Two months.Two interminable months since he’d arrived back in England.And he could scarce recall anything that had brought him a modicum of happiness, apart from his own parents’ elation at his return.
The rest had been a blur of regret and longing.Lise’s face haunted him with accusations that he’d deserted her.Despite how she’d been the one to refuse him, he ought to have stayed in Holstein, sent her father a letter, and asked for her hand.
Trying to return to his life as the Viscount Bowen when his heart was missing from his blasted chest was like trying to waltz through mud with one leg.Between his ears, instead of a brain for Parliament or mapmaking or even assisting his father with matters of the earldom, there was a murky fog that had grown thicker by the day.
He simply could not slip back into his old ways while feeling like a hollow shell of a man.
His mother had noticed from the moment she’d let him out of bed, once she’d determined him healthy enough.
“You’re not yourself, darling,” she’d said gently during his second week in London, when he was still residing under his parents’ roof at St.James’s, mainly because he had no reason not to, no reason to make the short jaunt across Mayfair, past Little Germany, to his own home.
His father had been more direct.“What the devil happened to you over there?You still look like death warmed over.Bear up and rouse yourself.”
Jonathan had tried to break free of his malaise.Upon failing, he’d gone back to Bedford Square where he could wallow without witness.He’d gone out with Finch and knew he’d failed as a friend, behaving like a dreadful bore.He’d gone to his club and sat in the corner wondering when the place had become so dull.He’d strolled along Rotten Row, thinking it looked somehow paler than usual.Nor could he get himself to do more than raise his hat to those who tried to engage him in conversation.
So much for drinking and wenching.
Then, three days ago, he’d thrown open his parents’ door, gathered them in the drawing room and confessed the truth.He’d told them everything.Well,noteverything.Some details weren’t meant for a mother’s ears.But he’d told them about Lise, about hiding in her family’s stable and cellar, about falling hopelessly in love and rescuing her from her betrothed.
“I simply cannot live without her,” he’d said.“And I won’t marry anyone else.Thus, I must go back and fetch her or die alone.”
His mother had pressed her handkerchief to her lips, tears glistening in her eyes.His father had poured them all a brandy.
“The war, Jonathan,” the earl had said.“Bonaparte shows no sign of yielding.It could be years before it’s safe for you to go back.”
“I don’t care.”Jonathan had been surprised by his steadfastness, the absolute certainty.“I’m not going to wait.I gave up too easily.I let her send me away, but I should have stayed.I should have fought harder.”
“You killed a French officer,” his father had reminded him bluntly.“They’ll be looking for you.”
“Bonaparte’s attention is on Lisbon now.The reports in the papers say the French are marching on Portugal.Holstein will be less heavily watched.”Jonathan had done his research, poring over every scrap of news he could lay his hands on.“I’ll stay in the shadows.I’ve done it before.”
His mother had exchanged a long look with his father, one of those wordless conversations married people seemed capable of having.
“What will you do when you reach her?”she’d asked.
He’d been cheered by his mother’s assumption that he would make it that far.Jonathan had managed a ghost of a smile.
“Convince her to marry me.”
“The girl might still say no,” his father had said, then glanced at his wife.“Females can be tough as old boot leather when they set their mind against you.”
“Really, Edward!”his mother had declared, sounding miffed.
“If Miss von Ostenfeld refuses me,” Jonathan had mused, “I have a half-formed plan that involves less asking and more absconding.”
“You intend to kidnap the girl?”His mother had seemed torn between disgust and amusement.
“If necessary.”He’d meant it, too.“I’ll bring her back, marry her properly, and spend the rest of my life making her happy.”
His father had studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.“When do you leave?”
He’d left immediately for the coast, only to be forced to cool his heels.Now, dabbing it up in this godforsaken public house, watching the weather conspire against him, Jonathan wondered if the delay was a sign.Perhaps God himself was trying to tell him this was the action of a lunatic.
But he’d been without Lise for two months, and every day had been time wasted.How could he endure years of this?Decades?A lifetime of wondering what might have been, of remembering her voice, her smile, the way she’d felt in his arms that last perfect, terrible afternoon?
He would rather die trying to reach her than live safely without her.
Raising the tankard to his lips once more, he froze.
