Lark found Anthony in his study, sitting in a winged-back chair and sipping from a snifter of whiskey. His face was pale but red around his eyes, as if he’d been crying.
He was so deuced beautiful, even in this state. It pained Lark to see Anthony without the customary smile on his face, the glint in his eye, but as for the rest of it, Anthony’s curly auburn hair had been trimmed but was still unfashionably long, his skin was still soft and pale, his body was still something that pulled at the baser parts of Lark. Lark had not laid eyes on this man whom he’d loved so well in nearly a year, and yet he was still utterly besotted.
But now was not the time to think on that.
“Lark!” Anthony said, sitting up.
“Don’t bother with ceremony. Stay seated.”
“What are you—Hugh passed on the news.”
“Yes. We assumed that was your intention.”
Anthony looked miserable. He downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass, set the glass aside, and then wiped a hand over his face. “I won’t lie. It’s been a difficult week.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You aren’t, but all right.”
Lark had never seen Anthony look so sad. It was like all the light had been drained out of him. Lark walked closed and knelt beside the chair.
“I am! You are in mourning. Hugh thought you might need some support, so I came here to offer it.”
Anthony closed his eyes slowly and then opened them again and gazed at Lark. “So here you are.”
“Anything you need, Anthony. I will do everything in my power to give it to you.”
Anthony’s face crumbled. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“If you tell me to leave, I will.”
“No, stay.” There was something plaintive in Anthony’s tone.
“Do you need something? Shall I fetch a servant, or do you need tea, or—”
“Would you mind just…sitting with me for a bit.”
“All right.” Lark stood and moved over to the nearest chair. He perched on the edge.
Anthony was silent for a long time. Lark had never really dealt with grief such as what Anthony seemed to be experiencing. His parents and sister were all still alive. An acquaintance from Oxford had died at Waterloo, but Lark hadn’tknown him well enough to feel more than a pang of regret when he’d gotten the news. He felt ill-equipped to help Anthony and certainly had no idea what to say. So he waited, as patiently as he could, for Anthony to speak.
“I did like her, you know,” Anthony said at last. “Matilda, I mean. Not in the way a husband normally comes to love his wife, but I did care for her, and we became friends of a sort. And to watch the life seep out of her body…”
Anthony stared unfocused at something on the floor, clearly in the throes of some sort of shock. Of course something like this would be stunning. Lark had never doubted he would find Anthony mourning, because that was his nature. He wouldn’t have married someone he didn’t think he could get along with, so of course they’d forged a friendship, even if Anthony could not offer her his whole heart.
“And now I have a son I have no idea how to take care of,” Anthony said. “That is, I’ve hired a nurse, and she is up with him now. But I do not know how to be a father. I always thought, you know, Matilda and I would figure out how to be parents together, but now she is gone, and I… I have no idea what to do, Lark. Not the foggiest clue.”
Lark was glad he hadn’t partaken of drink today, because Anthony was in a bad way, and Lark would need to keep his wits about him. He tried, “What is his name? Your son, I mean.”
“Henry.” Anthony smiled softly. “Perhaps not the most original name, but Matilda was named for England’s first queen. Henry I’s daughter, who would have been Queen Regnant if her cousin Stephen hadn’t made a claim on the throne. So I had the thought to give the boy a good Plantagenet name. It suits him.”
“That’s lovely.”
“Yes, well.”
Anthony was clearly hurting, and understandably so. His life had just irreparably changed. Lark tentatively reached over and put what he hoped was a comforting hand on Anthony’s arm.
Anthony looked over at Lark. “I don’t know what you’re doing here or what you expect to happen, but—”
