Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

I must go back.

Andrew hesitated as he made to climb up into his carriage. The conversation he had been about to have with Miss Hawick had been brought to a sudden end as Lady Morton had interrupted them both and Andrew had not had the opportunity to express to Miss Hawick his present considerations. She had asked him to give her the promise that he would remain entirely devoted to her for the rest of his days, that he would never again return to being a rogue, and though Andrew had not been able to give her what she desired, his intention had been to express to her the very great depths of confusion he found himself in at present. That, he had wanted to say, should give her the hope that he could alter himself entirely, and be just as she desired him to be.

Instead, he had been forced to keep those words back as Lady Morton had engaged him in conversation, and Andrew had seen the sadness lingering in Miss Hawick's eyes. She had offered very little to the rest of the conversation and had said nothing to him about their previous remarks. Now that he was to take his leave, Andrew found himself deeply frustrated.

"I do not want that sadness to linger," he muttered to himself, rubbing one hand over his eyes as his heart constricted, knowing just what she would think of him should he let the conversation be as it had been.

With a shake of his head, he turned away from the carriage.

"I will return in a few moments. I have forgotten something."

The coachman nodded, and Andrew made his way back into the house, still not quite certain what it was that he was going to say, but with his desire to express his heart burning within him. Being directed to the gardens, Andrew followed the butler to the door and then stepped outside, leaving the butler behind him.

"And I would give it all up for a gentleman who truly cared for me, Lillian!"

Miss Hawick threw up her hands, her voice tremulous, and Andrew's stomach clenched, his feet frozen in position. He could see Miss Hawick, and had been about to call out a greeting, but now, the sound of her voice and the words that she spoke tied him to his position, silencing his lips. Even if he tried to leave, even if he desired to turn about and leave this house, he did not think that his limbs would move, such was the heaviness settling within him. So he simply stood there as Miss Hawick went on, her words delivered with a passionate unhappiness.

"Despite my standing, despite the fact that I will be a Marchioness and, no doubt, have a good deal more coin than I have ever had before, I would give it all up to marry a gentleman who truly had an affection for me."

Miss Hawick sniffed, though her words continued to rattle toward Andrew at a frantic pace. He knew that he ought to leave, ought to step away, given that she had no knowledge that he was here. But his heart demanded that he remain, insisted that he listen to every word, given that they were spoken with honesty – an honesty that he would never hear from her otherwise.

"The Marquess of Kentmore is a rogue."

Andrew dropped his head, the title he had once claimed with great delight and even pleasure now burning into his soul, offering him nothing but shame.

"He states that though he will give that up for the time being, it will not be forever. What hope have I of a happy future? What hope have I of any sort of affection or true kindness or consideration between us? And what is worse, what if I, in my foolishness, find myself drawn to the very gentleman who could not care anything for me? Have you considered such things, Lillian? Or is money and standing all that matters to you?"

And are stolen kisses, fleeting embraces, and words that hold no promise all that matters to me? Andrew closed his eyes, his stomach roiling. What if all that I once held as important was never more than dirt and ashes?

Miss Hawick's voice faltered, her hands in tight fists by her sides, and though Andrew could see that her sister knew of his presence, given the whiteness of her cheeks and her wide eyes which continued to stare at him, Miss Lillian said nothing. Clearly, Miss Charlotte Hawick had no knowledge of what had caused her sister's stillness, perhaps lost in her speech, given that it held so much emotion.

Andrew closed his eyes. I am responsible for so much of her pain.

Taking a breath, Miss Hawick put out her hands to either side and then dropped them back to her sides.

"I have never dreamed of love. I have never once imagined a marriage filled with affection and happiness, not until the possibility of that was taken from me. Now, the one thing I never thought to hope for is the only thing I long for, knowing I shall never gain it."

Miss Lillian Hawick, finally finding her voice, let out a small squeak and pointed directly at Andrew – and all strength seemed to leave his body. He could only stand and stare as Charlotte turned to face him, her eyes going wide as she took in his presence. She took a step back rather than moving towards him and, on seeing that, Andrew's strength returned to him.

He fled. Rather than go to her, rather than speak to her as he had intended, he turned and took his leave of the gardens and of her. Climbing back into the carriage, he rapped quickly on the roof and urged the coachman to make haste, a sense of relief writhing through him as he sat back and leaned his head against the squabs.

The carriage took him along the cobbled streets, the gentle rolling offering a comfort that Andrew could not reach.

I should have stayed.

The shame of his retreat was like a heavy weight on his shoulders, making his mortification complete. What sort of fellow was he to run from such a situation as this? He had never considered himself to be a coward, and yet, instead of walking towards her, instead of taking her hands in his and speaking to her as he had intended, he had run.

Leaning forward, Andrew put his elbows on his knees and dug his fingers into his hair, his face scalded with shame.

"I never expected to care for her with such strength," he muttered to himself, his eyes closing again. "I never thought that I would find myself in the least bit concerned about what she thought and felt."

But now I am overwhelmed by it.

Andrew lifted his head and sat back as the carriage turned towards his townhouse. His heart was heavy, his thoughts a swirling mass of confusion, and his fingers itched with the urge to write; to pour it all into the written word in the hope of finding the smallest sense of calm.

It was the only avenue he had, the only way he had to express all that he felt for, given his foolishness here, it was quite clear that he could never speak those words to Miss Hawick. Instead, he had to hope and pray that she would read his words in The London Chronicle and perhaps feel her heart soothed just a little.

All that matters to me now is her.

That thought struck Andrew hard and he sucked in a breath, his eyes flaring wide as he stared straight ahead, astonished by such a realization. What did it mean? How could he understand it? And why did the thought of returning to the life he had once lived now seem so dull and banal compared to being solely in her company?

Andrew's pen flew over the page, his quill scratching as he wrote and wrote and wrote. This time, it was not poetry that he wrote with the intention of sending it to The London Chronicle, but words that he prayed would empty his heart and mind of all that he felt, all that was tormenting him.

He could not free himself from it.

The door opened, but Andrew waved a hand, dismissing the servant.

"I am not to be disturbed."

"I was informed that you stated I could come in to call on you at any time."

Andrew looked up, seeing Lord Glenfield stroll into the room.

"Glenfield. Apologies, I am writing and–"

"I shall not disturb your focus for long. I came to fetch the mask for the ball tomorrow evening." His eyes twinkled as Andrew frowned. "The masquerade?"

"How could I forget?" Andrew muttered, finding no joy in the thought. Previously, he had been delighted about attending masquerades, for it was another opportunity for him to steal the attention of any lady he desired, heedless as to who they were, or what standing they held. They did not know who he was – not unless he revealed it to them, for he always wore an excellent mask that hid most of his face. How much he had enjoyed such things before! But now, there was a heaviness about it, as though he did not really wish to attend. "The mask, yes. I borrowed it from you for the last masquerade, did I not?"

Lord Glenfield nodded, and Andrew rang the bell, waiting for a footman to come to the room. Thereafter, he directed him to fetch the mask for Lord Glenfield and then picked up the sand to save his work.

"Is everything quite all right?"

Andrew sighed, put down his sander, and rose to his feet.

"No, it is not."

"And why not?"

Again, Andrew let out another sigh.

"It is because of this connection with Miss Hawick, this nearing betrothal, for I shall have to ask her very soon." He went to pour a brandy, recalling how he had come upon Miss Hawick earlier that day, declaring to her sister just how much she had lost in becoming tied to him, how much she now longed for love – the one thing that she was certain she could never find in him, in their connection. "I am uncertain."

"Uncertain?" Lord Glenfield tilted his head. "In what way?"

It was the first time that Andrew had been given an opportunity to put words to his feelings, and the thought was somewhat intimidating. He and Lord Glenfield had been friends for a very long time indeed, but given that they had both been nothing but rogues and rascals for that time. They had not often even considered discussing such things. He coughed, shrugging.

"It is… well, it is strange, that is all."

"What is strange?"

Andrew closed his eyes, fighting the desire to tell his friend that it was nothing and that he need not concern himself any more with it.

"Ever since I first met the lady, I have found myself frustrated with her lack of positive response to my work, to the published poems. The fact that she compared it with other writers, to the point of taking her friend to purchase a book on poetry, irritated me a great deal. Since that time, I have found myself eagerly desiring to impress my work upon her, to have her look favorably upon it."

Lord Glenfield's eyebrow lifted.

"Why does her opinion matter so much?"

"I could not tell you that because I do not understand it myself," Andrew replied, before taking a sip of his brandy. "On top of that, when this courtship began, I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not expect to give up my roguish ways entirely."

A frown crossed his friend's forehead.

"You said as much to me also."

"And I am well aware of your opinion of it." Andrew looked away briefly, aware that his tone had been a little sharp. "Forgive me, my friend. This is what has troubled me, I confess, and I am not doing particularly well when it comes to considering what to do next."

Lord Glenfield nodded, accepting Andrew's apology.

"I do not want to be wed." Andrew spoke firmly and clearly but yet felt himself aware that inwardly, he did not entirely believe what he said. "I have never wanted to marry and now, to be forced into that position has brought about a good deal of frustration on my part." He waved one hand. "Yes, I am aware that there is much that could be said about how that is my failing, but that is not my concern at present."

Lord Glenfield let out a small, rather heavy sigh.

"What is it, then?"

Andrew flung out his hands, his words coming more readily now.

"It is the unsettling realization that what she has asked of me – which is that I give up my interests entirely – is something that does not now seem as repugnant to me as it once did." He shook his head. "And I cannot explain the reason behind that. For heaven's sake, Glenfield, I had Lady Faustine come to find me in the gardens at that soiree and, when she tried to kiss me, I felt as though I might cast up my accounts! I pushed her back, I told her that I could never be to her, again, what I had previously been, and I strode away from her!"

"I am glad to hear it!"

Squeezing his eyes closed, Andrew let out a slow breath.

"But why am I doing such a thing? I have never said to Charlotte that I will turn to her and be devoted to her and yet, within myself, I find that desire growing, replacing all that I have once been and know!" Opening his eyes, he swallowed thickly. "I was going to tell her about my confusion earlier today, but her mother interrupted the conversation. Thereafter, I went to my carriage, only to find my heart demanding that I return and explain all to her. I… I did not want to have her under any illusion that I was still determined to do as I had previously said."

"I see." Lord Glenfield tilted his head. "And what did she say?"

Andrew blew out a long breath, raking one hand through his hair.

"She did not have the opportunity to listen to me. I was informed that she was in the garden with her sister and, upon making my way there, overheard her speak of all that she regretted in being joined to me, of how she had never hoped for love but now, in the awareness that she was to marry a rogue, realized just how much she desired such a thing. Of course, there was pain expressed that she would never have love offered to her either." Andrew dropped his head, a little ashamed. "You will think poorly of me – as I think poorly of myself – but I turned on my heel and took my leave. I did not know what to say."

Lord Glenfield blinked.

"Oh. And did she see you? Did she know that you were there?"

Andrew nodded.

"I am lost in a sea of tumult," he muttered, only for Lord Glenfield to begin to smile.

That smile spread to a grin and, as Andrew watched, confused at his friend's reaction, Lord Glenfield began to laugh. Andrew's astonishment grew all the more, only for him to then frown as, rather than give an explanation, Lord Glenfield continued to lose himself in mirth, evidently at Andrew's expense.

"Forgive me, my friend!" Lord Glenfield spoke, perhaps seeing Andrew's discontentment. "I do not mean to be so foolish and indeed, it is not that I am laughing at you!"

Andrew scowled.

"Then why do you laugh?"

"Because," his friend grinned, sitting forward in his chair, "do you not realize why you desire to pull away from Lady Faustine and towards Miss Hawick instead? Do you not have any inkling as to why that might be?"

Blinking, Andrew scowled.

"I have just told you that I cannot understand it. Why, then, would you ask me such a thing? Is it not clear to you that I am struggling? I feel as though I have lost myself and do not know who I am any longer!"

Lord Glenfield's smile did not fade.

"My dear friend, I believe that you have had an interest – an affection – for Miss Hawick since the very moment you met her." Andrew's mouth dropped open. "You will tell me that I am foolish, of course, that I speak nothing but nonsense, but I can assure you, that desire you had for her to not only acknowledge your work, but appreciate it, came from a genuine interest in the lady herself."

Immediately, Andrew scoffed at this, shaking his head fervently.

"You are quite mistaken there, my friend. I thought nothing of the lady in that regard!"

"Are you quite certain?"

"She exasperated me by her remarks about my work!" Andrew exclaimed, as though this was all the explanation that his friend needed. "Her comparison of it to other works was maddening!"

"Why?"

Andrew flung out his hands.

"Because I wanted…" His hands fell to his sides as he fought to find an explanation that did not involve him accepting all that Lord Glenfield had said. "Because I wanted her to think as well of my work as she did of others," he said, slowly, his brow furrowing as he ran one hand over his chin.

"Which is rather strange, is it not?" Lord Glenfield lifted an eyebrow. "You had every other young lady in London sighing and cooing over your poetry, but you also had Miss Hawick speaking a little more frankly and considerately than they. Why, if you had so many of them delighting in what you had written, did you care so much about one young lady's thoughts?"

It was a question that Andrew could not answer. He frowned, hard, then threw back his brandy to delay offering Lord Glenfield an answer. This only made his friend chuckle all over again and Andrew's heart twisted, lost in a myriad of thoughts and feelings.

"I cannot have any real affection for her," he muttered, rubbing one hand over his eyes. "That is preposterous."

"Is it?" Lord Glenfield lifted his eyebrows. "I can tell you this, my friend, I have a genuine and growing affection for Miss Lillian Hawick – no, you need not look at me with such surprise – and with that comes a growing and steady desire to be the very best gentleman I can be. I am eager to know what she thinks, what she feels, what she delights in, and what she does not. I want to know everything about her and to spend as much time as I can in her company." He smiled, a light in his eyes that Andrew had never seen before. "That does not mean that I am not aware of her flaws and faults, just as she is aware of mine. I speak with too much flirtation at times, and I am inclined to tease - which she does not like, and she is inclined to be a little too fervent in her manner and speech at times, though I understand now why she is so." His smile softened. "If she thought poorly of me – or of something that I did, I should be greatly displeased, and would do my utmost to improve myself. Does that not speak to you, my friend? Can you not see that there is the same desire within you, when it comes to your poetry, and to your fight between turning back to your flirtations and the like, or turning away from them all?"

Andrew got up from his chair, feeling unsettled and restless.

"I do not think that your affections for Miss Lillian can be compared to my interest in Miss Charlotte."

"Why not?"

"Because it is not the same!"

His friend rose, came across to where Andrew stood, and poured himself a brandy, refilling Andrew's glass along with it.

"Then you must ask yourself what it is that you feel when it comes to the lady. You must discover why you have such an interest in her, why you desire to improve yourself so that she thinks better of your work... and of you yourself."

"She is to be my wife. Of course I do not want her to always think poorly of me! Is that not reason enough?"

Lord Glenfield shrugged.

"You will not like my answer should I disagree with you, though I believe that you already know what it is."

Andrew scowled.

"I have no affection for her, no interest that is steadily growing. I–"

"Yes, you do." Lord Glenfield put a hand on Andrew's shoulder, looking back at him steadily. "You and I have been friends for many a year, and it would not be right of me to let this go without further conversation. My friend, you do have a growing and steady affection for the lady. You say that you are battling between the desire to return to your life as you have been living it for so long and the thought of giving it all up and remaining devoted to Miss Hawick. You have found yourself physically withdrawing from those who once held you spellbound, no doubt with a sense of guilt welling up within you at a single touch from Lady Faustine!" He chuckled as Andrew winced. "I can assure you that the only reason you have that fight is because your heart is affected, whether you wish to admit it to yourself or not." He lifted his hand, picked up his brandy, and smiled. "Now, I must return to my townhouse to prepare for the masquerade." Finishing his brandy, he set the glass down on the table and gave Andrew a nod. "Excuse me, my friend. I will see you again very soon."

Without giving Andrew the chance to respond, or the opportunity to argue against all that had been said, Lord Glenfield walked out of the room, leaving Andrew staring after him, his heart hammering furiously. Lord Glenfield had stated things very clearly indeed, but Andrew still fought against it, the desire to accept the fact that he might well have an interest – more than that, an affection – for the lady seemed to approach him like a shadow that threatened to cover him completely. If he dared let himself believe it, then Andrew knew that every single thing in his life would change.

Dropping his head, Andrew pushed his fingers through his hair again, thinking back to how he had felt at the moment that he had come upon Miss Hawick in the garden. Had not his heart cried out? Had he not had the urge to sweep her up in his arms and confess that he no longer wanted to be a rogue, no longer desired attentions from any other than her?

And instead, he had stepped back, silencing himself, and hastened back to his carriage.

I have been a coward and a fool.

Making his way slowly back towards his writing desk, Andrew sat down again and picked up his quill. The words came more cautiously this time, but they came nonetheless until, finally, Andrew had his answer to the questions filling his heart.