Chapter Two
Too soon. Itwas too soon. What had he been thinking? He should never have let his father talk him into it.
William urged his horse into a gallop, but it didn’t help. The truth stayed with him.
“If you had a fine woman to come home to of an evening…”That was what Mrs. Lockhart had said. He knew she had meant her daughter. After all, wasn’t that why he had come?
And would it really be that bad? Miss Lockhart had done a lot of growing up. The dull, little mouse he had strived to avoid as a child was now rather more intriguing. She still had that odd fascination with insects, but at least she was pleasing to look at. Her features were delicate, her hair almost a silvery blonde, her pale-blue eyes intelligent.
But she could not hold his gaze like Ellena did.
Heat rose in his chest as he remembered Ellena’s warm-chestnut hair and the way she would look at him with bold honesty. He missed how she could match his wit, their banter driving away the emptiness that always struggled to overwhelm him.
Ellena was everything he yearned for. Yes, indeed, a fine woman to come home to of an evening. Only… she would never be his. William thought back with deep bitterness to their last conversation. How he had misjudged the situation! He had never stood a chance. He had risked much and lost everything.And now he had to settle for this life he never wanted: as a country vicar, married to a vicar’s daughter.
He should have waited, let his wounds heal a little. It might have made the choice—or lack thereof—more bearable. But his father had grown impatient. Even a good man has his limits.
The northern city of Munro and its bittersweet memories were scarcely a week behind him. And it would take far longer than a few days to shake his heart free of Ellena.
No—not Ellena. Lady Howell. He must remember that. No more lively conversations with Miss Trenton. For she was Miss Trenton no more. She was utterly lost to him, forever the wife of that pompous viscount. The man had won, taken the one thing in the world William had been sure of.
His horse slowed to a trot as it recognized the hedge adjacent to its stable. He gave the animal its head, and it immediately lowered its neck and folded its lips around the last of the year’s dandelions. William let it finish a mouthful, then clicked his tongue. “Walk on,” he coaxed, steering the way to the stalls with gentle pressure from his calves.
He left his horse in the care of the stable hand and crossed the yard to the east entrance, knocking clods of mud from his boots with his whip as he walked. He smiled ruefully as he thought of the location of his rooms. “Facing east, so you may rise with the sun,” his father had said. Mr. Marcus Cole had assumed his younger son would be just like Lawrence—hardworking, dedicated, predictable. Well, he couldn’talwaysbe right.
Leaning against the door frame, William tugged at his boots until his stockinged feet were free. He left the dirty articles there to be fetched and cleaned and padded across the thick rug to the inner door that led to his drawing room. His eyes fell to the writing desk, but there was no post awaiting him.
He threw himself onto the settee. There was nothing todoin Fernbridge. He could go riding, of course. But as for the rest, the options were small pickings: an afternoon aimlessly browsing the library; tea with his mother’s friends; some project his father wanted to involve him in. Or dinner with Lawrence and his brood of children. That was arguably the worst—an evening in the company of the golden son, with his delightful wife and charming children. Oh, he was happy for them, of course. But it was just too sickeningly perfect. At least when he visited Charlotte in Munro, his sister was not a constant reminder of everything he had failed to be.
A knock on the door shook him from his thoughts.
“Come,” he summoned.
A timid young woman in a starched uniform entered.
“Please, sir, I am to say the master wants you. He is in his study.”
“How does he know…?” William began, then bethought himself. Mr. Cole had no doubt told the stableboy to report when his youngest had returned to the house. Even so, his father had an uncanny grasp on everything that happened under his roof.
William sighed. “I am on my way.”
“Yes, sir. Although if I may say, sir?”
“Yes?”
“Um… you might want to put on some shoes.”
William looked down at his feet, then back at the maidservant, who was blushing deeply.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
The maid fled, and William rose from his chair to collect the needed items from his dressing room. Then he sauntered casually down the corridor—a subtle rebellion against his father’s summons.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked from the doorway of the study.
Marcus Cole looked up from a very neat pile of papers. His greying hair curled around his ears and neck, softening the long oval of his face.
