“Was there something you wanted to tell me?” he asked.
I wanted to say a million things. I wanted to tell him that Clodwick was gone and explain that I didn’t care because I lovedhim. Yes, I loved him. I knew it now just as much as I knew that not even my writing could keep me from him.
His feet brought him ever closer, and in a rush of excitement, I found myself uttering the first thought that came to my mind. “Thank you for helping Harriet. She said you wrote to her in-laws, and now she has been granted more freedoms from her husband.”
His mouth turned up at the corners. “Of course. It’s what friends are for.”
Friends? I dared not say the word out loud, but my heart sank like a rock dropped in a well—falling all the way to the bottom where not even a splash could be heard. He didn’t mean us, did he? I didn’t think he did, but it was late, and the room was dark, and I couldn’t tell anything for certain.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“I . . . I think we should join the others.” I forced a tight smile. The morning was soon enough to sort everything. I needed to think things through properly—when his presence wasn’t muddling my mind.
“Nothing has changed, Arabella,” he said, stepping ever closer to me, our heads only inches from each other. “I still feel exactly as I did before I left.”
How had he read my mind? “Do you really?”
“My back has a knot the size of England after being tackled to the floor, and my throat may be a little sore in the morning, but my heart?” His eyes seemed to drink me in. “My heart is still yours.”
I felt myself reaching for him, despite the servants nearby and family on the other side of the wall from us. Let them talk all they wanted.
Rowan stepped right into my arms but kept his head back—close but not close enough. “I see absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“I see you’re still an obnoxious tease.” I wasn’t angry that he wasn’t kissing me, but my patience was wavering like a boat about to capsize under pressure.
“A tease who would never force you to marry him—not again—even if it sounds rather exciting to be caught in this position with you.” He leaned close to my ear. “But that does not mean that I will behave tomorrow.” His breath tickled below my ear, sending a shiver down my neck and arms. “Meet me in the library?”
I nodded, my cheek scratching against the scruff on his jaw. “Before breakfast.”
I felt the faintest touch just below my earlobe, a kiss so brief I’d almost missed it. He pulled back and smiled at me, as if I was worth a thousand rides to London and back and having a woman drop on him upon his return. This man that I had hated only weeks ago I was now loath to be parted from for even a few more hours. With great reluctance, I released my hold on his waist. Tomorrow morning felt like an eternity, but I would suffer with the patience of a saint if it meant he still wanted to marry me. And by the way he took my hand and tucked it in his arm, I think it was safe to say that he very much did.
Chapter 29
Rowan
Arabella was not at breakfast, and I wondered if she had overslept yet again. The smells of salty meat and cheese greeted me as I entered the breakfast room, but my eyes were not on the sideboard. My gaze traced the empty chairs, feeling disappointed. Was I the only one eager for our meeting?
Last night, I had learned that Mr. Clodwick was gone, and I had jumped to the conclusion that the road for Arabella and me would finally be smooth. We would declare our love for each other this morning, post the banns, and be married in a month's time. We would live an exceptionally blessed life together too. I had not gone searching for love, but I had found it just the same. Now all I had to do was confirm Arabella’s feelings. My gut was telling me that she cared for me, but her absence this morning made me second guess all the conjectures I’d made.
It wasn’t normal for me to feel uncertain and apprehensive, but not being completely sure of Arabella’s feelings left me more nervous than any feedback from any literary opinion I’d ever published. I daresay my entire future happiness weighed on her verdict about us.
I plopped some cheese and bread on a plate and made my way to my chair. I had just sat down when a footman entered with a silver salver that appeared empty on first glance. When he extended it to me, I saw a letter with my name written across the outside. I knew at once it was from Arabella.
I unfolded the paper to reveal a beautiful script that flowed effortlessly across the page. I knew this handwriting. It was as familiar as her blue eyes had been in Quillsbury, but I discarded my curiosity and the connections forming in my head. It was the content that mattered at the moment. The words, however, were not in typical letter form. I leaned over it, eager to learn why Arabella had written me.
It all started with a framed landscape painting ofRochester, Kentby Thomas Girtin. My aunt, Lady Farthington, brought it home from London and hung it in a prominent place in her morning sitting room. At ten years of age, I knew little of popular artists and only wondered about the scene depicted. A fine blue sky lay over the river Medway, which wound past the little houses with smoke curling from their stone chimneys. A cluster of men circled together, conversing upon the grassy banks as if they had known each other all their lives. I wondered what it would be like to live in Kent and why one of the men was pointing away from the city. He had the look of an adventurer about him, daring his friends to join him as he traveled to see the grand sights of China, the ancient temples in Greece, and to smell the spices fresh from Bombay and Madras.
For days, I thought about the painting, daydreaming about the perils of Roma life and contrasting it with the thrills of crossing an ocean to see new vistas. Real adventure scared me, but I could endure it through my imagination. I was ten when I wrote my first story:The Quest of the Horatio Tuffin. It was thirteen pages long and quite bad.
Writing, however,was addictive. More characters came alive in my mind, and the stories of their lives begged to be told. By the time I was twelve, I had read everything I could get my hands on to improve my writing, including boring lessons on rhetoric and grammar. I much preferred studying the techniques of classic literature, and I still do. I wrote my third book that year:The Highwayman’s Escape.
I knew that title. Lowering the letter, I thought of the well-used book in my drawer I had thought had been dropped by a passing traveler. I had devoured the book a dozen times if not more. It read like a simple children’s book but had wit and insight an adult could appreciate. The hero—Mr. Eustace Pimm—was a poor bank clerk who had pretended to be a highwayman to impress a woman. Through his bumbling efforts, he’d been mistaken for a real highwayman who the runners were pursuing, and was cast into prison. The story is about how he managed to escape certain death at the last harrowing minute. He never married, but his experience gave him the courage to take over as the new bank director.
Arabella had written that story? I could scarcely believe it. At a mere thirteen? My eyes widened with realization—the familiar handwriting clicking into place. She had been the one to writeThe Pirate EscapeandThe Liberty Sisters. I lifted the letter to continue reading.
I was terribly proud of my newest book. I wanted nothing more than to read it to my family, but a group of boys discovered it first. They called it utter rot and mocked its every page. Horrified, I swore to never share my stories outside my family again. They ran off with my final copy, but I burned the draft ofThe Highwayman’s Escapethat was still in my possession.
I tried to stop writing, but the words returned again and again. I care for you, Rowan Ashworth, but I want to protect this part of me.You’re a well-known literary critic, and I have no intention of—
