Why? Out of spite? Because he knew how much Barlowe Park had once meant to Zachary? Knowing Horatio, it was possible.
“Do look out for that dreadful root,” Izzy pointed out, gesturing to another place where the path had been rendered treacherous by the lack of attention paid to the undergrowth. “When were you last in residence? I am guessing it must have been some time.”
“Years.” He stepped over the blasted roots, taking care to make certain she did not stumble either as they neared their destination. “I have not been welcomed here in years.”
The Collingwood family was quite tightly knit. He had witnessed their closeness in many ways over the last few weeks. They were caring and loyal and everything a family ought to be. Zachary’s own family could not have been more disparate. His mother’s absence in his youth after her death had not been ameliorated by his icy father, who had been far more interested in hunting than showing his children affection.
He was keenly aware of Izzy’s gaze on him at his side, assessing, seeing too much. “Not welcome?” she repeated. “But Barlowe Park is your family’s home. Your family seat.”
“My father died a handful of years before my brother married. My brother made it abundantly clear to me that I was not welcome, and nor was I considered a part of the family any longer.”
And how rich it was, all these years later, to be the man holding the title. Proof he was indeed part of the family. The only flesh and blood remaining that was pure Barlowe. Whatever that meant.
“There must have been a reason.”
Yes, and her name was Beatrice.
He clenched his jaw. “There was.”
“Will you tell me?” she asked softly.
“I will. But first, you may as well glory in the serenity of the falls for a few moments.” As they passed through a dense group of trees, the familiar, rushing sound of the water could be heard. “We are nearly arrived at our destination.”
As the trees gave way to an unimpeded view of the little falls and the river beyond, he stopped them. From this point, the path had been difficult to navigate even as a lad, for the hill was steep and sharp. The eroded state of the path, along with Izzy’s cumbersome gown and impractical boots, would render it far more dangerous. He had not brought her here so that she could acquire a sprained ankle or scraped palms or worse.
Lord knew his recklessness had caused enough harm the night before.
Or perhaps that had been his greed where she was concerned.
Regardless, he intended to protect her. Protect her in a way that arsehole who had broken her heart never had.
“Oh,” she said softly, stopping on the path where the small waterfall cascaded into a series of miniature falls, ancient limestone rising from the river to create the swells and rushes and dips.
He drank in the sight of the falls, familiar and yet new. Where water flowed, changes were always happening. Some little, some large. There were places where the river had obviously swelled its banks, perhaps even recently, the vegetation laid flat from the rushing waters. And he was not certain if it was his faulty memory or the river had moved slightly to the right, following a new path that was eroding the old bridge which crossed it downstream.
“It is beautiful,” she added, her voice laden with quiet appreciation.
He looked back to her, not bothering to hide his admiration. “Indeed, it is.”
But he was not just speaking of the falls. This morning, she was wearing a promenade gown that looked as if it had been vomited on by a rose garden, complete with silken buds dangling off it in bunches without seemingly any care having been taken as to the placement. Thankfully, her wrap concealed some of the dreadful affair, and there were no artichokes in sight. But despite her continued devotion to garbing herself in abominations, she was hauntingly lovely.
“I came here often when I was a lad,” he surprised himself by confiding. It had been what felt like an eternity since he had spoken of his youth.Hell, it had been an eternity since he had even thought of that long-ago time when he had believed the best of everyone around him.
The best of the woman he’d loved.
The best of himself.
Izzy’s dulcet voice tore him from his musings. “I can see why. Heavens, if I’d had such a place at Talleyrand Park, I would have spent all summer long wading and swimming in it. You must have had great fun here. Were you alone? I hate to think of young Anglesey enjoying the little falls in solitude.”
“I was not Anglesey then,” he reminded her, just narrowly refraining from adding that he still was not. “But neither was I alone. I was often with my brothers, or rather, chasing them about in their pursuits.”
“You had just the two brothers, did you not?”
He inclined his head. “Horatio and Philip were close in age and, as a result, their loyalties were to each other, all their lives. Even in the end, they both drowned on the same damned yacht.”
He had not intended to speak of their deaths. Indeed, since the day he had been given the news, he had done his damnedest to avoid sparing the pair a single thought if he could help it. But he still felt a certain amount of bitterness and regret over what had happened. He would be lying if he said a part of him had not wished they had at least called a pax before Horatio and Philip had died. Their sudden deaths had shocked him, and he had not dealt well with the news.
Nor the aftermath.
