“Some are suggesting there was impropriety. That you discovered something unsavory about the family and cast them out.”
“Let them suggest what they like.”
“Others think Louise refused an offer from you. That she found your attentions unwelcome.”
A laugh escaped Aaron, harsh and bitter as the dregs of brandy coating his throat. “If only that were true.”
Ernest leaned forward, elbows on knees, the posture of a man preparing for battle. “Then what is true? Why are they gone?”
“Because it was time.”
“Bollocks.”
Aaron’s gaze snapped to his friend, a warning that would have sent lesser men scurrying. Ernest didn’t even blink.
“I saw how you looked at her at the Ashworth ball. Like she was the sun, and you’d been living in darkness your whole life.” Ernest’s voice gentled, which was worse than his censure. “And she looked at you the same way.”
“It doesn’t matter how we looked at each other.”
“Doesn’t it? Aaron, you’re destroying yourself. Look at this room. It smells like a distillery. You haven’t bathed in days. When did you last leave this study?”
Aaron turned back to the window, where winter light exposed every dead thing in the garden. The rosebushes Buttercup had destroyed. The bench where Emily had performed Shakespeare. The path where Louise had walked every morning, her copper hair catching sunlight that seemed brighter then.
“Cecilia takes that beast to visit them.” The words emerged without permission. “Every morning. I watch them leave from here. The dog knows where they’re going. His tail starts wagging before they even reach the gate.”
“Then why don’t you go with them?”
“Because I have no right.” Aaron’s hand pressed against the cold glass, leaving a print that would annoy the staff. “I had my chance to claim her, to offer her everything, and I chose cowardice instead.”
Ernest rose, moving to stand beside him at the window. “So, choose differently now.”
“It’s too late.”
“Says who? Some arbitrary rule you’ve created to torture yourself?” Ernest gripped Aaron’s shoulder, forcing him to turn. “You’re not your father, Aaron. You never were.”
“You didn’t see him.” The words scraped out raw, bleeding. “You didn’t watch him collect women like artifacts, use them, discard them. You didn’t see the wreckage he left behind.”
“No, but I see the wreckage you’re creating now.” Ernest’s grip tightened. “You’re so afraid of destroying Louise that you’re destroying yourself instead. And her. Cecilia says she looks like a ghost.”
Aaron jerked away, needing distance from truths he couldn’t bear. “She’ll recover. They always do.”
“Listen to yourself. ‘They always do.’ You’re already categorizing her with your father’s victims.” Ernest followed him across the room, relentless. “Except your father’s women didn’t love him. Not really. They loved his wealth, his power, his attention. Louise loves you.”
“Stop.”
“She loves the man who protected her sister. Who gave her shelter without demanding payment? Who found her worthless brother and brought him home.”
“I said stop.”
“She loves the man who sits in this study drinking himself into a stupor rather than risk hurting her.”
Aaron spun, his fist connecting with Ernest’s jaw before conscious thought could intervene. His friend staggered but didn’t fall, hand going to his face with something like satisfaction.
“There he is.” Ernest worked his jaw experimentally. “The man instead of the martyr.”
“Get out.”
“No.” Ernest straightened his cravat with deliberate calm. “Hit me again if you like. At least it’s better than this walking death you’ve chosen.”
