“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. That’s when I wrote the letter. Christ, I can’t believe what I put in it! What was I thinking?” He groaned, sounding agonised, and pressed his hands to his face, scrubbing at the skin. “How could I take a risk like that?”
George tried to think of something, anything, he could say that might calm him. At last, he offered tentatively, “Do you want me to destroy the letter?”
For a moment, Ollie stared at him. Then, cheeks pink with shame, he whispered, “Yes. Please.”
George bade him sit, while he fetched the letter from his bedchamber. When he returned to the sitting room, Ollie was visibly shaking.
“Do you want to do it?” George asked, holding the letter out to him. Ollie nodded and took it. Then he looked it over, as though checking that all the words were there. Finally, steeling himself, he set about tearing it into strips, and then into smaller pieces.
“Can we burn the scraps?” he asked when he was done, his voice very quiet.
“Of course,” George said.
Together they burned the little pile of paper scraps away to nothing, until there was nothing but a few grey wisps of ash left.
An hour later, George and Ollie stood together at the front of the house, while Ollie’s carriage was brought round.
“Will you give my best wishes to your brother?” Ollie said politely. “I do hope he recovers soon. It sounds like he sustained some nasty injuries.”
“He did, but he’s making progress,” George replied, equally polite. “I’ll pass on your regards.”
It felt as though they were strangers. As though that painful conversation in the sitting room hadn’t happened. As though they hadn’t burned Ollie’s letter together.
George could feel nothing but relief when he finally heard the rumble of wheels coming around from the stable block. A moment later, Ollie’s carriage came into view, his driver perched on top, one of the grooms walking alongside.
Ollie turned to face George. “Well,” he said, making a painful attempt at a smile. “I suppose?—”
But whatever it was Ollie supposed at that moment, George never found out, because just then came the sound of approaching hooves. He and Ollie both turned their heads to see a horseman coming around the bed of the long, sweeping drive.
Despite the distance, George knew who it was instantly. Something about the man’s posture, the way he held himself.
Theo Caldwell.
Theo.
George’s heart began to pound in his chest.
“It seems you have a visitor,” Ollie said, gaze narrowing as he peered down the drive. He hadn’t realised who it was yet.
“Yes,” George agreed faintly. His mouth felt dry, his throat thick. Confusion and joy and nerves all rose in him at once. Why was Theo here?
And God, why couldn’t Ollie’s coachman have brought the carriage around just a few minutes earlier?
“Good lord,” Ollie said. “Is that Caldwell? What’s he doing here?” He was scowling now, his expression almost accusatory when he turned to George and demanded, “Aren’t you just back from visiting him?”
Thankfully, George was spared the need to answer that question by Theo drawing closer. He slowed his mount to a gradual stop, then gracefully dismounted, his lean body loose as he jumped to the ground. The waiting groom stepped forward, catching the reins that Theo tossed towards him. Then Theo was striding towards them.
At first, his gaze was fixed on George, his expression unreadable. A moment later, though, he recognised the other man standing at George's side and his step faltered.
“Theo,” George said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Theo’s gaze flickered between George and Ollie. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Am I interrupting?”
George felt his face heat. “No!” he exclaimed.
At the exact same moment, Ollie said stiffly, “Actually, we were just taking our leave of one another.”
A flash of irritation went through George. Wasn’t that just typical of Ollie? Burning his letter to George to ashes one moment, then getting territorial the next.
