“It is. See, you have his gray eyes. You and Michael both have his dark hair. Michael and Tom have his furrowed brow. Tom has his nose.”
“Poor Tom.”
“Hush, it’s charming. Gives him character. He would be far too pretty for the ladies without it.”
“Is such a thing possible?”
“Oh yes, ladies don’t want a man prettier than they are. Too much competition.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Oh, I’ve told him so myself on more than one occasion.” Purposefully, she settled her hand over mine where it rested on the desk while still observing Father’s portrait. “Your father drowned?”
“Yes.”
“Michael pulled him out?”
“So it would seem. I was not ready for answers when it happened. I suppose it never felt like the right time after. At some point, I must have decided the answers I made up to comfort myself were the truth.”
“It must have been terribly difficult, growing up without him.”
I had not thought so, not after the first few months. Those days when the sun continued to rise and set. Winter turned to spring, to summer, and fall, before becoming winter once more. But in this moment, I felt his absence keenly, a gaping wound that had been present so long I forgot its existence until reminded of it.
I felt a soft pressure at my shoulder and turned to see a head of dark curls resting there. Her hand, the one not pressed into mine, came around her body to wrap around my forearm, tightening.
I swallowed hard against the knot that was forming, unbidden and unwelcome. It was, perhaps, the single most comforting gesture I had ever received. I pressed a gentle kiss to the top of the curls and received a tighter squeeze in answer. We remained there, her head pressed against my shoulder, until long after the tea grew cold and the bell rang to dress for supper.
And, when the heat of her temple was replaced by a damp cold emptiness, I could not help but think that Katherine may not have been the wife I wanted. But she may very well have been the wife I needed.
Twenty-Eight
THORNTON HALL, KENT – JUNE 3, 1814
HUGH
I was goingto be responsible for my brother’s next blackened eye. Perhaps two.
Incredulous, I watched from my study window with a slack jaw while a rain-soaked and disheveled Lady Juliet curled into my equally waterlogged, reprobate of a brother’s arms as he guided her inside. Lord, the girl looked thoroughly tupped.
He managed to sneak her in with no one but me the wiser—as far as I could discern anyway. I allowed him a few moments to change before ringing for Stevens.
“Do you know where my brother and Lady Juliet head off to each day, Stevens?” I pressed him.
He flinched, starting several times before settling on, “No, my lord.”
It was such a comfort to know that my valet, the one servant intended to be solely my confidant, was attempting to lie, poorly, on my brother’s behalf. Was there anyone in my employ not in service to him? With a sigh, I sent him off to fetch Michael.
Stevens all but tossed my brother into the study when I bade him entry. Likely as displeased with Michael’s behavior as I was.
“Close the door,” I directed Michael. Something about scolding a man so many years my senior required a lower register than my voice usually occupied. “Have a seat,” I added.
In a fit of pique, Michael chose to lean against the bookshelves opposite me instead. He found a book and flipped through it disinterestedly. It was a mere prop designed to infuriate me.
Unfortunately, the effort worked, and I aborted several attempts to begin my lecture before I found any words that were acceptable of a gentleman.
At last, I settled on, “She’s engaged, Michael.”
His flipping ceased. In fact, all movement ceased. Instead, my brother, so frequently in motion, was frozen, a statue.
