She left the library on silent feet, pausing at the door to look back at him once more, studying him.
This man can be so harsh, so unbearable. Yet he carries his pain like a brand seared into his soul.
Something within her softened. Then she slipped away, leaving him to dreams she could not share.
Chapter Seven
Winston woke with the lingering sense of wonder that only dreams could summon. A dream of firelight and a voice like balm, reciting words he had half-forgotten. He had seen her, clear as the dawn, an angel with pale hair and green eyes, her lips shaping verses with a grace that stilled the gnawing ache inside him.
What a dream! If that is the product of the brandy bottle, then I will happily imbibe every night.
His head ached, and his mouth was dry, throat sore. But these were physical discomforts only. The memory of the golden-haired angel transcended those inconveniences. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pounding at the front, seeking a comfortable position where he lounged. His hand shifted. The worn spine of a poetry book lay beneath his palm. A blanket was draped over him, the faintest trace of lavender clinging to the wool. And in his other hand, clenched tight as though he had guarded it all night, was the cameo.
His eyes flicked open. He tightened his grip on the cameo, eyes seeking but not seeing the empty box, disguised as a book. The metal was warm in his hand. Shame bit at him.
I could have done more. It was my duty. It does not matter that there was no love in our marriage. I had a duty!
Then his attention shifted to the book. He held it up to his face, frowning at the title. Something about it tickled his memory, but the feeling was fleeting, a frightened bird which leaped and bounced away across the fields of memory to be engulfed by mist.
A book of poetry. No wonder I dreamed of an angel reading poetry…
Was it all a dream? If not, who was the golden-haired angel? He thought back to the passionate clinch just a few days before, into which they had thrown themselves after their conversation had thrown up sparks.
We are flint and steel, striking sparks off each other. Setting light to ourselves.
Had Adeline been present in the library? Why? Was she following him? Spying on him? He frowned, closing his eyes and trying to reconstruct the events of the evening. But brandy had drawn a veil over it. He could not penetrate that veil.
“Papa!”
A bright voice rang through the library door before Louisa pushed it open. She hurried to him, her hair loose from the night and her cheeks pink with morning joy.
“There you are,” she declared, climbing into his lap as though she were still five years old instead of on the edge of girlhood. “I thought you might have forgotten me, and then who would bring you to breakfast?”
Her ritual, her gift. She had done it since she was small, padding into his rooms or his study each morning to claim his hand and tug him toward the day. Winston’s chest ached with love so sharp it bordered on pain. He slipped the cameo into his pocket before she could see it and brushed her hair back from her face.
“As if I could ever forget you, little one.”
Together they went to breakfast, Louisa holding his hand, chatting about the pony she hoped to ride and the story she wanted Adeline to read later.
The women were already at the table. Cordelia gave her son a look that weighed him, though she said nothing. Adeline met his gaze, and Winston felt the flicker of unease return. Was it her voice he had heard last night? Or had his mind woven her into his drunken haze? He studied her while he ate. She seemed calm and composed.
Too composed? Hiding something.
Winston felt out of sorts because of the after-effects of the brandy. He was unwilling to look at the world with the bright expectations of his daughter. Cynicism came far easier. Distrust was simple. Trust took effort.
“You had an enjoyable evening?” Cordelia asked, primly. “I thought that the Earl of Duskwood had left us.”
“He has. I was alone,” Winston said.
“Ah, drinking alone. A fine example to set for your daughter.”
“My daughter would not have known whether her grandmother not revealed it at this table,” Winston shot back.
His eyes strayed to Adeline, who was looking at her plate. He looked away as he caught the first movement of her head, her eyes seeking his. The cameo weighed heavily in his pocket. None knew of its existence except him.
“I know, Papa. I always know,” Louisa said.
Winston stopped in the act of raising a teacup to his lips.
