He wouldn’t have his hair cut or buy any pomade. Just yet.
Ten
December. 1817.
Oliver was long past due for a trip to London.
His journeys had been needlessly frequent before, motivated by the desire to have an excuse to spend time at Bexton Manor on the way there and back.
But now . . . well, he was not sure of his welcome with the Staffords. He and Crispin had resumed their usual correspondence, but things might be different in person. And even if the duke and duchess exhibited perfect cordiality towards their new son-in-law, Oliver knew himself. His remorse would create a distance where there had been none, introduce an awkwardness where all had been ease before.
And for the first time in years, he had no desire to leave Crossthwaite. It was a pity to have to tear himself away just now when there was such bustling hope and lightheartedness all around him, when he had a piece of Bexton Manor in his own house. But his inherited business concerns had pressing matters requiring his presence in London.
On the morning he planned to set out, he gazed over the rim of his teacup at Henrietta. She was picking at her food, stealing glances at him but then looking away when he met her eyes. Shewas dressed for riding but apparently had not yet taken her giant gelding out this morning.
Could this delay in her usual exercise mean she had not wanted to risk missing his departure? Oh, no. Was she going to inflict some maudlin leave-taking on her husband-in-name?
He couldn’t allow that.
He wouldn’t survive it.
Oliver stood abruptly. She started to stand, too, but he stayed her with a gesture of his hand.
“There’s no need to neglect your breakfast. I will say my farewells here. I will be back before the new year.”
She nodded and kept her seat. Good, he would be spared. And he had been a fool to think she would display emotion at his leaving. It wasn’t as if she had married him by choice or she had any true attachment to him.
But as he went to exit the room, she cried “Oliver!” and threw herself out of her chair and hugged him, just as she had in her father’s study. This time, she wrapped her arms around his neck instead of his sides, leaving his arms free to embrace her in return. Unbidden, his arms came up and went around her as she pressed into him.
Their first embrace since that fateful one. The kiss—that unconscionable, ruinous kiss—came into his mind. A tender moment suddenly turned into something dark and guilty, stained by his own depravity. He stepped away from her, taking her arms from his neck, averting his eyes.
“Did you put the list of things you want from London in my satchel?” he asked, trying to inject something proper and pragmatic into this exchange.
“Yes,” she said, and he could hear the tears in her voice.
He nodded and left the room without looking at or speaking to her again. He couldn’t.
In front of the house, he supervised the loading of his trunk and discussed the first part of the journey with his coachman. As he was about to get into the carriage, he heard, “Wait, wait, wait! Oliver!”
Henrietta flew out the door, holding his son in her arms.
“Nathaniel did not get a chance to say goodbye to you,” she gasped, her warm breath making white puffs in the chilly air.
Oliver had never bid farewell to his own son before. He had always been too apprehensive. Irrationally fearful. He had not wanted the sickly boy to receive a goodbye from his father when there was a very real chance it might be a final adieu and Nathaniel would succumb to an illness while Oliver was away.
But Nathaniel did not look sickly right now. He hadn’t looked sickly in weeks. His cheeks were pink and slightly rounded and his arms were fiercely clinging to his stepmother’s neck.
“Do you want to hug your father goodbye?” Henrietta asked him.
Nathaniel just held on tighter to her and turned his head away from Oliver.
“It’s all right,” Oliver said. But he could tell Henrietta was distressed. “We could shake hands like men do,” he offered.
“Yes.” Henrietta sounded relieved. “Nathaniel, please do shake hands with your father.”
The boy looked first at Henrietta and then tilted his head to look at Oliver out of the corner of his eye. After several seconds consideration, he thrust out his hand. Oliver took it and gravely shook it.
“Nicely done, darling,” Henrietta breathed.
