaving.

As there was nothing else for it, she sent a note instructing Mr Upperton to purchase the property at full price, and returned home to pack before setting off for Kent.

She had been to his ancestral home once before, although that had been when she was attempting to pair his sister Annabelle with her friend Lord Sunderland. That had been last summer, and the endeavour had been a success, but her sentiments then had been wholly different from her sentiments now.

A year ago—less than that, perhaps as little as ten months ago—she had been prepared to hate Henry for all time. She had thought, even, that it would be easy.

Now she was yet another fool in love. The world did not need another. She didn't care.

Beaumont Place was a grand Elizabethan manor that was still meticulously cared for—a product of Lady Shrewsbury's dedication rather than her husband's, Louisa fancied. The gardens were beginning to bloom as spring deepened its grip on the land and petals unfurled, and the bushes were all neatly trimmed. The sun glinted off tiny, uneven windowpanes as she drew up to the house and allowed her footman to hand her down.

An elderly butler, austere but with a kindly face, opened the door.

"Good afternoon," she said. "I'm Lady Bolton. I believe the family is at home?"

"Only Lord Eynsham at present, ma'am," he said, opening the door a little further. "The rest of the family is dining at Havercroft."

"Ah yes, where Norfolk lives." She accepted the invitation and stepped inside. "As it happens, Lord Eynsham is precisely the man I came to see. Lead me to him, if you please."

The butler looked at her, weighing her appearance. She did not expect him to recognise her as being Miss Picard—and indeed as Miss Picard she had only been invited to dine with the Beaumonts a handful of times—but after a second, a smile played across his mouth and he inclined his head. "As you please, my lady. This way. I believe he is in the drawing room."

"Thank you. I would like to introduce myself, if you don't mind."

"Of course, my lady." He bowed again, and after leading her to the drawing room door, turned away to resume his duties.

Louisa pushed the door open to find the slightly old-fashioned drawing room bathed in light. And there, sprawled across one of the sofas, was Henry, his eyes closed. Shadows played idly across his face, drawing attention to the hollows under his cheeks. Still as handsome as ever. But gaunt to go with it, as though the past days had stripped him of some essence.

No doubt she could not take full blame. But enough could be laid at her door for a frisson of guilt to run through her.

Softly, almost afraid of waking him, she crossed the room to where he slept. Her feet were silent on the thick carpet, and she sank slowly to her knees.

"I am so very sorry," she whispered, brushing the hair back from his face. Tenderness was a burn in her throat.

His eyelids fluttered open and his eyes fixed on her. She froze, expecting surprise, shock, confusion. Instead, a frown creased between his brows. His pupils were wide, still hazy with sleep.

"Henry," she began, but he reached out, sliding his hand along her cheek to the back of her neck. As she paused, confused, he drew her clumsily to him and brought her mouth down on his. A lazy, sleepy kiss that had none of the urgency she had expected, given the manner of their last meeting. Even so, it sent an odd shiver down her spine. Every time they had come together, she had been the one to take control. After all, he was a novice compared to her.

Yet here his hands were large, holding her at the angle he wanted, and he felt fully in control as he licked at her bottom lip, encouraging her mouth to open for him. He shifted on the sofa, tugging her up and settling her between his legs, and answering heat spiralled through her with the same lazy intention as his mouth. As though, without a word, he intended to have her here, and she would let him.

This was not the reunion she had envisaged.

"Henry," she repeated, drawing back and sucking in a sharp breath at the heavy want in his eyes. Already, even through her dress, she could feel he was hard underneath her. "We should talk first."

"Odd," he murmured, stroking her face with such gentleness it near broke her heart. "You rarely speak to me."

"What are you talking about?"

His eyes had none of the sharpness she associated with him. They were still unfocused, looking half through her. "Kiss me, Louisa, and let us forget."

"Forget what?"

"Everything."

She sat up on him, taking his wrists so he did not reach for her again. "This is not a dream, Henry."

He gave a lopsided smile, so relaxed and easy—so different from the man she knew him to be while wakeful and alert. "Of course not."

"I mean it. Wake up."

"I would rather kiss you again."

There was nothing else for it. "I love you," she told him, and slapped him across the cheek.