But he had seen my gift as a lack of caring, of compassion. That fact, more than anything, was devastating.
My throat ached with the effort of holding back the deluge of tears. I wasn’t in love with him—certainly not yet—but I could have been. If the world were a different, better, place, if it hadn't beaten me back at every turn, I could have been the kind of man who could have loved Tom Grayson as he deserved to be loved.
But I had to live in this world. This world with its invisible rules and lines, the ones that others saw innately but I tripped over until I was smacked back often and hard enough to learn where the lines were and how to toe them. Love was not a luxury afforded to us all.
Tom’s heart was sweet, gentle, and precious—and full of teasing mirth. And I had done the right thing in protecting it.
One day he would see it too; one day he would thank me. That understanding would need to keep me warm tonight. The fire, seemingly growing dimmer by the moment, certainly wouldn't.
I rolled to my back, watching the dying light dance along the ceiling in ever smaller circles as I desperately struggled to ignore the ache in my chest. My body was exhausted, bruised and beaten, but my head refused to yield to the promise of rest. Once beautiful memories of Tom Grayson’s lips swirled in tainted understanding—a new layer of self-loathing.
Why did he have to be so damned beautiful, his sharp, enticing angles softened by kind eyes? I didn’t deserve kind eyes, especially when I knew now that I’d made them sad. It was an unfamiliar expression on him, and I couldn’t quite picture it. Affable, teasing Tom should never have sad eyes—but I’d done it.
I shut my eyes in what would surely be a futile attempt to find rest and curled on my side. Sleep was often a reluctant friend—that was a natural result of a mother and sister determined to ruin themselves at every available opportunity. Often, counting breaths would work, the dullness of the activity sufficient todistract from valid worries. Tonight, sleep resisted, and only after I’d reached more than a thousand did I begin to drift away.
Twenty-Four
KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 16, 1816
Davina Hasket,
I’ve received no correspondence from Mr. Summers. What have you done? At least assure me that the house is still standing and your reputation remains in the same tarnished but more or less intact state as I left it.
Assure Mother that I am well. I did encounter several spiders, but they possessed no mystical properties that I could identify. The sheep continues to vex, though. It may have some magical jumping abilities, but I cannot confirm that as I am not overly familiar with the skill set of common livestock.
Warmest Regards,
Xander
P.S. Tell Cee to withhold your pin money as punishment for whatever mess required the intervention of Mr. Summers to sort out.
XANDER
The black-and-white checkereddance floor was overcrowded, people tripping over hems and backing into each other with every turn. My place, long ago defined, was on the sidelines. The violin was out of tune with the rest of the quartet—discordant and disconcerting.
The couples parted for the briefest of moments, and there was Mr. Grayson—Tom, eyes hot on my form. He truly was lovely. I wasn’t certain how I hadn’t noticed before. Even with his brow furrowed and his lips pressed tight together, there was no mistaking the defined cheeks and breathtaking eyes. Long, muscular legs filled out his trousers in a way that left little to the imagination.
A tiny sprite of a lady appeared at his side, drawing his penetrating gaze away from me. I couldn’t hear the words they exchanged, but they slipped onto the dance floor—waltz already in progress. They fit together, her small frame against his masculine one, moving as one.
This was his future, the one I had purchased for him with my absence. He might not have appreciated my leaving now, but he would when he had this.
Beaumont approached from one side, clapping Tom on the shoulder in a jovial gesture of friendship, earning a crooked, boyish smile.
My chest ached at the sight. Even from the edge of the floor, it was clear that Tom was made for this world in a way I wasn’t. With an impossible effort, I ripped my gaze away, finding the floor before me.
A soft breath found my ear and my eyes shot to my side. Tom, clad in what I now noticed was an absolutely revolting red-and-orange waistcoat, caught my hand—how had I missed that waistcoat? Wordlessly, he tugged me onto the floor as couples parted with scandalized gasps.
“We cannot!” I hissed.
“We can.” Surprisingly muscular arms pull me into his space, arranging my arms to his liking.
“People will see!”
The single, formerly discordant, now tuned violin broke into the oppressive silence with a decisive sliced note. “Yes.”
“But—”
“Xander, I won’t allow anything to harm you.” Tom’s arms found my waist and he stepped into me just as the rest of the quartet joined the melody. “I can give you everything you want,” he breathed into my ear as he pulled me even closer. “Everything you’ve ever wanted. It’s all I’ve ever wanted too.” I shuddered at the gravel in his voice, in perfect contrast to the sweet high notes of the quartet.
