“Then what?”
“Louisa.”
Comerford glanced around them, then nodded downstairs. “My study. We can talk there without disturbance. And it looks like you need a stiff drink.”
“That’s not—”
“Very well.Ineed a stiff drink, if you’re about to tell me what I think you are.” He motioned to the hallway. “They can manage without us for a while.”
There was no point arguing, and Henry followed his friend into the study, shutting the door behind him. George lit a candle and sat in the chair behind the desk. It looked as though many of the papers had been pushed to one side in a hurry, leaving a bare expanse of wood, and Henry decided he wanted no more details.He also decided to stand by the window rather than sitting in the only other chair. Just in case.
“So you and Louisa,” Comerford said.
“Yes.”
“I take it the experience didn’t go well?”
“The experience itself went well enough, I think,” Henry said curtly, although he tried not to think too hard about his initial embarrassment. “It was what came after that was the problem.”
Comerford sighed. “What did you do?”
Henry kept his back ramrod straight. “Asked her to marry me.”
“That’ll do it,” Comerford muttered.
“I hadn’t intended to. Not like that, at least. And before we were intimate, I thought for certain she would never . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly exhausted. This was precisely what he had feared would happen if he allowed himself to get too close. But being with her had been so explosive, so gentle, so tender, so wonderful, that he had allowed himself to believe she felt the same.
“She’s not a maiden, Henry,” Comerford said gently. “A tumble isn’t going to be enough to—”
“That wasn’t my intention!”
“I know. But perhaps she doesn’t.”
“What indication have I given that I was intending to coerce her into marriage? My helping her was not in the vain hope that she would relent against me. We just . . .”Got carried away. The excuse was as flimsy as it was unfair. He had wanted her; she had told him that it was not to be transactional, that she was not being with him out of gratitude but desire, and he had agreed. Because in that moment, more than anything, he had wanted to know what it would be like to kiss her.
And then, when they had crossed over the threshold of no return, he had understood that he would never want just once.
But at no point had he been with her to manipulate her into marrying him, or even in the belief that the act itself would force her into his life. More that he had believed, foolishly, that the emotional charge of the moment would touch something in her heart.
Comerford poured two brandies and pushed one towards him. “Drink that,” he said, and downed his. “You look like you need it more than I.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“What of Knight?”
“She won’t accept my help. Not now. Especially not now.” Henry accepted the drink and tossed it back, its unfamiliar burn settling in the back of his throat. “I should never have . . . any of it. And she will only wish me gone if I remain. It’s better I go.”
“And Miss Winton?”
He shook his head slowly. “I can’t. Not after—I can’t, George.”
“Damn bad business,” Comerford agreed. “But I can’t say I’m particularly sorry aboutthat. She’d make you a dull wife.”
Henry grimaced. “Don’t be cruel. She’s an admirable lady.”
“Perhaps,” Comerford admitted, “but she can be admirable from a distance, which is precisely where I want to keep her. Unlike you, my friend, I cannot choose to sacrifice myself to a life devoid of warmth and happiness.” He gave an overwrought, dramatic sight. “I am not so noble.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If I were not—if it were not for Louisa, I would be perfectly happy to marry her.”
