“My lord, we are so happy to have you home,” Mrs Hemsley gushed, shooing them into the great hall with a warm smile. “I have prepared a meal, and the rooms, just as you requested.”
“Thank you,” said Silas, his thoughts already miles away as he stepped into his family home for the first time in eleven years.
* * *
After making sure Honora was well situated in her room and then enjoying a sumptuous late luncheon, Silas found himself drawn to walk the halls of his home. The portraits of his ancestors stared down at him from the walls as he stalked the length of the grand gallery. Eventually, reaching the end, he paused in front of the portrait of his parents.
The earl stood stoic and remote behind his countess, Silas’s mother, his hand resting on her shoulder as a wistful smile hovered on her lips.
It was an apt portrayal of them.
Silas acknowledged he had received his dark colouring from Elena, his mother, who had been born in France. They had the same raven black hair, with dark eyelashes lining startling blue eyes.
It had been hard for his mother to adapt to life in England, and Silas had often suspected she felt duped by his father, as if she had been promised more than what she had received.
From his father, he had inherited a stubborn cant to his mouth and a tendency to melancholy.
It was the latter that Silas truly resented, as he had no wish to kill himself with drink as the old earl had. Unfortunately, far too often he found himself clutching a bottle in the early hours of the morning. It seemed history was destined to repeat itself.
He turned away from the reminder of them, his feet automatically taking him in the direction of the music room.
He opened the decadently gilded double doors, the smell of dust and disuse assaulting his nose.
Never mind, that could be remedied. The piano was still here and he had ensured that it was kept in tune all these years, even though he was never here to play it.
Well, he was here now, he supposed. Seating himself on the bench and running his fingers over the keys.
This room, the music, had been his sanctuary from the rest of the house. A place where nothing else could touch him.
Not his father’s morose disapproval, nor his mother’s lingering sadness.
No wonder he had chosen to spend any time off from Eton with Benedict at Oak Ridge House, rather than come home to a place as still and quiet as a tomb.
Silas started to play, his fingers automatically searching for the notes of a mournful dirge as he realised that part of his distress at coming home was that he didn’t want to see Honora in this space.
She was vibrant and full of life. Youthful exuberance and innocence all at once.
It would break his heart to see her as he had his mother, bitter, and sad. Her spirit broken by life’s disappointments.
And wasn’t that the real reason Silas always avoided Benedict’s hints?
He knew that he could only be a disappointment to her, as his father had been to his mother.
Honora deserved a man who was whole, in body and spirit. Someone who could give her the life she deserved, not pull her down with him.
A sound from behind alerted him that he was no longer alone.
“Hello, Honora,” he said, his body instantly alert to her presence.
“Silas, you play so beautifully. I couldn’t help but follow the music,” she said, coming to stand beside him at the piano.
Her soft scent of vanilla and warm, alluring woman wrapped around him as she rested her hand on his shoulder.
It was a simple gesture, but the easy familiarity of her touch was like a brand on his skin. A burning reminder of everything he had longed for.
His fingers fumbled on the keys as he fought the urge to drag her down onto his lap and kiss her senseless.
Instead, he slammed the piano closed.
