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It very well might be the last time he ever held her in his arms.
SEVENTEEN
Fernleigh House drawing room
Almost 3 hours later, that same day
This waiting is excruciating.
Shelby and Robyn left nearly three hours ago with Quentin Honeybrook. Roxina and Matilda had heard nothing from either since their harried departure.
“You really must eat something, Zina.” Matilda poured her another cup of tea, the china clinking softly as she set the teapot down. “I know you did not break your fast this morning. You must keep your strength up.”
The mere thought of food turned Roxina’s stomach.
She wrapped her fingers around the delicate china, its warmth seeping into her chilled skin—a stark contrast to the icy unease settled deep in her bones since Shelby left. If she cared so little for him, why did near panic thrum through her?
How many times had she silently counted to five in the last three hours to soothe and calm herself?
She had lost count an hour ago.
Using the delicate tongs, Roxina plucked a lump from the sugar bowl and dropped it into her tea. Stirring slowly, she idly watched the granules dissolve in lazy spirals before taking a careful sip. The mellow, floral notes of the Darjeeling coated her tongue but brought no comfort.
Shouldn’t Mitchel be her primary concern?
Instead, Shelby’s safety consumed Roxina, gnawing at her peace of mind.
Did that make her a terrible sister?
A soft sigh drew her attention.
Shifting in her seat, Matilda clasped her hands tight in her lap before loosening her grip to toy with a pillow’s burgundy silk tassel. The cushion, covered in faded floral damask, bore the marks of years of use, the once-plush stuffing slightly flattened, and the gold-threaded trim a touch frayed. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, occasionally marked by a sigh, punctuated the silence between them.
On their journey to Greenwich, Shelby reassured Roxina that an extended stay with his cousins would cause no inconvenience to them. They were kind, generous people.
Matilda seemed as restless as Roxina, her attention darting between the clock, the door, and the windows, never settling for long. No doubt, she fretted over her brother, and a twinge of guilt pricked Roxina. Unlike her, Matilda embodied devotion—a caring, affectionate sister. But to be fair, she benefited from a doting, protective older brother.
The steady tick-tock of the mantel clock filled the quiet, each measured second stretching unbearably. The timepiece, encased in warm mahogany with inlaid brass details, sat atop the walnut hearth, its polished face reflecting the sunlight streaming into the room.
When it chimed three o’clock a couple minutes ago, Roxina had jumped, so fraught were her nerves. A pair of porcelain figurines flanked the clock—delicate shepherdesses in pastel gowns, their painted expressions forever serene, as if they had never known a moment of unease.
Roxina envied them.
Exhaling sharply, she stood.
This waiting would drive her mad.
Pacing to the window, she swept aside the lace curtain and stared into the sunlit street. The midday light poured down in bright ribbons, glinting off shiny carriages and dancing across the cobblestones.
A stable boy led a bay gelding past the house, the steady clip-clop of hooves crisp against the dry road. A breeze carried the mingling scents of spring air, freshly turned garden beds, and the faintest hint of lilacs. Somewhere beyond her view, a robin trilled a high, clear note, its song a cheerful contrast against the drawing room’s pregnant hush.
The soft patter of paws crossing the floor, followed by a gentle whine, announced Dash.
She glanced over her shoulder.
He padded toward Roxina, ears perked and dark eyes round with concern. Sensing her unease, he nudged her skirt with his nose, then settled beside her on the well-worn Aubusson carpet, his tail thumping once against its intricate weave of floral and scrollwork.
Reaching down, Roxina absently threaded her fingers through his coarse fur.
