“Yes.”
“You joined the military three years before that,” she said, “because you did not want to be trapped into marrying Lady Hazeltine—or Velma Frome, as she must have been then. Yet after being home for a few weeks, all the time sitting here with your brother, you were so eager to marry her that you left him and went to London to your betrothal ball and then dashed off back to the Peninsula. How did that come about, Flavian? What else happened during those weeks?”
“I went out for w-walks and rides,” he said. “It was emotionally d-draining to be here in this room all the time, even though he was p-peaceful. He was just s-slipping away, and there was nothing I could do....”
He closed his hand around hers and drew her forward to take her on his lap. He set one arm about her waist, and she twined one about his neck.
Ah, God, he loved her. He loved her.
“And did you meet Velma outside, as you had used to do?” she asked.
And suddenly that great yawning core of blackness exploded into the searing light of a crashing headache, and he gasped for air. He pushed her off his lap, staggered to the window, fumbled with the catch, and raised the sash until he could feel cold air blowing in. He rested his balled fists on the windowsill and bowed his head. He waited for the worst of the pain to go away. Everything was wide-open. He could remember...
. . . everything.
“They were in London for the Season,” he said. “But they came h-home. I think my mother m-must have written to Lady Frome. Velma had not taken well with thetonafter a few years of trying. Frome is not well-off or particularly well connected. She could have found a husband even so, but she aimed too h-high. She wanted a title, the grander the better. None of this was ever said in so m-many words, of course, but it was not d-difficult to piece together the truth. But I was home, and David was d-dying, and...”
And they had come. He was not sure Sir Winston and Lady Frome had come from any other motive than concern for their neighbor. And he was not sure his mother had written to Lady Frome for any other purpose than to inform her of the imminent demise of her son. Hehopednone of them had had any other motive.
Velma had come almost daily to inquire about David, though she never came up to the sickroom. Sometimes she came with one or the other of her parents, but often she came alone, without either maid or groom, and on those occasions his mother had directed him to escort her home. And whenever he went outside for a breath of air, whether on foot or on horseback, almost invariably he came upon her—or, rather, she came upon him. It wasjustlike old times. And always there were tears and sweet sympathy and tender memories of when they had been younger.
He had been soothed by her sympathy. He had begun almost to look forward to seeing her. Watching life ebb away from a loved one must be one of the most excruciatingly wretched experiences anyone could be called upon to endure. Even though he had seen more than his fair share of death in the wars, none of it had prepared him for what he was going through now.
One afternoon, while they were sitting in a little clearing above the waterfall, looking down at the lake, listening to birdsong and the sound of water, he had kissed her. Quite voluntarily. He could not blame her for it.
And she had told him that she loved him, that she adored him and always had. She had told him she would make the best viscountess he could possibly dream of. She had told him they must marry as soon as possible, by special license, so that they would not be delayed by the year of mourning that lay ahead when David died. And she would be by his side to support him through that year. She looked good in black, she had told him. He must not be afraid that she would look dowdy and let him down. Oh, she adored him.
And she had thrown her arms about his neck and kissed him.
He had apologized stiffly forhiskiss, begged her forgiveness, told her that he could think of nothing at that moment beyond the fact that David was alive but desperately ill, that his brother needed him, and he needed his brother. That all else in his life was on hold. He had apologized again as he scrambled to his feet and offered a hand to help her up.
She had been in tears, and he had felt like a monster.
The following afternoon Flavian had been called down to the drawing room from the sickroom and had found his mother there with a pale, marblelike face. With her were a weepy-eyed Lady Frome and a stiffly formal and clearly furious Sir Winston Frome.
Apparently Flavian had declared his love for Velma the previous afternoon before debauching her, but he had then informed her that there could be no question of their marrying for some time to come, what with all the uncertainty surrounding the illness of his brother.
All of which, Frome had declared, was monstrously unacceptable, to put the matter mildly. What if Major Arnott’smerrymakingof the previous day had consequences? Lady Frome had sniffled against her handkerchief, and Flavian’s mother had flinched. Major Arnott’s honor as an officer and a gentleman dictated that he make restitution and make it without delay.
The death of David might cause that delay. Frome had not said as much. None of them had, but his meaning had been clear. He had not demanded marriage by special license. That must have appeared unseemly to him, as it had not to his daughter. But hehaddemanded an instant and public betrothal. There was to be nothing havey-cavey about it. In fact...
They had leased a house in London for the Season and had not let it go when they returned home. They would go back immediately, have the announcement put in all the society papers, and invite thetonto a grand betrothal ball, after which they would have the banns called at St. George’s on Hanover Square.
Flavian had found himself unable to protest as vociferously as he would have liked, though he had denied ruining Velma. He had kissed her, though, and it could be said with some justification that he had compromised her. Her mother had wept. Her father had blustered and chosen to believe his daughter’s more extreme version of what had happened between them. How could he, Flavian, have continued to call Velma a liar in the hearing of her parents—his neighbors and friends? But it wassomuch like what she had done once before, three years ago, except then she had made her accusations only to David, in order to get him to cancel their betrothal plans. This time she had left nothing to chance.
“And so you went to London,” Agnes said, and Flavian awoke to the realization that he had poured out the whole story to her. “And then went back to your regiment.”
“David could see no honorable way out of my going,” he said. “But when I assured him I would rush b-back the morning after the ball, he m-made me p-promise not to come back at all. He could not be sure, he told me, that he would die within a month.” He paused and took a great gulp of the cold outdoor air. “If he didnotdie, and I could n-not be saved by the necessity to mourn, then I would be forced to marry and would be trapped for life. He m-made me promise to return to the Peninsula as I was scheduled to do. Perhaps, he s-said, Velma would find someone else to marry while I was gone. Or perhaps something else would crop up to save me. He made me promise, and I went.”
He swallowed against a lump in his throat, fought tears, and lost the battle. He tried desperately at least to weep silently until he could get himself under control.
And then her arms came about him from behind, and the side of her face came to rest between his shoulder blades. He turned and gathered her up into a tight hug and sobbed ignominiously against her shoulder.
“He died alone,” he gasped out. “Mother was in town with m-me. So was Marianne. There were only his v-valet here and the other s-servants. I was on the ship back to Portugal.”
She kissed him on the tip of one ear.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “I have soaked your shawl.”
