Lucy would probably find this evening difficult enough as it was. The Sedgewicks were invited, and George too, but so were several of Nell’s and his mother’s friends. Far too many people for Lucy. Or far too many people she had little in common with.
He’d seen her now, dining at Caroline’s with her artist friends. He’d seen what she was like when she was in the right kind of company. She opened up like a flower in the sun. But tonight, she’d suffer.
Not just tonight, he thought, impatiently waiting to cross a busy road. George’s parents, George himself… They were all highsticklers, not the type to invite the Cottons and Thorntons and Villars and Mollers of the world to their table.
Or maybe George would permit it. A man deeply in love did many an unusual thing. But he’d do it unwillingly, his family frowning. And Lucy would know. Lucy was sensitive. For all her bravery outside Thornton’s—was it only last night? How could that be!—for all her bravery and determination, she might shut down under the pressure of disapproval. She would close up, retreat inside herself, hide behind fleeting flashes of silver eyes, all the vibrancy and intelligence hidden and overlooked.
He couldn’t allow that to happen.
But what could he do when she became George’s wife? Living with George, mistress of George’s house, out there in the prim, Bedfordshire countryside?
Be her friend still. Visit and remain in her life. Smooth the wheels of her artist’s dream however he could and ensure she was kept in the sun.
And…
And love her from afar.
His step hitched, and he stood stock still in the street, ignoring the people who tutted and stepped around him.
Yes. He loved Lucy. Had probably always loved her, in all the ways it was possible to love a person. And now…now he would love her like this, secretly and hopelessly.
It would hurt like hell. It already did, and it would never stop, but he’d bury that part of himself and keep the dangerous shards well out of sight. He was no threat to their marriage, and his base wants, his sore heart, all the pathetic, fractured, starving parts of himself, they meant nothing at all compared to remaining her friend.
With a sharp breath, he continued on his way.
Certain he was holding himself together, he arrived at his sister’s house. The porter let him in with a frown Jack didn’tunderstand until he caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror. A stark, ghastly face stared back, bleak as a man facing the noose. That wouldn’t do.
He removed his hat and made his hair a little more rakish, slapped colour into his cheek—all with the porter silently observing. Jack grinned at the man just to make sure he could still fashion a smile and strode off towards the drawing room.
His mother and sisters were within. Lord Ashburton was there, and the Sedgewicks, and George. But it was only Lucy he really noticed as she stood and returned his bow from across the room with a small curtsy.
Heaven help him. She was wearing the green dress she’d worn the night they danced the waltz. She met his eyes, George at her side, and despite all the resolutions made on the walk here, he felt sure his feelings must be writ large on his face, so acute was the pain that seized him. He looked away, but it was almost as bad, for it was George his gaze met next.
So much for their marriage being safe from him when his longing was blazoned across his face.I’m sorry,he willed silently to his friend.I’m so, so sorry. I’ll take myself away. I’ll learn to conquer this.But there was no anger or jealousy or even suspicion on George’s face, only a sorrow that seemed almost as deep as his own.
Jack looked down, numbly took the drink that was handed to him, and replied just as numbly to some friendly comment from Ashburton. He sat down near his mother, took a large swallow of his drink, and fought for courage.
“Doesn’t our Lucy look ravishing tonight?” his mother said in a whisper designed to be overheard.
“Yes.”
It was a statement of fact. But even the green dress wasn’t as bad as last night when she’d been barefooted, wrapped in a robe, hair wild around her shoulders. And he’d promised to comeagain tonight, and every night, until her work was done… Well, then! He’d just have to damn well cope.
“Hard to believe she’s the same girl who used to come and play with you and the girls. How close you all were! The two of you in particular.”
“What’s that?” called Ashburton. “What are you saying, Lady Orton? The acoustics in this room are very bad. It is the high ceilings, you know. The sound travels upwards instead of outwards.”
“Oh,” replied his mother, undoubtedly pleased to repeat her sentiments to the room. “I was only reminiscing with Jack about the years when Miss Fanshaw was our neighbour. They were inseparable, you know. And perhaps,” she added significantly, “they always will be.”
Jack met Lucy’s stricken expression. “Mother,” he whispered, leaning in. “I really must discuss something with you in private.”
“No!”
The voice, to his surprise, was Lucy’s. She’d stood suddenly, every eye on her as she blushed and stammered.
“I-I apologise. A sudden cramp.”
Frowning, Jack was on his feet and going to her aid before he could recall the impropriety of the action. He remembered halfway towards her and stopped stupidly, just as his mother called, “Yes, Jack, what an excellent idea. Escort Miss Fanshaw to the back terrace, I’m sure she is in need of some air. And a few turns up and down the gallery there might be just the thing to soothe a cramped muscle.”
