To Heal a Heart

by Anthea Lawson

  She took a breath, trying to still her racing heart. Alex, so unexpected. And, damn him, still with the power to shake her to her very core, a wild wind that snatched her up whether she willed it or no. A part of her reveled in that storm, even as she tried to lock it out, all too aware of what havoc that primal force could wreak.

  She smiled and nodded as some of her guests paused with congratulations and well wishes, but she barely heard the words. Finally, it was not a wild wind that caught up to her, but the breeze of Viscount Keefe. He smiled as he approached, his eyes calm and slightly unfocused.

  “I believe we missed our dance, Miss Huntington.” He offered his arm. “Shall we try again?”

  “Certainly.” She owed him that much.

  Her head throbbed in time to the music as they stepped onto the floor. She wished the evening would collapse in upon itself and be done, pop like a bubble back into nonexistence. She fixed something that might pass for a smile on her face and let her escort move her into the stream of the dance.

  “Miss Huntington. Forgive me for saying so, but I think you should stay clear of Mr. Trentham. He seems a bit…uncultured. I hope he realizes this is not Crete.”

  She missed a step, swallowed the bitter laugh edging her throat. “Thank you for considering my welfare. I assure you, I’ve no intention of spending time with Mr. Trentham.” They had no future together; he had made that adamantly clear when she had left for England.

  But he was here.

  “I’m glad we’re agreed. It’s one of the many things I hope we can come to agreement on.” The viscount gave her his perfect, easy smile.

  She did her best to return it, desperate to will away the memories welling, hot and fresh, too close to the surface.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “A Mr. Alex Trentham is calling,” the butler said, presenting Caroline the gleaming salver with Alex’s card neatly centered upon it. “Are you receiving this morning, miss?”

  Heat flared through her. Alex was here, waiting just downstairs. Her fingers trembled as she lifted his card. Last night, when he had first stepped into the ballroom, she had thought she was dreaming, that the force of her wanting had somehow summoned him.

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “I will see him in the gold parlor.”

  Questions burned along her skin. Fear, excitement, her nerves blazed with tension. Why had he come?

  She hesitated outside the parlor door, closing her eyes and drawing in a steadying breath. When she felt ready, she crossed the threshold and still could not halt the leap of her heart as she saw him. Foolish, betraying heart. She schooled her expression to one of politeness, though her blood raced violently through her body.

  “Good day, Mr. Trentham.”

  “Caroline.” He crossed the room to her, his stride purposeful, marred only by the slight hitch of his left leg.

  She would recognize his walk anywhere. If he touched her she would be lost. She sidestepped his outstretched hand.

  “Shall I ring for some refreshment? Will you be staying that long?” She wanted him to leave immediately. She wanted him to stay forever.

  “Long enough.” He set his hand on her shoulder, a light touch, but enough to scorch her.

  She forced herself to step away. It didn’t matter that she yearned to turn to him, to feel his arms close about her. He had refused to come back to England with her. He had broken her heart and let her sail away with the pieces, and it would be years before the painful reconstruction was complete. She tried to summon a core of anger, something to keep her from crumbling.

  “I am beyond shocked to see you here.” She was surprised at the evenness of her own voice, steady despite the turmoil within her. “What circumstance has brought you to England?”

  Blast him for returning, and fulfilling her unspoken dreams—dreams she had tried so desperately to deny.

  “Do you really have to ask?” His deep blue gaze snared her. “I’m here to marry you.”

  Suddenly dizzy, she gripped the edge of the wingback chair beside her. “I beg your pardon?” He had not said…certainly he had not said—

  “I am here to make you my wife, Caroline. Marry me.” He stepped forward and opened his arms.

  Something inside her came free, the shell she had built around her heart breaking open as it remembered how to beat again. How to feel. The world came rushing in at her, full of light and sound and breath.

  She was not conscious of moving, but she was in his embrace a moment later. Home was here, in the shelter of his strong body, the vividly remembered scent of him. The relief of it was so intense it was nearly pain, like sensation restoring to a limb that had been numb for far too long; pinpricks of fire as she came back to life.

  “You came.” Her voice was broken with tears, her face tracked with them—she didn’t care. “You came, after all.”

  “I did.” He bent and kissed her.

  Salt mingled with sweetness as his lips touched hers and he gathered her tightly against him. The days apart fell away, replaced by flickering light, sunrise reflecting off the blue, blue sea, the rightness of their bodies together. Caroline clasped her hands around his neck and returned his kiss in equal measure.

  All those nights of watching the indigo-shaded sky, all those days of trying to keep the syllables of his name from matching her footsteps, resolved into pure, desire-laced joy. She pressed herself close—she could not get close enough. She wove her fingers through his hair and opened her mouth beneath his.

  Alex, her Alex.

  Nothing else mattered—not the dismal journey home, not the weeks of aching hollowness she had refused to admit, even to herself. Only this, their bodies joined together in a perfect kiss, their breaths mingling, their hearts matching, beat for beat. Standing in the surf on Crete, or on the carpeting of the gold parlor, if she was in the circle of his arms, she was where she belonged.

  He broke the kiss and gazed at her a long moment, a brightness in his eyes she had never seen before. “Did you really think I would stay away after I found out?”

  “Found out what?” She kept hold of his shoulders, a thin line of confusion marring her joy, tiny cracks across the surface of a frozen lake.

  “My dear.” His arms tightened about her. “You don’t need to bear the secret alone anymore. I know you’re carrying our child.”

  Her pulse thudded. The cracks in the ice widened, revealing cold water below. “Our child? You think…you think I am with child?” The enormity of his misunderstanding hovered at the edge of her consciousness, a black wave waiting to take her under.

  “What else would have brought me here?”

  What else indeed? Cold, she stepped back, out of the circle of his arms. Alex had only come because, because—

  He gave her a smile full of conviction. “I could never let another man take my place beside you—as your husband, as the father of our child. That’s why I’m here. To marry you.”

  “Because of the child.”

  “Yes. Our child.”

  The wave hit, so full of despair Caroline could barely breathe through it. She bent forward, trying to contain the knowledge. Not for her. He had not come back because he loved her and could not bear to live without her. He had come because he thought she had something that belonged to him.

  And she did not.

  Not once had any words of love crossed the threshold of his lips. She had been such a fool. He would leave her again. Of course he would. The certainty was like a bitter acid, leaching all color away.

  “Caroline!” He placed his hands on her shoulders, his voice laced with tension. “Are you all right? Is it…is it the babe?”

  She struggled upright. “There is no babe.”

  “Oh, God.” He paled, his eyes searching hers. “Was it terrible? Forgive me, I am too late.”

  She tore out of his grasp. “Alex! Listen to me. I did not lose the child. There was no child.”

  “What?” The lines bracketing his mouth deepened.

  “I know t
hat what we—what we did together—could have resulted in it. But I never was carrying a child. Your child.”

  Dear heavens, if only she had been. He would stay, he would marry her.

  But it would not have been enough. The knowledge that he had returned only for that would have grown between them, a thorn at first, then a prickle, then a hedge neither of them could see through. Impenetrable—and too painful to ever breach, though she might tear her heart to shreds trying.

  He stared at her a long moment while the silence settled thickly around them. Those indigo eyes looked bruised, the confidence fled from them.

  “You are certain?” he said at last.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “I wish you had never come.”

  “There is no baby?” His voice was raw.

  Mute with despair, she shook her head.

  His expression twisted, and then he turned abruptly away from her. The sight of his shoulders, hunched with emotion, loosened her voice. At least he had wanted a child with her. At least he had come—even if it was for the wrong reason.

  “Will you stay?” She whispered the words. Yearning, despite herself. She tried to keep the hopelessness from bleeding through her, like dye spilled into clear water. “Now you know there is not a child, will you stay in England? With me?”

  He did not look at her, only braced both hands on the mantel and bowed his head. “No.” The words were rough and low. “I cannot stay.”

  She should not have asked.

  How could a body remain standing, breathing, yet be so full of pain? She clenched her hands into the folds of her skirts. There was nothing else to hold on to.

  I loved you! She opened her mouth but the words were caught in her throat and she could not force them out. All that emerged was a gasp, a whisper of the enormous shout of despair reverberating through her.

  It was enough to turn him, the expression on his face haunted. He took a half step forward, as if to gather her into his arms, then stopped. Something like self-loathing flickered through his eyes, shadows chasing into midnight.

  “I am sorry.” His voice was etched with grief. “You are better off without me.”

  He stared at her for one long moment, as if trying to burn her face into memory, and then he bowed. It was the bow of a man who has nothing left to hope for.

  “Goodbye, Caroline.”

  This time truly and inevitably. She could not move, her bones weighted with the mercury of sorrow. Goodbye. She could not even say farewell as he walked to the door, then out. Nothing would bring him back to her.

  His footsteps faded down the hall. Muffled voices—the butler fetching Alex’s coat and hat. The thud of the front door closing. So final.

  She did not know how long she stood there. There was no sunlight to mark time passing over the golden carpet. The clock on the mantel had stopped at five-seventeen—some careless maid had forgotten to wind it. She would have to speak to the housekeeper.

  Finally, finally, she took one step. Then another. Down the hall. Up the stairs. Past Pen’s room; thank heavens the girl was out in the gardens this morning. Caroline could not bear to see another soul. Not now, not when the container of her body felt so fragile.

  At last she gained the privacy of her own rooms. She sank down onto the edge of her bed and let herself break. When her sobs grew too loud she turned on her side, grabbed a fistful of covers, and buried her face. She was made of nothing but tears, a jagged weeping that felt as if it would never end.

  She must have slept, a thick and dreamless slumber that left her groping and groggy as she opened her eyes to a room grown dim with evening. After a long moment she sat up. Her bones felt too brittle and her chest was empty.

  Outside, she heard a child calling in the street. Closer, Pen’s laughter as she spoke with one of the servants.

  Suddenly Caroline felt too aware—of herself, of her life. Of the afternoon gone, spent in weeping for something she had lost twice over. Miss Caroline Huntington—soon to be the adopted daughter of the Earl of Twickenham, who sat in her disheveled and tear-stained gown, in her suite of rooms in the mansion known as Twickenham House, in the heart of finest London.

  Downstairs the cook was preparing dinner, Caroline’s horse was tended in the stable, and the maid would soon come in to light the lamps and build a coal fire. And even more than that, she had family and friends—people she cared for and who cared for her in return.

  Who was she to weep with such despair? No matter how shattered and irreparable her heart, her life was still pure bliss compared to so many others’. The indelible memory arose again: the orphan girl in that nameless East End street, bone-thin fingers and huge, starving eyes. It might have been her. In another lifetime perhaps it was.

  Caroline threw back the covers and stood. No matter how hollow inside she was, others needed her. The school, Pen, Viscount Keefe—so many others, so many plans and projects and alliances. She splashed her face with fresh water from the washbasin, and combed her hair. Each breath was a tiny fraction of distance between herself and the perilous meeting that morning. For now, it was enough to simply keep breathing. Keep the thoughts, keep the misery at bay, and only breathe.

  Her fragile composure was hard-pressed when she descended for dinner and found that Reggie had joined them. She had, on occasion, wondered if he was clairvoyant; he had such an uncanny knack for showing up when he was least wanted. So she was dismayed, but not overly surprised, when he stood to greet her, his black hair perfectly combed, his shoes sporting a flawless polish. Her cousin prided himself on looking the part of a lord, no matter that the rest of his character was anything but lordly.

  “Good evening, cousin.” His eyes flicked over her. “A bit worse for wear, aren’t you? Well, uninvited guests showing up at grand balls do take a toll.”

  She tried not to flinch at the words. Despite her resolve, she felt as tattered and despairing as a child alone on the cruel streets of London. But she was not an orphan—though when dealing with Reggie she often wished she could not claim him as family.

  It was a relief when the butler announced dinner. Between the distraction of food and the deliberately light conversation her uncle fostered at the table, the meal was bearable. Reggie behaved himself through the dessert course.

  “Cousin, may I have a word?” he asked as the servants began clearing the table. “Let us withdraw to the blue parlor.”

  Caroline twisted her napkin. A private word with Reggie was never a pleasant thing—but of course she must hear what he had to say. Better to know what the viper was thinking than let him take her unawares.

  Reggie shut the door softly behind them, then turned to her with a scowl. “I understand your fortune-hunting friend from Crete paid you a visit this morning.”

  “He’s not a fortune hunter.” Alex. Her heart ached.

  Her cousin’s eyes narrowed. “You must admit, his appearance on the scene—at the very ball announcing your adoption—is suspect. Now that you’re an heiress you’ll be besieged by just that kind of blackguard. Receiving gentlemen alone, tsk, tsk. Why, you could be”—he paused, a sudden look of calculation crossing his face—“you could be easily compromised and forced into a match.”

  “Mr. Trentham would never…” She broke off, trying not to recall how it felt to have Alex’s arms around her, wrapped in his embrace, his kiss. Heat bloomed in her cheeks.

  Reggie’s gaze sharpened. “Just what kind of doctoring did he perform while you were on Crete?”

  A pox on her cousin. He was far too adept at ferreting out secrets. Caroline moved away. “It’s none of your—”

  “What, precisely, did he do?” Reggie followed, black eyes avid. “Did he overstep his professional bounds? Oh, when I tell father…”

  Her hands clenched. “There is nothing to tell, you… you snake!”

  He gave her a slow, virulent smile. “Well, well. Gotten yourself in a bit of trouble, haven’t you?”

  “I will not stay and listen to this.”r />
  Her cousin’s low voice mocked Caroline as she turned to go. “Perhaps you should encourage that Keefe fellow to offer for you. Now. Before you start to show.”

  “Good evening, Reggie.” She escaped the parlor, anger a tight ball in her stomach.

  She was not pregnant, and she desperately wished people would stop insinuating as much. She knew that if her monthly courses came she was not carrying a child—and they had come with regularity.

  Pen met her in the upstairs hallway. “Caro, are you all right?” Concern lit her eyes. “Last night you said you were feeling unwell.”

  “It’s a condition brought on by unpleasant gentlemen, more than anything.” She could not make herself smile. “I’m certain I will feel a great deal better in the morning.”

  ~*~

  The next day started well enough. Caroline could almost convince herself that nothing had happened—that life continued as normal as ever. Pen brought the morning post up after breakfast and the two of them retired to the office.

  Caroline drew her shawl close as she sat at her desk. The air held a chill, one of those late spring days that owed more to January than to June. She would ask the maid to lay a fire and bring up a pot of tea, then spend the rest of the day working. At least these were problems she had some control over, things she could solve.

  A letter from the Ladies’ Auxiliary topped the stack of new correspondence. Perhaps they had relented and abandoned that utterly foolish fountain project—though she pitied herself for even entertaining the hope. She slit the envelope and scanned the page within, fingers tightening on the page with anger the further she read. Of all the… With an exclamation of dismay she threw the offending letter down on the desktop.

  Pen glanced up. “What is it?”

  “Lady Hurston’s fountain project is exceeding its budget.” Her voice was tight.

  “But, isn’t that good news? The board will surely see what a folly it is now.”

  “Oh, no.” Caroline rose and began pacing the room. “No, their solution is to cut more funds from the Twickenham School. Listen to this.” She swept the letter up and read aloud: