Chapter Twenty-Six

Briggs

Blythe Rowley wears a pink dress. Perhaps the first time I’ve seen her in that color since the incident in the pigsty. But this pink is different. This Blythe is different. She’s vibrant, deep, and powerful, and I’m blown away by the sheer glory of her, unable to notice any other person in the room. Her long, dark hair is pulled back, bright ivory ribbons woven through her tresses. The light bathes her flawless skin, always a little sun-kissed, in the warmest glow, and my fingertips tingle imagining a caress of the soft skin on the inside of her arm.

She catches me watching her as she dances with August—and she looks concerned. But of course, how could she not? Surely even the tiniest hint of everything I’ve been thinking since the moment I first saw her across the room is evident on my face. That whenever she’s near, I forget that Sabrina Dixon exists, forget that everyone exists. That it’s taking everything I have not to march across the ballroom floor, step in front of my brother, and claim her for myself. That she’s everything I want and cannot have. I have nothing to offer her except a nod of my head.

She does the same, then returns her attention to my brother. The song begins. The gentlemen all step to the right. August steps to the left. Chaos ensues. Bless Blythe, she calls out the steps to him, and I wonder how she can keep count of her own while still instructing August. The woman is a marvel; her brain is a marvel.

I move farther away, hoping that August doesn’t notice me because I’m afraid if he knew I was watching, he might become more nervous, and if he becomes more nervous, he might take the entire party down with him in one impressive blunder. I’ll check my pride, walk away, and allow him this dance. It isn’t often he chooses to participate in events such as these, and if the presence of Blythe Rowley puts him at ease, I don’t blame him. I can’t refuse him that.

This song goes on for a crudely long length of time. I’m halfway through my drink when it finally ends and August bows before Miss Rowley. They clap for the orchestra, and he offers his hand to lead her back to the side of the room. Mr. Browning has been dancing with one of Sabrina’s friends, Miss Cleary, and he follows my brother’s lead, passing Westley and Miss Amy. It takes me a moment for what I see to register: that Julian walks behind Westley, who has his hands behind his back, and his finger traces a circle in Westley’s palm. They smile at one another, and I smile down at my feet. I’m glad someone can be lucky in love tonight.

Finally, August brings Miss Rowley to stand beside me.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Rowley,” he says. “But we can’t dance another, lest the present company believe me to be in love. And I apologize, but I am not in love with you.”

Blythe suppresses a good laugh and nods her head. “My heart will recover. I thank you for being so forthright.”

August bows.

“Miss Rowley,” I say, my voice low and less willing to be heard than I thought it would be. She turns and smiles up at me. “Miss Rowley, you look very beautiful this evening.”

Looking at her feet, she possibly blushes a little. “Thank you, Mr. Goswick.”

“I would ask you for the next dance, but I fear you look as though you need a rest from all this revelry.”

“Is it that obvious? I should love to dance with you, Mr. Goswick, but perhaps after some refreshments.”

I offer her a glass of wine, and she takes a sip. “I could introduce you to our hostess, Lady Clifford, now,” I suggest. Anything to keep her company, her attention. “Lady Clifford is a leader of the ton. Whatever she likes, the rest of them like, and if you could secure her as an investor, then your apiary business would be assured.”

But before she can reply, Lord Colchester appears. He steps beside Blythe and smiles at me. “No need, Goswick. I’ve brought a prospective party to Miss Rowley myself.”

I try not to bristle. I don’t want to make a scene or call Colchester out when he hasn’t technically done anything wrong. I just want to keep Blythe beside me, and maybe this is the comeuppance I need to put those feelings to rest.

“Miss Rowley, Mr. Goswick,” Colchester continues. “Allow me to introduce you to Lady Allison Tisdale.”

I turn to give my best attempt at politeness, expecting Lady Tisdale’s attention to be focused on Blythe. But in actuality, she’s staring at me with wide eyes. I bow. “Lady Tisdale, it’s a pleasure.”

Her mouth works soundlessly, and she blinks a few times. “Mr. Goswick?”

“Briggs Goswick,” I clarify, just in case she had heard the news of my father’s death and was now puzzled as to who was standing before her. She’s a pretty woman. Elegant, albeit confused. “My late father was Mr. Frank Goswick.”

“Ah,” she says, and she takes a sip of her drink. “I was sorry to hear of his passing. Your father was very kind. Warm.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

She pivots sharply, returning her attention to Blythe. “And you, Miss Rowley! Lord Colchester has spoken of no one else for weeks, so I insisted he make the introduction. You are just as lovely as he described, if not more.”

“You’re too kind, Lady Tisdale.”

“And apparently an entrepreneur. I want to hear everything about this business venture of yours.” She hooks her arm through Blythe’s and starts to lead her away from me and Colchester, though I hear her add, “A young lady your age with so much ambition—it’s everything I love.”

At the start of the summer, I was the one who was supposed to find Blythe interested parties for her business, and now it seems that privilege has fallen to someone else. I hope to God this is what she wants. I hope he’s everything she deserves.

Colchester takes a drink from beside me and then says, “You are a good friend to Miss Rowley, but trust that I have her best interest at heart.”

I straighten my shoulders, my clenched fingers relaxing in resignation. “I know you do.”

I linger with Lord Colchester for a little while longer, silently sipping from my drink and pretending as though I care to wait for our conversation to pick up again. Finally, I decide to settle beside my brother. He can stare longingly at one Rowley girl, and I’ll stare at the other, and we can be miserable side by side.

My eyes follow Blythe as Lady Tisdale introduces her to several well-dressed ladies, including Lady Clifford. They all laugh, heads inclined, hanging on Blythe’s every word, because of course they are. How could they not? She’s the most charming girl in the room, and everyone clearly loves her.

Except Sabrina, apparently. She stands with Charlotte and Miss Cleary, and while the latter two young ladies are engaged in a conversation, Sabrina’s head is turned so that she might listen in on Blythe, and her brows are pinched together, lips pursed.

Blythe and the women of Lady Tisdale’s acquaintance talk for some time. I hope each of them wants an apiary. Two apiaries. I hope that Blythe has dazzled them with her knowledge of bees and flowers and what to do when you’re foolhardy and get stung. Finally, she curtsies, excusing herself, and begins her journey toward the open doors that lead to the garden.

“Go after her before Colchester notices,” says my brother without even flinching.

“Cheers.” We clink glasses, and I lurch from my seat, finishing my drink in one fortifying swallow.

So much for resignation, I suppose.

I follow Blythe through two large doors and out into the cool night. Several clusters of revelers are out here, escaping from the heat of the ballroom, perhaps to converse in secret, maybe to avoid dancing with someone in particular. Or they could be like me, someone who would take any excuse to be alone with the object of his desire.

Blythe weaves through the gardens, taking her time to admire the hanging ivy, the fragrant blossoms, and finally, she turns to me. “I don’t like these gardens quite as much as Mistlethrush’s.”

My hands behind my back, I reply, “I’m glad to hear it. I wasn’t sure if you had noticed my presence, but I didn’t want to surprise you.”

“Maybe I was hoping you’d follow,” she says, her dark eyes growing larger in the dim moonlight.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I try to think of ways to keep her engaged, to keep her interest. “What do you like less about these gardens than Mistlethrush’s?” I ask.

She thinks about it for a moment before replying. “They feel like they’re on display here, don’t they? As though they’re warning us to look and not touch.”

I smile at my feet.

“And Mistlethrush’s gardens feel lived-in and useful. An extension of the house—or the family.”

It encourages me, to know that she sees my home the same way I do. “My father always prided himself on the gardens. He liked to teach August and me about native plants, and how to tend to —”

Blythe’s arm juts out behind her, her hand landing on my chest to stop me, and I practically stumble into her. I begin to ask what’s the matter, but she puts her finger to her lips and gestures ahead of us.

In the path of the garden, swathed in shadow and the dim pallor of moonlight, I can see just the outline of Westley and Julian Browning. They’re holding hands, their faces rather close, and Blythe cannot stop staring. There’s a brief pause, and then Julian brings Westley’s lips to his. And not briefly. For seconds on end. His one hand in Westley’s hair, the other pressed up against his chest. Westley cups Julian’s face with both his hands, leaning into him.

“Miss Rowley,” I whisper, “there’s something you should know—”

She swerves abruptly, nudging me backward so that they won’t see us. “There’s something you should know,” she replies. “Julian might be a flirt, but he has a good heart, and he’d never hurt your friend.”

“Wait, what?”

“Julian,” she says. “And Mr. Parker. What we just saw.”

I point over her head, as though we’d still be able to see them through the hedges. “Did you know about this?”

“About the two of them? Of course I knew. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? They’ve been interested in each other for the past few weeks or so. Didn’t you notice their flirting?”

“Oh. No, I can’t say that I did notice.” I pause for a moment. “But now that you mention it, yes, of course it’s wonderful. And convenient. Your cousin and my best friend—”

But before I can finish my thought, the sound of other couples coming closer interrupts me. Blythe’s eyes grow wide, and she glances over her shoulder in the direction of our two friends.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. I stride toward the oncoming company, an older couple strolling and linked arm in arm. I motion for them to be quiet. “I hate to disrupt your conversation,” I whisper. “But Miss Rowley and I have just discovered a very rare bird nesting in the hedges.”

“Yes,” says Blythe from beside me. “The teal-breasted cropped-bottom…lark.”

The older gentleman in the group arches an eyebrow. “The teal-breasted cropped-bottom what?”

“Very rare,” I say. “Very rare indeed. Hasn’t been seen in these parts in well over a decade, wouldn’t you say, Miss Rowley?”

“I would, Mr. Goswick.”

“And they require absolute solitude when they’re nesting.”

The lady nods enthusiastically, clutching her husband’s arm.

“Will you allow me to escort you to a more prudent section of the gardens?” I ask, leading them back toward the building. “Where you can converse in peace without disturbing our fowl friend?”

“Oh, thank you, Mr.…what was it again?” asks the lady.

“Mr. Goswick,” I reply. “Briggs Goswick. A pleasure to meet you.”

When I return to Blythe, she’s bent over laughing, trying to keep her giggles quiet.

“What is it?” I ask, her glee contagious. “What?”

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever had to do for anyone I cared about.”

I run my fingers through my hair and grin. “Me, too.”

“Mr. Parker is lucky to have you as his friend,” she says, and she begins to walk along a more winding path, away from where we last saw Westley and Julian. She finds a stone bench and sits down upon it, flattening her skirts evenly, and then she glances up at me. “Will you sit with me?” she asks.

I nod, taking my place beside her, but not too close. But then again, how close is too close? And would she want me to sit closer? My heart and mind race in equal measure, my skin too tight for my body. I fidget, running my hand through my hair, then rubbing the back of my neck.

She sighs contentedly. How is she so calm?

“Is this your first time at a London ball?” I ask her.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “Yes, is it that obvious?”

I laugh gently. “Not really, but I couldn’t help but notice you taking everything in, like it was some magical fairy castle.”

“It is a little bit like that, isn’t it?” she asks. “I’ve never been to a ball quite so grand before.”

“No one would guess. You look more elegant and at ease than any other lady here.” I pause before speaking again, rubbing the back of my neck. “When I saw you in that dress, it reminded me of that last Christmas at Mistlethrush. You wore a pink dress then, too. Not quite as striking as this one, of course.”

She smiles again, this time down at her lap, and I feel like I’ve said something that’s made her sad.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that fateful night.”

“It was a long time ago,” Blythe replies. “But I can admit to you now that from that moment forward, I had a difficult time accepting compliments from gentlemen. I could never quite shake the feeling that they didn’t actually mean what they said. That they were trying to turn me into a joke.”

My mouth goes dry at this knowledge, that I’ve been the cause of someone like Blythe Rowley feeling less than adequate. “Blythe, I never meant for you to fall through to the pigsty.”

She tilts her head to the side, waiting for more.

“That night, I was going to play a prank on you. That part is true enough. I had overheard you telling Charlotte that you hoped I would kiss you before returning to classes for the spring semester. My intent was to lead you to the barn and when you leaned in for a kiss to have you kiss one of the puppies instead.”

She exhales a puff of entertained laughter.

“Then one of my friends thought it would be funny to open the loft. And, well. You know the rest of the story. And I’m truly so sorry.” I search her face to see if she accepts my apology or if perhaps I’m too late for that. But I’m desperate for her approval, for her to assure me that I’m not the terrible person she thought I was. I glance down at our hands on the stone bench, and my fingers inch closer to hers. Our pinkies brush, and I exhale slowly.

Blythe shakes her head. “It’s all right. I didn’t tell you to make you feel guilty. Maybe I told you to get it off my conscience. It’s something I’ve wanted you to know for a while, but I didn’t want to reveal any other vulnerability.”

I pause for a moment, thinking suddenly of the relief I felt in admitting to August that it was our father who gambled away our fortune. That maybe it might feel even more ameliorating if I did the same with Blythe.

“There’s something else,” I finally say. “About my gambling. I don’t want for you to think poorly of me, Blythe—”

“I know,” she says, her eyes soft. “Whatever it is, I don’t think poorly of you.” She smiles, shaking her head. “How could I when I just admitted to how long my grudge has affected me?”

“If it matters at all to you, you are very beautiful,” I say, my throat suddenly thick and dry. “So beautiful. And I couldn’t possibly joke about that.”

She looks up at me with shining eyes and then turns away bashfully. “Thank you.”

“And clearly I’m not the only gentleman who thinks so, when even my disagreeable little brother couldn’t help but ask you to dance.”

She shakes her head in amusement, and I’ve somehow redeemed myself. “August is quite likable,” she says.

“If you say so.” I stifle the urge to laugh.

“He is,” she insists, leaning forward. “He has a rather crusty exterior for someone so young, but I find myself rather fond of him.”

My hands clutch the edge of the bench, and I extend my legs in a stretch. “I see. How fond is fond?”

“The current condition of my feet keeps my feelings from becoming too ardent, of course. And let’s not forget he’s already professed rather vehemently that he is not in love with me.”

“Still, who would have guessed that my contrary younger brother would be my competition?” I laugh, looking up at the moon, and then repeat the words I spoke in my head over and over. They just spilled out, but she must know what they imply. Surely, she knew even without me having to say it.

Blythe stares at me, wide-eyed, her lips parted, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

Finally, her eyes never roving from my own, she says, “I’m afraid there is only room for one disagreeable Goswick in my heart, and that place was occupied long before I ever danced with your brother.”

It’s strange the way words can be linked together to make perfect sense, and yet we continue to doubt their validity, we second-guess our understanding, but why should I? My heart thunders in my rib cage, but I can’t think with the way the blood rushes between my ears. I don’t know what to say to this. I don’t know if I should kiss her. This would not be the place to kiss her, as evidenced by our previous misstep, but damn, her mouth is so close to mine, and her eyelids flutter under the dim light of the crescent moon, and it would just be one taste. If I could feel her again, her lips pressed against mine, perhaps no one else would notice.

Maybe I’m imagining things, my mind creating the circumstances I’m so desperate for, but Blythe inches closer, erasing the space between us so that our knees are touching, and she entwines her fingers with mine. I can’t stop staring at their union, at least not until the proximity of her lips distracts me. Her mouth is slightly parted, and I get a peek of the tip of her tongue as it darts out and then disappears again. I swallow with some difficulty, my heart maddeningly loud in my ears. Heat coils low in my abdomen, threatening to travel even further if I cannot muster more control. Blythe angles her head to the side, and her eyes rove from my lips to my gaze and then back down to my mouth. Her hand touches my thigh, and my stomach clenches with my sharp inhale.

“Is this all right?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” My voice is hoarse as she leans forward, her mouth so close to my ear that her warm breath caresses my cheek. I close my eyes, breathing deeply the scent of her, the apple blossoms I swore at the beginning of summer wouldn’t last for me. But I’m so close to her being mine. I’m so close, if only…

“I hardly know anything about Miss Rowley’s apiaries,” comes a floating and familiar voice from behind the hedges. It’s as sweet as honey.

Blythe freezes, the air between us suddenly cold and sullen.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

The voice drifts over the hedge wall once more. “Which would cause me to wonder if they’re really so sound an investment, I suppose.”

Blythe turns to me, her eyes wide in disbelief. “Sabrina Dixon?” she says.

I take her hand again, trying to pull her attention back to me once more. “Don’t worry about Miss Dixon.”

“I want to listen,” says Blythe, letting go of my hand and standing. The chasm between us suddenly seems too wide and sprawling to cross, and I sigh in dismay.

She creeps down the length of the hedgerows and pokes her head around the side. I follow her lead. Standing in a knot of gossip, Miss Dixon is joined by Miss Cleary, Lady Tisdale, and Lady Clifford.

“Blythe, please,” I try once more. “Let’s go back inside. I’m sure you’re rested enough to dance now.”

She hushes me.

We both lean back, now completely unable to be seen by the ladies, but perfectly capable of hearing everything they have to say.

“What could you possibly mean?” asks Lady Clifford. “I spoke with her just moments ago, and I’ll be investing in her apiary business. She told me that she, herself, would be investing, and they have a great deal of interest from several fine families. Including her uncle, Henry Barlow.”

“I could be mistaken, but I doubt Miss Rowley has any money to invest if the state of her family’s home, Awendown, is to be taken into consideration.” Sabrina sighs sadly. “And I have been to Wrexford Park recently. There is no movement on any apiary. I’m sure her uncle was only being kind. I’m afraid that though she may be a Barlow, it is through blood only. They do not share the same money.”

“Did you see her tonight?” asks her friend. “Her dress is stunning. Surely, you’re mistaken, Miss Dixon.”

Beside me, Blythe’s humor has all but dissipated. Her mouth is pursed and her chest heaves.

“Her cousin had dresses made for her so that she wouldn’t feel awkward,” Sabrina says in a hushed tone. “You can imagine how intimidating a place such as this can be for a girl like Miss Rowley, Lady Clifford.”

This is the most I’ve ever heard Sabrina Dixon talk, and I wish to God she would just stop at this point.

“Blythe, I cannot let this pass,” I say, shouldering by her. It’s my fault that Blythe had dresses made. My fault that I allowed her to feel as though she wasn’t enough to secure investors, and now I have to do right by her.

But she reaches out, grabbing my wrist, then laces her fingers through mine. “I don’t need you to defend me,” she says without meeting my eyes.

If I cannot defend her, then I at least want to stand by her side. Be whatever it is she needs from me in whatever form that may take.

“Lady Clifford, I only tell you this because I care for you, of course,” says Sabrina, her voice melting into a soft coo, as though speaking to a puppy. “But your kind nature and trust has been abused. Blythe Rowley has led you on. You should see the way she’s thrown herself at Mr. Briggs Goswick all summer, while being courted by Lord Colchester no less!”

Before I can even comprehend what’s going on, Blythe tears out from behind the hedges, skirts gathered, her face red. Instinctively, I jolt to follow her. “How dare you,” she practically growls, her eyes boring holes into Sabrina Dixon.

Sabrina has never looked so startled. But after a second, she lifts her chin and takes a deep breath. “I daresay I was only speaking the truth, Miss Rowley.”

“I never took advantage of anyone. I never pretended to be someone that I’m not. That is a lie,” says Blythe.

I step out from behind the bushes, and all three ladies take a collective breath.

“Then you have money that you’re putting behind your enterprise?” asks Lady Clifford.

“No,” Blythe replies. “And I never said that I did. I’m afraid you saw what you wanted to see, heard what you wanted to hear. I am the daughter of Sir Anthony Rowley, and the niece of Henry Barlow, and there will be an apiary set up at every estate that I mentioned to you earlier this evening. The only lie is that I’m wearing a dress that my cousin had made for me. If you can even call that a lie.”

She steals a glance at me, and I’ve never felt more ashamed in my life.

“If that makes me unworthy of your investment or your trust, then so be it.”

“I abhor people who would use me for my money,” says Lady Clifford.

Blythe’s expression screws up into one of confusion. “I blatantly stated that I was looking for investments. You knew what I wanted.”

“You misled me,” says Lady Clifford sternly, as though reprimanding a child. “And that is the end of the story and of my association with you, Miss Rowley.” She turns on her heel and heads back into her house.

As Sabrina follows Lady Clifford, she has the audacity to offer Blythe a pitying glance. Lady Tisdale remains, though, her eyes wide.

Blythe is deathly still.

“Miss Rowley,” I say quietly, reaching for her hand.

But she snatches it out of my grasp. “I must go,” she says, tears choking her voice. She gathers her skirts and strides back toward the ballroom.

“Miss Rowley!” I try, easily catching up to her and grabbing her arm. “You cannot go out into the London night alone. At least let me escort you back to your uncle’s.”

“I have no further need of your assistance, Mr. Goswick,” she says, and though her voice is small, her tone isn’t unkind. “Our agreement, it seems, has come to an end.”

“Blythe, please.”

She shakes her head and veers out of my reach. “I am begging you to let me go.”

I take a step back. She nods once and disappears.

“I should follow her,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

But Lady Tisdale’s hand on my arm stops me. “She is very proud,” she says. “Let her settle with her emotions. You’ll be waiting for her when she’s ready.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice strangled with my distress, my guilt that I’ll be wrestling with. I don’t tell Lady Tisdale about it. I couldn’t possibly explain that I have too often found myself as the cause of Blythe’s shame, and it seems as though tonight, much as I wanted it to, nothing has changed.

…

If I had come to Lady Clifford’s alone, I’d have left by now. There’s no point in staying in a place that only wishes to ridicule you. There were nights I look back on where I stayed until dawn, drinking and dancing and carousing, making scenes in the street, kissing girls I hardly knew. I threw insults and punches, made spectacles, and couldn’t remember half of it the next day. And yet I was invited back, over and over, because I had land, an inheritance, and money, a noble name to hide behind.

Now I stand along the edge of the ballroom, halfway between the dancing and the old men playing cards. I swirl my drink in its glass, try to catch Sabrina’s eye to signal I’m ready to leave, but she’s too busy navigating social circles. The sight of her makes me seethe. Her deception puts me on edge.

I need a friendly face, but Westley is nowhere to be found. Not that it matters. Even if I did find him and tell him what happened, he’d ignore me. That’s what our friendship has disintegrated to, being in one another’s company but not actually interacting. But I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him how suddenly everything I’ve ever felt about Blythe Rowley makes sense. And I want him to tell me about Julian Browning. I want that ease of conversation back. I want that acceptance and safety back.

I want my friend back.

I wander for a bit longer, bowing politely when I run into an acquaintance, but then finding some excuse to end our interaction as quickly as possible. Finally, I spot Westley across the ballroom floor, a glass of brandy in his hand, as he stares off at absolutely nothing.

“If it’s all right with you,” I say, approaching him, “I’d like to leave soon.”

Westley takes a sip of his drink. “That’s fine.”

Dismissive but agreeable. I suppose I can live with that. “I just assumed that neither of us had anyone left to stay for.”

His head whips in my direction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I fumble for the words I just spilled between us. I forgot he doesn’t know what I saw. “Only that we’re still here, and Miss Rowley and her companions have left—”

“Miss Rowley and her companions? Are you insinuating what I think you are?”

My shoulders slump. “I’m not insinuating anything, Westley. I’m your friend, I—”

But he doesn’t allow me to finish, once again. “You shadow me. You wait for any amusing tidbit you can scavenge. You can’t be left out of anything, can you? Everything must be about your good time. I can’t have one thing for myself, can I?”

He can, actually. He can have whatever he wants for himself, and I’m terrified now that the Briggs I’ve allowed myself to be for the past however many years isn’t at all an accurate representation of myself. I want to tell my friend that he can have as little or as much of me as he pleases, only that I want his companionship back.

Westley drops his glass on the table behind us and wordlessly strides past me, shoving me with his shoulder, and exits the ballroom. I hate following people when they feel as though I’m expendable. And yet, here I go, trailing Westley out into the dimly lit streets of London.

“Westley,” I call after him. By the time I catch up to him, he’s out in the street, crossing in front of a horse and carriage. The driver slows and yells something at him. “Westley!” I try again. But he still doesn’t turn.

Once the horse is past me, I start to sprint. In only a few strides, I’ve caught up to him on the opposite sidewalk, and I grab him by the shoulder.

“Let go of me,” he says, wrenching himself from my grip. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me why you’ve been so cross with me these past few weeks.”

“Don’t act like the innocent.”

“I’m only asking. I deserve to know why.”

“Because I’ve never had anything that’s just been mine , Briggs!” he yells, throwing his hands in the air. “I have always been your friend, or my father’s son, or the quiet student at school, or the gentleman who rarely asks any lady to dance, and now you know why. I can’t even have that for myself. Is your own life so insipid, so unfulfilling that you must constantly seek to overturn mine?”

My mouth drops. I never anticipated that this would be his response. “Westley, that’s not it at all—”

“Even tonight,” he continues. “Even tonight! When you had Miss Rowley, your one heart’s desire, all to yourself, you still found the time to check up on me, didn’t you? Well, how much did you see, Briggs? And did Miss Rowley see, too? Because I know you told her about what you witnessed during our last trip to London.”

“What? No, I didn’t—” I start.

“You did ,” he replies, his voice cracking. “She told me.”

It dawns on me that I did mention something about our argument to Blythe, and I drop my chin to my chest.

Westley takes a deep breath, his hand at his sides now. “And don’t be angry with her. For whatever reason, she was attempting to defend you.”

“I’m not angry with her. I’m angry with myself.” I take a step forward. “I had mentioned to Miss Rowley that you were annoyed with me over something I witnessed by mistake. I never told her what it was, though. Please believe me.”

He’s silent, which makes me feel like I’m making some progress.

“You never did let me tell you just how much I don’t care, Westley. Not last month and certainly not tonight. I do not care who you kiss, and you are welcome to love whomever is deserving of you. This evening, I knew you were in the gardens with Mr. Browning, and I did my best to keep any prying eyes from your rendezvous.”

For a moment, he rubs at his eyes, and I think he might cry.

I step closer again. “You have been my best friend for far too long for me to care about any of that,” I say quietly. “Besides, if we were allowed to dismantle our friendship based upon whom the other one kissed, I’m afraid you’d have abandoned me a long time ago.”

At this, he chuckles, one hand on his hip.

“It took me a while, I know, to realize how much of our friendship was centered upon me,” I tell him. “It’s taken me even longer to realize how much I’ve centered my entire world around me. And I’m sorry if I’ve taken you for granted or abused your friendship, but I value you. I value the time we spend together, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“Well,” says Westley, “if I haven’t gone anywhere yet, I suppose you’re stuck with me.”

I laugh, clapping my hand on his shoulder, but he reaches out with both arms and embraces me. My heart feels full in a way it hasn’t in a very, very long time as we stand for a while like this.

And I don’t care who sees it.