Chapter Thirty

Blythe

Most of the villagers have retired for the evening, and they head back to their homes, the gentle clanking of their horses pulling wagons, soft laughter disappearing into the night. A few of us remain under the tent, but Mama retired some time ago, and I thought I saw Papa heading back to Wrexford Park, seriously engaged in conversation with August Goswick. Uncle Henry, of course, must be in bed by eight, lest he weakens his resolve against colds and other pestering ailments.

I let my eyes trail Briggs’s face as he and Westley recall some anecdote from Oxford, each of them adding a detail the other one missed, or forgot, or was too embarrassed to admit to. I know why I came to the harvest celebration despite my most adamant protests to my family. I came for him. I came because for some reason, I couldn’t tell Lord Colchester that I would marry him, and if I’m honest with myself, it’s because Briggs Goswick still exists in this world. I need to show Briggs what he means to me, and this is the last opportunity I could think of.

Empty bottles of wine litter the table, and my glass is still half full. I maintain most of my sobriety. To my left, Charlotte giggles incessantly, hiccups, and then continues to giggle. To my right, Briggs slouches in his chair, his foot resting on the edge of his seat, and his arms wrapped casually around his knee.

“That’s not what a truth is, Parker,” he calls across the table, his hand coming down with a resounding thwack .

Westley cannot stop chuckling, and beside him, it causes Julian to do the same.

“You know you’re lying,” Briggs accuses him good-humoredly, “and that’s not how the game is played. You can’t propose three lies. One of them has to be true.”

“Why don’t you go then, Briggs?” Westley suggests.

The table agrees with him, and both Westley and Julian tap the rims of their glasses with their forks. “That is a brilliant idea,” I agree.

“Oh, I have nothing interesting to offer the table,” Briggs argues.

“It’s your turn. You have no choice.” I sit back and cross my arms over my chest and watch him.

He taps the base of his wineglass with his finger. “Two truths and a lie.”

“That’s the game,” I say.

He sits up straight, still staring at his wineglass, almost as though looking at any of us might give away his lie. “I awoke one morning in Vienna after a night of carousing with a full-fledged bear in my bed,” he begins. “I am not fond of beer, and I live for a good hunt.”

“Beer,” Julian answers quickly.

Briggs grins and shakes his head.

“He really does despise beer,” says Westley.

“That cannot be true. I’ve seen you drink beer far too many times,” says Charlotte. Several others agree with her.

“That doesn’t mean he enjoyed it,” Westley counters.

But I observe Briggs while the rest of them argue their guesses, the semblance of some memory pushing its way through my cloudy thoughts, the details coming together in bits and fragments, until suddenly I can see him. A young Briggs Goswick, not even a teenager yet, crouched behind the stables at Mistlethrush, his face flushed with tears. And finally, I say quietly, “You haven’t been on a hunt since you were a boy.”

Briggs’s eyes flick to mine, his arm still outstretched, the defined muscles of his forearms flexing, then relaxing. “You know me well, Miss Rowley.”

My heart pounds behind my rib cage, and I press my lips together, unable to maintain his gaze. There’s something too raw and honest in it, and there are too many people watching us. I do know him well, and I want to know him better than anyone, for always. “I remember,” I murmur.

The silence stretches for what feels like minutes.

It’s Julian who finally speaks, though, and it breaks the moment. “Do you mean to tell us that you were once so inebriated, you didn’t even notice a bear in your bed?”

Briggs nods, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back. “I don’t relish the fact, Mr. Browning, but I won’t lie. That would defeat the purpose of the game.”

I cannot contain my amusement, but I don’t mean to embarrass him. The more I laugh, though, the more he seems to find this entertaining.

“I’m going to bed,” says Sabrina, suddenly standing. She eyes Westley for some sign that he will join her.

“Let me walk you back,” he says resignedly.

All of the gentlemen stand as she breezes past them, but she clasps her hands before her and doesn’t wish anyone a good night.

“I suppose I should be getting back to Wrexford, too,” says Charlotte. “I’m so sleepy.”

“Oh, stay, Charlotte,” I beg her, reaching up for her hand.

She smiles and shakes her head. “No, it’s far too late for me. Mr. Browning,” she says turning, “would you be so kind as to walk me back to Wrexford Park?”

I half expected Lord Drummond to do the honors, but I realize now that I haven’t seen him for the better part of the hour. He’s staying at Mistlethrush, but I can’t imagine him retiring for the night with the old men.

Julian holds his arm out for Charlotte as she rounds the table to stand beside him. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Barlow. Amy, will you join us?”

“I think so,” my sister replies, standing and linking her arm in Julian’s free one.

Then he regards me. “You’ll be fine walking home with Mr. Goswick, won’t you, Blythe?”

Part of me wishes to beg both my cousins to stay, for my sister to sit back down, and I would even invite her to tell me the plot of her latest work in progress. I would let her act out a scene. The muscles in my appendages and my abdomen quiver uncontrollably, and I cross my arms over my belly to get a hold of myself.

I glance over at Briggs, and he raises his eyebrows at me. “Yes, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

The rest of the group departs into the night, following the path home. Beside me, Briggs leans back in his chair, threading his fingers together behind his head. He sighs. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come back,” he finally says.

I can’t wrap my arms tight enough to stop the fluttering inside me. Leaning forward, I extend my arms before me, stretching and taking a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure I was going to,” I admit.

He nods, still staring out across the table. “I’m sorry that…” he begins.

“Please,” I stop him. “We don’t have to talk about it. I’d rather not, if that’s all right.”

“Of course,” he says, sitting up straight. “Of course, whatever you’d like.”

I shiver in the darkness, and he leans forward, taking his coat off the back of his chair, and he wraps it around my shoulders. His warmth and his scent cloaking me are like a blanket of calm. “Thank you,” I say.

He stares at the remnants of his sorbet, now melted, almost as though he’s trying to think how to phrase whatever it is he has to say next. “Do you remember that day at the fox hunt?” he starts.

I pull his coat closer around my shoulders, the warmth from his body easing the chill in mine. “Vaguely.”

He twirls a spoon between his fingers. “I was twelve, so you must have been ten at the most. You found me hiding behind the stables after one of my father’s annual fox hunts. It was my first foray into hunting, also my last foray. I had just witnessed the animal being torn to pieces by the dogs, and I allowed my horse to fall behind. None of the other hunters noticed when I disappeared, when I caved in on myself in a hiding place where I thought no one could find me, so I might sob uncontrollably.”

The image comes together in my mind, and I lean forward, waiting for more.

“You appeared out of nowhere, standing over me, observing my unraveling, and I let you,” he says, smiling down at the table. “There was nothing I could do about it anyway. I expected you to tease me, to tell me how pathetic I was being, but instead, you knelt down beside me, extended your handkerchief, and then placed your hand on my knee until the tears subsided.”

I laugh quietly. “I’ve never liked finding someone crying,” I tell him. “It always makes me feel that I should be crying, too.”

When I look up, his eyes are heavy and focused on me, a calmness coming over him. “Take a look inside the breast pocket of my jacket,” he tells me.

I reach into the lapel of his coat and withdraw the small white square of a worn handkerchief. I unfold it carefully, examining the sloppy cross stitch of my initials, everything inside me suddenly warm, so warm. “You kept it all this time?”

“Maybe as a reminder that when things are overwhelming, there is still some gentleness in the world.”

Suddenly, a small, glimmering pearl falls into the palm of my hand.

“That’s from the night we—well, I. We both, I suppose. We kissed. In the gardens at Wrexford.”

I think he’s blushing, but it’s hard to tell by the limited light of the moon.

“You were so mad at me when you left the dining room, and it fell off when you stormed out. I’ve meant to give it back to you a hundred times, but I just can’t seem to part with it. It fit so well in my handkerchief.”

I allow the pearl to roll around in the palm of my hand, unable to look him in the eyes. I wish I could go back in time and tell little ten-year-old Blythe that this is what he did with her handkerchief. Maybe she wouldn’t have carried so much resentment for so long. “Briggs Goswick, you sentimental fool,” I murmur.

He chuckles, his hands clasped together and dangling between his knees. “I suppose I am.” Taking a pause, he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up and causing that single lock to fall adorably over his eyes. Finally, he looks back at me, his gaze half amused, half dark. “I wanted to keep a trinket from a time before our only exchanges were insults cloaked as humor. A time before I had lost your trust entirely.”

“Briggs,” I say, my voice raspy. I fold my handkerchief back up, and extend it to him. “Here. This is yours.”

“Thank you.” Nodding, he takes it, then presses it to his heart. “You know, it’s funny.”

“What is?” I ask quietly, my body feeling suddenly overheated in Briggs’s jacket, which I now remove and hang over the seat behind me. In the moonlight, and smiling as he does now, Briggs is the most beautiful person I have ever known, and I have waited too long to tell him. If I don’t tell him now, I might lose him forever, and I will have broken my own heart.

He looks over at me, his perfect, full lips parting, hand still over his chest. “We have only been sitting here talking. And yet my heart races.”

I exhale, admiring his profile swathed in the perfect light of the moon, and I realize why I prefer him to anyone else. Because there are plenty of attractive men in this world, but his appeal is deeper than that. His beauty is creased with desperate determination, and misunderstood audacity, and some sadness that I can never quite decipher. I can see him. And he is the only person who has ever looked at me and truly seen me. Flaws and all.

I inch to the edge of my chair, and hesitantly, I lift my hand, allowing it to hover between us, and Briggs watches its journey with curiosity. I run my finger down the lapel of his waistcoat, then begin to untie his cravat.

He takes steady, shaking breaths, his eyes darting from my hands to my face, and when I unbutton his collar, he exhales slowly. My mind races with what I’m about to do, but it’s all that I want. I slip my hand under his white shirt, my fingertips eliciting the heat from his skin, and finally, I place my palm over his heart, nothing separating us, and I stare at our connection.

“Blythe,” he rasps, his eyes finally finding mine. “Do you feel the beat of my heart?”

My mind burns, my breath comes too quickly as his heart thrums beneath my hand.

“Do you feel its rhythm?”

I nod slowly; then, with a shyness I force myself to overcome, I raise my other hand and begin to unbutton the rest of his shirt. In this moment, there is no doubting that he’s here before me, flesh and blood.

“This is your heart,” he tells me, his voice low and raw, and he holds my hand there by my wrist. “This has only ever been your heart.”

“Briggs, I…” But I can’t finish my sentence. The blood hammers in my ears, and I try to form coherent thoughts, try to understand exactly what this means. The words won’t come, but my hand is still over his heart, and I lean toward him, suddenly conscious of the remaining space between us and my need to make it vanish. He watches me, his gaze alternating between my eyes and my mouth. “I was so mad at you when we kissed in the garden the night of your dinner,” I finally murmur.

He smiles, his eyes soft and drowsy. “I know.”

“But all summer long, I kept thinking of how I wished I had savored it. I wished I had taken the time to remember how you felt. How you tasted.”

He nods, then swallows, and I notice the curve of his upper lip, and it’s all I want.

“May I kiss you again, Briggs Goswick?” I whisper, smiling and tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

He reaches down, grabbing the leg of my chair, and pulls me closer. I giggle, practically in his lap as he says, “You never have to ask me that.”

Carefully, I lift my chin, bring my lips to his mouth, and press them against his. I don’t even close my eyes, just quickly offer him my kiss and then sit back. But his eyes are still closed, and he starts to laugh, dropping his chin to his chest.

“What?” I ask, and I can feel my cheeks heating. “Why are you laughing at me? Was it terrible?”

“No kiss from you could ever be terrible,” he finally says, and he runs his hand through my hair, his fingertips caressing the skin at the roots, and I lean into his palm, unable to think clearly. “But let me show you what it could be.”

He cradles my cheek in his hand, his thumb resting at the soft place below my jaw, and he’s slow, almost as though he fears that his eagerness might frighten me, send me fleeing. Only I’m frozen in place, overcome by anticipation. He grazes his lips across mine, his warm breath even with my own, and then he kisses me. His mouth is soft and forgiving, entirely different than how he felt that night in the gardens of Wrexford, and he opens mine slowly, like he’s seeing how I taste with a flick of his tongue.

I sigh against him, urging him to be less cautious, because if this is how a kiss is supposed to be, then I want him to show me everything. His hand trails from my hair down my neck, along my side, and stops just under my breast. I push up against him, and he grunts softly and grabs my hips, pulling me so that I straddle his lap.

“I’ve wanted to taste you again ever since that night at Wrexford,” he says breathlessly, his chest heaving.

I watch him like we’re in some kind of dream. “What do I taste like?”

He kisses me again, and I lick his upper lip, kissing the corner where his mouth is smooth, but the rough stubble of his cheek surprises me.

“You taste like the peppermint sorbet you had after dinner,” he says, his teeth nipping just under my jaw, and he leaves a trail of kisses down my neck. I tilt my head back so that he can have more of me. He can have whatever he wants of me. His fingertips trace the bare skin of my shoulder, and his hand rests just at my breast, over my heart. “And here,” he says, placing a kiss where my collarbone curves toward my throat, “you smell of apple blossoms. I dream of how you smell, Blythe.”

I dig my fingers through his hair and pull his mouth back up to mine. His breath is fast and ragged, and my whole body is on fire. He pulls away, staring at me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, now holding his face between my hands and pressing my forehead to his. Our lips are only inches apart, but it’s not close enough.

He shakes his head, unable to keep himself from me. “Nothing,” he promises me between kisses. “Nothing is wrong. You are perfect. You are everything.”

His fingers inch up my legs, pushing my skirts toward my waist, and his hands find my hips as his tongue slips over mine. I arch against him, his fingers digging urgently into my thighs. “For a girl who’s never kissed anyone else before, you’ve really taken to it,” he says.

“Have I?” I pull his bottom lip between my teeth and tug. He groans against my mouth.

My left hand grips his shoulder, the cloth of his shirt crumpled between my sweating fingers, and my right digs into the skin of his neck as my mouth finds his again, our tongues colliding. And I know this isn’t what ladies do, but I want him, and I trust him, and I don’t know why this is wrong. How could something that feels this good be wrong?

“Mr. Goswick.”

My heart stops, and Briggs is startled from our encounter. His hands, still under my skirts, begin to inch their way back down my thighs, and I miss their presence already. There is no hiding what we were doing. Perhaps even what we were about to do. And Briggs makes no effort to conceal our familiar proximity.

“What do you want, Miss Dixon?” he says over his shoulder.

I allow my eyes to rove from Briggs’s neck to the edge of the tent where Sabrina Dixon stands placidly, her hands held in front of her waist, almost as though she isn’t surprised.

“Westley says he must see you immediately.”

“I’ll be there in a moment.”

“He said it’s urgent.”

“Fine,” Briggs answers gruffly. “Fine.” His head is turned slightly, but he doesn’t look directly at Sabrina, who remains where she stands. “That will be all, Miss Dixon.”

She turns and retreats to Mistlethrush Hall.

Briggs stares after her, and I run my finger along his jawline, bringing his attention back to me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes trailing my face. He cups my chin in his hand, kissing me. “I’m so sorry.”

I lift myself from his lap and straighten my skirts, and he stands immediately, stretching and then pacing the lawn behind us.

“Do not apologize,” I say, and I mean it. “Don’t ever apologize for that.” Whatever Sabrina witnessing us may mean, we’ll handle it together.

Briggs grips the back of his chair and leans against it, nodding. “I should go and speak to Westley.” He turns to study me. “Mistlethrush is closer than Wrexford. Will you come with me while I speak to Westley, and then I’ll walk you back?”

“Of course,” I agree. I latch onto his arm, allowing him to lead me home to Wrexford under the cover of the dark, midnight sky. The windows of Mistlethrush are illuminated with the dim glow of candles, and Briggs brings us to the door that leads to the drawing room. A fire still burns in the hearth.

“Will you be comfortable here?” he asks quietly.

I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss his palm, nodding.

“I’ll be right back.” His forehead pressed to mine, his voice practically hums through me. “Wait for me.” He kisses me briefly, and then departs.

My thoughts whirl in his absence. I have never felt this way about anyone, never felt as though another human was just an extension of myself. I thought it would be unnerving, but it’s more natural than breathing.

I take a seat on one of the chairs facing the hearth, and I stare up at the exposed beams of the ceiling. The last time I was in this room, those beams were festooned with green garland, and I was covered in pig manure, my best pink dress destroyed. I swore I would never let Briggs Goswick close again, and I laugh at my childish resolve.

I could marry Briggs, I think. I could marry him, even if that does mean my family would suffer. But maybe not for long. Maybe I can still manage to find a few more investors—investors who weren’t there to witness the debacle in London, investors willing to take a chance on a girl running her own business. I’m clever, I remind myself. And resourceful. And with Briggs at my side, I know we would be happy. He’d want me to be happy, as I would him.

I sigh contentedly and lean back against the chair. A wave of shame laps at my thoughts, for having thought so poorly of him for so long, for allowing my past interactions with him and the boy he used to be to cloud my judgment of the person he really is, the man he’s grown to be now.

“You needn’t wait for him,” says Sabrina, appearing in the doorway. “He won’t be coming back any time soon.”

I sit up, surprised that she’s still awake. A pang of guilt reverberates in my conscience. I spent the entire summer trying to sing Briggs Goswick’s praises in order to win him her affections. As it turns out, I simply managed to convince myself.

“Sabrina, I know how this must look—”

“How it does look,” she corrects, stepping into the drawing room, and she exudes the presence of a spider circling in on its web. I am a fly, bound by almost invisible string. “Your feelings for Mr. Goswick have been rather evident all summer. Again, there’s no need to wait for him.”

“But Briggs told me to wait for him while—”

“He’s left with Westley.”

I cannot make sense of this, but somewhere deep in my belly, a small spool of dread starts to unravel. “Left?”

Sabrina eases past me, still dressed in her elaborate gown from the harvest festival. “I’m sure I understand you, Miss Rowley,” she says gently, standing behind one of the armchairs. “You might not believe it, but I do.”

“Do you?” I ask.

“You’re a dreamer, of course,” she says. I study her, looking for some malicious expression, some tone of condescension, but she has none. She speaks plainly. “You have desired Mr. Goswick from the beginning, despite your attempts to convince me that he and I would be a perfect match. And now, I suppose you believe that if he were to ask you to marry him instead, you would be his equal as mistress of Mistlethrush Hall.” She gestures to the scope of the room. “You believe him to be different than all the other gentlemen who wish to make decent, financially sound matches because he follows his heart. He must. Otherwise he would never put your reputation in danger the way he did this evening. He would never risk ruining his possible alliance with me. Not unless he truly loved you.”

My hands begin to tremble, and I hope that she cannot sense my weakness, how correct she truly is.

“But that can never be, Miss Rowley. He will never give up his birthright for a girl who cannot advance his interests.”

“You mistake him,” I say, my mouth hardly moving and jaw so tense that my teeth ache.

“I’m not sure I do,” she says. “I admit, you certainly know him better than I. But I am aware that his family’s fortune is in ruins, and that he is now desperate to pick up the pieces. I’m sure he’d like to believe that he’s kept that particular rumor from spreading, but it’s well known throughout the ton.”

My heartbeat drowns out my thoughts, and I want to tell Briggs immediately. I want to find him and warn him, but there’s no chance of that. If Sabrina is correct, he’s already left.

Sabrina studies the chair in front of her, her forefinger tracing the intricate vine details. “I don’t need Goswick’s money,” she says. “I have plenty of my own. It wasn’t until our week at Hemington Manor that I saw what he could provide me.”

I’m baffled. “After he saved you from drowning?”

“No.” Sabrina hardly flinches. “It was at the ball, when Sir Simon insulted me by refusing to dance. I heard a group of ladies discussing amongst themselves why I had even been invited, when the scandalous rumor of my failed elopement still followed me like a rotten stench. I imagine it was Sir Simon who filled them all in. But you should have seen their faces when Briggs Goswick came over and asked me to dance.”

My mouth practically drops at this confession.

“What I need from Goswick is his name. A name that is no longer Dixon. I need his name to hide behind, because no other decent gentleman will ever have me once they find out.”

“Miss Dixon, surely—” I try.

“He is mine now, Miss Rowley, and I will not give him up so easily. Not now that I’ve seen how you’ve thrown yourself at him.”

I snort and force a smile, but my dread grows greater. “I should have known there was nothing sentimental about you, Miss Dixon.”

“I have it on good authority that Mr. Goswick will be asking for my hand. His uncle said as much earlier this afternoon, before you showed up.”

“That’s just gossip,” I say, trying to laugh it off.

Sabrina eases herself out from behind the armchair until she comes to stand before me. “I’m sure you want to believe that he’s different, and that he’s singled you out, or some such nonsense. But he wants his freedom more than he wants your companionship.” She glances over her shoulder and out into the hall. “After all, he told you to wait for him, but he just left with Westley to go to a boxing match being held in a field in the middle of the night.”

I take a deep breath, the pit in my stomach now a stabbing pain that cannot be remedied. I fell for it again. I let him convince me that he was in love with me, and then he ran off for fun and games with his friends, leaving me vulnerable and unable to defend myself. How could he? How could I ? I swallow a sob in the back of my throat, tears stinging behind my eyes.

“If you hold him back, he will rid himself of you. Men never change. They want their fun, and then they wish to be left alone. I’ve arranged a carriage to take you back to Wrexford Park.”

Gathering my skirts, I storm from the drawing room and out to the stables where the carriage and four horses wait to bring me home. But I cannot leave until I know for certain where Briggs has gone. I cannot leave until the possibility of his innocence is proven.

“Excuse me,” I say to the groom, who adjusts the bridle of the lead horse.

He pauses and looks up at me. “Yes, miss?”

“Do you know where Mr. Goswick has gone?”

“Aye, miss. There’s a fight tonight just behind The Hearth and Hound. He and Mr. Parker had me saddle up their horses, and they left.”

I nod, forcing a smile and hoping that the shadow of Mistlethrush Hall looming behind me hides my tears. “Thank you,” I say quietly, climbing into the carriage.

It isn’t until I reach Wrexford Park that I begin to cry.