Beside him, Bollingbrook finished his drink, setting it down loudly. “Send word when you are engaged to Lady Florentia or The Chemist.” He stood straightening out his tailcoat. “Just get it done, man. For both our sakes.” He gave Edwards a brief nod of acknowledgement before he left.
The other two men sat quietly, not saying a word for a long moment.
“What do you plan to do about Miss Price?” Edwards asked, putting an end to the quiet that had settled over them.
St. Clara did not know what to do about Pippa. He couldn’t turn his back on her now, not after experiencing Summerset’s hatred firsthand.
Pippa Price had always been there for him as a young boy. Sometimes she would just sit by his side as he tried desperately not to cry about his mother’s absence or his father’s abandonment when he left to visit his clubs or his mistress. Other times, they would spend hours collecting rocks or performing experiments. No matter what, she was always there for him. Until she wasn’t.
Now it was his turn to be whatever she needed. His turn to be strong for her.
“I’m going to do whatever is necessary.” The words were final, branded on his heart.
Silence sat heavy between them as O’Brien’s emptied. Aware of the late hour, St. Clara needed to get home to face the morning.
“What happened between you two?” Edwards’ question was not unkind or demanding, but curious. “Were you two a couple?”
“We were engaged once, but it was not a love match.” The words sounded so simple to his own ears. He had loved her in his own way, but then it had seemed so innocent, so different from what he thought marriage should have been.
“Engaged?” Edwards asked, shocked, dark-brown eyes wide. “What happened? It is obvious that you are still affected by each other.”
She affected him now more than she ever had before. “We were young, and her uncle was threatening constantly to marryher off to the first gentleman who offered for her.” He let out an angry sigh, realizing that Wayford had finally gotten his wish.
“So you proposed to save her from a loveless marriage?” Edwards waited for St. Clara’s reply with patience.
“Yes,” St. Clara choked out the word, feeling the clouds of the past linger above him. “We were both so lonely as children that I foolishly thought that proposing was the right thing to do.” It had felt right to him, like finally all his lonely nights of missing his mother and sister, of missing the family he once had, ended with one simple word: yes.
“So why is she not the Duchess of St. Clara?”
The question hit him in the heart. When he was on his Grand Tour, he would often imagine what their life would be like. He always envisioned a life filled with laughter, collecting rocks, and conducting experiments into the late hours of the night.
“When I returned, she would not see me. I received a letter ending our engagement and our friendship with no explanation. She has barely spoken a single word to me for nine years.” It had been the longest and loneliest nine years of his life.
For a long moment, Edwards said nothing, both men quiet and in thought. A weary sigh had St. Clara staring at the other man.
“If you don’t do something this time, you will lose her again. Is that what you want?” Edwards asked, his voice grave.
St. Clara didn’t hesitate to answer.
“No.”
Pippa sat on the edge of her bed, her body still shaking from the carriage incident. She had never been struck before, and that it had happened at all still shocked her. She remembered as a child seeing her aunt covered in powder and rouge to hide the dark bruises on her pale skin. Pippa would wonder why a person would do such a thing to someone they were meant to love and care for.
There was no comfort to be had in the confines of her own room. The four walls were closing in on her, threatening to take away any semblance of solace that she had found over the years.
The room was decorated to her taste in simple colors of light blue and gray. She’d added a bookshelf years earlier that now housed a vast collection of both scientific and fiction books. Sometimes even logical Pippa Price needed romance, horror, or mystery.
It wasn’t a grand room. Surely her chambers at the Duke of Summerset’s homes would be larger, but none of that mattered to Pippa anymore. She would rather live in squalor than marry a cruel man who would mistreat for the rest of her life like her uncle had done to her aunt. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving her aunt’s fate to her cruel husband, but Pippa could not marry Summerset. She would not subject herself or any children to such a life.
She sighed, looking up at the small family painting on the wall. It was her father, mother, and her as a babe. It was the only likeness of the small family ever created and was her prized possession along with her father’s old microscope.
Rising, she reached for the painting, taking it in hand, scrutinizing her parents’ features, which had been impeccably captured by the artist. The look of love on both their faces was one she remembered fondly as a child. Years ago, she had hoped foolishly that her marriage would be as happy as her parents.
But friendship wasn’t love, was it?
As a girl, she had convinced herself that Chauncey was all she needed. That he was her friend and cared for her. It did not matter that there were no grand gestures of love or devotion. It didn’t matter that neither his father nor her uncle approved of their friendship. The only thing that mattered was that she could always depend on him. And she had for years until that one fateful day when she learned the truth.
Could she trust St. Clara again? She had trusted him once before, had depended on him to save her from her uncle’s plan to marry her off to the highest bidder. It had worked: once she was engaged to St. Clara, Sir Wayford never broached the subject of her marrying again. When her engagement ended, she feared that he would force her, but fortunately her uncle mercifully left for France, leaving both Pippa and her aunt. Both her cousins had married by that time, so she did not have to deal with the insufferable twins.
