The very thought of food turned his stomach, but Theo tugged him aside, peering into his face with some concern. “You look haggard,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said dryly.
“Stay here. We’ll entertain Mama and Oliver and send them back later on tonight. I knowyouwill not mind missing Charles.”
His head felt heavy, and his mouth was dry. “It’s not Charles, Theo. I dislike babies in general.”
Instead of teasing him about how he would have to suffer children of his own one day, she merely patted his arm. “Sleep it off,” she advised. “You will feel better for it.”
He grunted, saw to it that the servants were unpacking their trunks, and took himself off to the drawing room. He was not such a weakling that he would retire to his room to sleep it off, but a nap on the sofa would do him very well. His last thought as he closed his aching eyes was that the last time he had been in this room, Louisa had been there too, helping him hunt down his sister.
She followed him into his dreams.
When Louisa arrived at the Shrewsbury house in Grosvenor Square, she discovered that it was already being shut up. When she enquired, she was informed that the master of the house was selling and that the family had just departed for the country.
She ground her teeth together in frustration. By the looks of it, she had missed them by a matter of hours. Perhaps less. If Knight had not come to see her, there was a chance she would have discovered the family on the cusp of leaving.
As there was nothing else for it, she sent a note instructing Mr Upperton to purchase the property at full price, and returned home to pack before setting off for Kent.
She had been to his ancestral home once before, although that had been when she was attempting to pair his sister Annabellewith her friend Lord Sunderland. That had been last summer, and the endeavour had been a success, but her sentiments then had been wholly different from her sentiments now.
A year ago—less than that, perhaps as little as ten months ago—she had been prepared to hate Henry for all time. She had thought, even, that it would be easy.
Now she was yet another fool in love. The world did not need another. She didn’t care.
Beaumont Place was a grand Elizabethan manor that was still meticulously cared for—a product of Lady Shrewsbury’s dedication rather than her husband’s, Louisa fancied. The gardens were beginning to bloom as spring deepened its grip on the land and petals unfurled, and the bushes were all neatly trimmed. The sun glinted off tiny, uneven windowpanes as she drew up to the house and allowed her footman to hand her down.
An elderly butler, austere but with a kindly face, opened the door.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m Lady Bolton. I believe the family is at home?”
“Only Lord Eynsham at present, ma’am,” he said, opening the door a little further. “The rest of the family is dining at Havercroft.”
“Ah yes, where Norfolk lives.” She accepted the invitation and stepped inside. “As it happens, Lord Eynsham is precisely the man I came to see. Lead me to him, if you please.”
The butler looked at her, weighing her appearance. She did not expect him to recognise her as being Miss Picard—and indeed as Miss Picard she had only been invited to dine with the Beaumonts a handful of times—but after a second, a smile played across his mouth and he inclined his head. “As you please, my lady. This way. I believe he is in the drawing room.”
“Thank you. I would like to introduce myself, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, my lady.” He bowed again, and after leading her to the drawing room door, turned away to resume his duties.
Louisa pushed the door open to find the slightly old-fashioned drawing room bathed in light. And there, sprawled across one of the sofas, was Henry, his eyes closed. Shadows played idly across his face, drawing attention to the hollows under his cheeks. Still as handsome as ever. But gaunt to go with it, as though the past days had stripped him of some essence.
No doubt she could not take full blame. But enough could be laid at her door for a frisson of guilt to run through her.
Softly, almost afraid of waking him, she crossed the room to where he slept. Her feet were silent on the thick carpet, and she sank slowly to her knees.
“I am so very sorry,” she whispered, brushing the hair back from his face. Tenderness was a burn in her throat.
His eyelids fluttered open and his eyes fixed on her. She froze, expecting surprise, shock, confusion. Instead, a frown creased between his brows. His pupils were wide, still hazy with sleep.
“Henry,” she began, but he reached out, sliding his hand along her cheek to the back of her neck. As she paused, confused, he drew her clumsily to him and brought her mouth down on his. A lazy, sleepy kiss that had none of the urgency she had expected, given the manner of their last meeting. Even so, it sent an odd shiver down her spine. Every time they had come together, she had been the one to take control. After all, he was a novice compared to her.
Yet here his hands were large, holding her at the angle he wanted, and he felt fully in control as he licked at her bottom lip, encouraging her mouth to open for him. He shifted on the sofa, tugging her up and settling her between his legs, and answering heat spiralled through her with the same lazy intention as hismouth. As though, without a word, he intended to have her here, and she would let him.
This was not the reunion she had envisaged.
“Henry,” she repeated, drawing back and sucking in a sharp breath at the heavy want in his eyes. Already, even through her dress, she could feel he was hard underneath her. “We should talk first.”
