The Spencer Sisters Forbidden Loves and Broken Hearts

by Christine Donovan

  If he didn’t declare himself during her visit, she would be having a third Season next year. A third? How extremely mortifying. Mary would be experiencing her second. Still time for Mary. If after Elizabeth’s third Season, she failed to catch a husband, she would be considered a failure and well on her way to spinsterhood. How utterly absurd. She had many good years ahead of her.

  Why, look at her sister-in-law, Miranda? She’d married her brother just recently, and she was nine and twenty and never previously married.

  Although Spencer asked for her hand in marriage during her first Season, Miranda’s father refused because of the scandal surrounding their cousin, the Earl of Bridgeton, who’d been accused of murdering his brother and sister-in-law, which was absurd. Miranda thought he never asked and Spencer was told by her father that she never wanted to see him again. How extremely sad.

  Twelve years later, they encountered each other again. Neither of them having married, the same emotional, loving feelings swept them away and they finally married. It made her believe anything between her and Amesbury was possible.

  When they’d arrived at Cliff House, a distraught Mary was shown to her room by a kindly maid. Violet retired to her room, not looking her best, which left Elizabeth waiting outside Smythe’s room in the long shadowy hallway alone. When finally, the door opened and the doctor exited, she tried to speak to him. He mumbled, “Speak to Lord Amesbury.”

  More time waiting, her fingernails were a mess as she chewed them off one by one, causing one of them to bleed. She sucked on it, hoping to get it to stop when the door opened and closed again. It was the man of her dreams. Or at least she thought it was. If his expression was any indication, something terrible was amiss. His face looked white as a newly laundered sheet. He leaned forward, gripping his thighs with his hands while his body convulsed.

  Having never seen any man show such emotion, she wondered what to do. Obviously he’d not seen her and believed he was alone. What to do? She did what came naturally to her. She spoke in soothing tones and curled her hand around his upper arm. When really what she wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and bury her head in the crook of his neck and tell him all would be well. But would it? Not if Smythe was dead. Dear God, please let him be alive.

  “Amesbury is he...is he dead?”

  When Amesbury answered and said Smythe would heal, Elizabeth almost collapsed to the floor in relief. Relief for Mary. And then he all but dismissed her and stumbled away down the dreary hallway leaving her with tears burning her eyes and her heart crushed. Once his figure was no longer in sight and his boots didn’t make thumping noises, she stood tall, wiped her eyes and silently made her way to her sister’s room.

  After one knock on the door, Mary flung it opened—if it wasn’t such a heavy wooden door Elizabeth thought it might have flown off the hinges—looking frightful. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her hair wet and tangled. A panicked expression was plastered on her splotchy face. A face usually calm and radiantly beautiful. Mary’s skin so pale in color didn’t look attractive when she cried.

  “The doctor said he will recover,” Elizabeth blurted out before her sister had a brain bleed or something equally awful. Elizabeth entered the room, shut the door, and pulled her sister into her arms. “Shhhh, there, there. He’s going to live. I’m quite convinced you can visit him tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

  “D...Do you think so?”

  “Yes. Come to bed. I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep. I know how you hate sleeping alone in strange houses.”

  Mary climbed in the bed and Elizabeth helped pull the coverlet up to her chin. “Thank you,” Mary murmured.”

  “Try to relax, sleep, and dream about your handsome Mr. Smythe when he is robust and healthy.” After a time, she knew Mary slept. Her breathing evened out, and she made soft snoring sounds. Feeling sleepy herself after their travels and the dreadful attack and not wanting to be alone, she decided to join Mary in bed. She removed her traveling clothes and stays, slid beneath the covers in her chemise and joined her sister in sleep, dreaming about her own handsome man. Only in her dream Amesbury appeared unwell. Pale, shaky, weak, and agitated.

  EDWARD TOSSED AROUND from side to side on his bed. Switching from lying on his stomach to his back. Nothing helped. All he saw in his mind’s eye was the brown glass vile beside Smythe’s bed.

  Laudanum, opium, whatever one chose to name it, was his weakness in life and once his undoing. Before he knew what he planned, his legs slid to the cool rug covering the wooden floors, and he looked down and shook his head. He veritably could not traipse through his home in only his nightshirt. Entering his dressing room, he donned a navy silk banyan, tying the sash around his waist tightly. Plucking an oil lamp from his bedside table, and with the aid of his cane as his legs were quite numb and unsteady, he quietly opened his bedchamber door, glad he had ordered all the doors oiled recently, and he shuffled silently down the hallway to Smythe’s room.

  Before opening the door, Edward knocked gently. Hearing no response, he opened it a crack, peered inside, grateful a lamp illuminated the room. A sigh of relief escaped his lungs at finding the room empty of people except for Smythe. Making his way inside, it wasn’t lost on him he was sneaking around in his own home. Swearing at himself, he shut the door and stood looking down at Smythe, who appeared to be in a drug induced sleep.

  One Edward wanted to experience. He missed opium. The feeling of not caring, not remembering the tragic, bloody night he lost both his parents and his younger sister who had her entire life ahead of her snuffed out in a reckless carriage accident. The driver and the outriders had imbibed too much spirits.

  His parents and sister died for their servants’ stupidity. For years he wished he’d died alongside them. Life alone proved unbearable at times. In the early years and then later, Wentworth and Myles saved him.

  First they helped him recover from a broken back and terrible grief. Years later, with encouragement and support, they saved him from the poison currently taking up residence on Smythe’s night table.

  The pull toward the drug was a powerful one. Without thought, he moved to the small mahogany table and with trembling hands, picked up the vile and removed the stopper. The potent scent wafted up his nostrils and had him frozen in place—the smell as familiar to himself as his own scent.

  Abruptly, something in the universe shifted. Saliva filled his mouth, rolled down his chin and neck. Tears filled his eyes and streaked down his cheeks. His body convulsed violently, forcing his fingers to release the drug and send it tumbling to the floor, spilling the contents on the carpet, making the powerful smell even stronger. Moments later he found himself on all fours fighting not to vomit. “Easy, take one deep breath at a time.” Sounded reasonable saying it out loud, except breathing deeply only brought the laudanum scent stronger inside his nostrils.

  “Amesbury, are you unwell?” Hadn’t she asked the very thing earlier? The concerned voice of the woman he believed he loved but didn’t deserve shocked him. He used his banyan sleeve to wipe his face. He couldn’t have Elizabeth seeing him in such a state.

  He needed time with Elizabeth alone to know if he loved her, but know couldn’t be a worse time. And really, how did one know if they were in love if they’d never been? If not love, in the very least, would they suit? These things he needed to know before he asked Spencer for her hand. If the drool wasn’t bad enough, now sweat broke out on his brow at the thought of marriage. Promising to love someone until death.

  Death.

  There was a time Edward believed he would never marry or have heirs. The pain of losing them would be unbearable. Something he knew he wouldn’t survive. More sweat, this time dripping down the side of his face.

  Death. It had ruled his life for so long.

  Edward had never believed his lifelong friend, the Duke of Wentworth, would marry, find love and have a family after what his father had done. The previous duke had squandered the family fortune on mist
resses and gambling and drank himself to death. But Wentworth did. He married a lovely American, Emma. His friend was beyond happy and in love.

  Same for the Earl of Northborough, whom everyone referred to as Myles. He married Wentworth’s sister Bella after death and sickness plagued him and his family. Not to mention, being poisoned by his cousin, the next in line to inherit.

  So after all that adversity, they were happy and content in marriage. Why not him? That question haunted Edward.

  After what he’d done to himself and his continued daily struggles, what right did he have to bring Elizabeth into his nightmares. Only a selfish bastard would.

  If only...

  “Amesbury, I asked if you are unwell?” The concern in her voice caused guilt to consume him.

  “I came to check on Smythe and accidently knocked over a vile of Laudanum. How clumsy of me.” As he spoke he shoved his cane beneath Smythe’s bed. Sheer determination would keep him from using it.

  “Let me help you.”

  “No.” He’d spoken more harshly than intended by the shock and hurt he glimpsed on her face in the low candlelight. “Forgive me. I can manage on my own.” His trembling fingers put the stopper back on the vile to save whatever medicine was left inside. He climbed to his feet, ignoring the slice of pain radiating up both his legs and up his spine. After placing the vile on the nightstand he pivoted around and came face to face with Elizabeth. His lungs failed him and he gasped.

  Dressed only in a thin, white chemise with a wrap draped loosely across her shoulders, she was breathtakingly beautiful. He would never trust himself if she came closer.

  Years. It had been years since he bedded a woman. Mistresses and whores were never his style. And since he didn’t believe in deflowering innocents, well, that left him with widows. Suffice it to say, before Wentworth married Emma, he had that market of woman satisfied.

  Edward had spent one year betrothed to Lady Elizabeth Duncan, otherwise addressed as Lady Beth. Thankfully after a year her father broke the marriage contract. Wentworth had gone to the man and explained how Edward was ill and would make his daughter miserable. The man believed him, thank God. Happy and free once again, except Edward wanted the woman in the room with him more than he wanted air to breathe. Or thankfully, more than opium. He cringed at the thought of being an opium eater again. Or visiting the Red Poppy with all the other opium eaters of the ton and doing despicable things.

  Tonight he’d come close, very close. Too close in his opinion.

  “Excuse my forwardness,” Elizabeth said quietly, “you appear troubled by something. I’ve been told I’m a good listener. Would you care to go somewhere and talk?”

  Bloody hell, did she know what she asked of him? If they went somewhere private and were found out she would be ruined. Although who would say anything? Not his servants, not Violet, Mary, or Smythe.

  “The library is my favorite place at this hour.” Had those words come from him?

  Once inside the room, he stoked the embers in the fireplace, added several logs until a flame sputtered to life. Elizabeth had chosen to sit on the comfortable settee and patted the seat next to her.

  If he joined her, he didn’t know if he could keep his hands to himself. His body ignored his mind because before he knew it, he sat down beside her, leaving several inches between them.

  “Go ahead and unburden yourself. Nothing discussed leaves this room.”

  He turned his head and looked at her in horror.

  “Forgive me. That sounded callous and unfeeling when to tell the truth my heart is hurting for the pain you seem to be experiencing. I want to wrap my arms around you until all is well.”

  She appeared most sincere. Her eyes compassionate and misty as though tears would drip from them at any moment.

  For the first time in hours, his heart eased and he felt compelled to confide in her something only his two closest friends knew. Although even they didn’t know all.

  However, a part of him was petrified she would go running to Spencer when she heard all the secrets of his past. What would the man think of him then?

  “Would you...could you hold me?” He shocked himself to hear the words escape from his lips, nevertheless they did, and there was no going back now. Nor did he want to. If he disgusted her, better to find out now.

  “Place your head on my lap. Get comfortable and relax. I won’t let you fall.”

  So he did as she suggested. It was cramped as he curled on his side, his knees bent and his head pillowed in Elizabeth’s soft lap. The first thing he noticed was her scent. He inhaled the fresh, clean scent like wildflowers blowing in the breeze. Her hand caressing his hair soothed him, and he never wanted her to stop. Scandalous as their behavior was, he couldn’t bring himself to leave his current position.

  It’d been years since he slept through the night because of his nightmares and constant pain, which worsened in the evening hours. Although he had a feeling if he closed his eyes now, he’d fall into a deep slumber.

  “I imagine you know my parents and sister perished in a carriage accident coming home late one night from visiting family friends in the country.” The rise and fall of her breathing was a balm to his soul.

  “Yes. I was young. But I remember it well. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered. His throat clogged with unwanted tears. Clearing it, he forged on before he lost his nerve. “I entered the carriage last. I’d noticed the driver and outriders appeared in their cups.”

  Elizabeth gasped and her hand stilled.

  “I don’t know why I ignored it and didn’t say something to my father.” He groaned loudly. “I’m the reason they’re dead. All of them. When the carriage rolled down the embankment it crushed everyone but Jane and I. The screams as the coach rolled still echo in my dreams until nothing but silence prevails.” Tears ran down his cheeks onto Elizabeth’s lap, wetting her chemise, but he couldn’t help it. His heart shattered all over again. “I lay on the ground on my back at an odd angle. I couldn’t move as I’d broken it. My sister lay only several feet away, much like me.

  “It took all my strength and concentration to reach out to her. Jane did likewise. Inches kept our hands from touching. I felt helpless to help her. She cried out, ‘Help me Edward. I can’t feel my body.’ Her eyes glowed from the light of the full moon—her tears illuminating them more. She had the prettiest amber eyes. I lay their struggling to reach her hand to no avail. And I watched in horror, as ever so slowly, life extinguished from her eyes and she took her last breath. I stared into her lifeless eyes for what seemed an eternity until help came in the form of a local farmer and his wife. Jane’s eyes are the last thing I see when I fall asleep at night. If I’m able to sleep at all.”

  Swinging his legs off the settee, Edward bolted up, dropped his face into his hands and cried. He couldn’t stop the emotions from bombarding his senses. He’d never really let himself mourn his family. His entire being ached from his emotional purge. Perhaps someday he’d feel better, having shared his guilt. But not now. Now he didn’t know what he felt except drained. Emotionally and physically drained and embarrassed for Elizabeth seeing him that way.

  Chapter Three

  Elizabeth’s heart bled for Amesbury. She’d never seen a grown man cry, and she didn’t know what to do. So she did what she’d do for her sister. She wrapped her arms around him and murmured, “There, there, all will be well, you’ll see.” She placed kisses on the top of his head as she hugged him to her chest. “Shhh, I know it appears hopeless, but you are a strong man. Your family doesn’t blame you.”

  He lifted his head and looked directly into her eyes and her heart broke. Hopeful, red-rimmed watery eyes looked into hers for answers. If she hadn’t loved him already, she would now. “How do you know? Do you talk to the dead?”

  Talk to the dead? Not likely.

  “No. But they loved you. Still love you. They wouldn’t want you to live with the guilt, when the truth is, it was a terrible accident. An
d I like to believe when people die, it’s because God is calling them home to His side.”

  He pushed her away suddenly, stood and paced, off balance, back and forth on the rug centered in front of the hearth. He ran his hands, none too gently through his hair, almost as though he wished to tear the strands out. “I’ve done unspeakable things in the years since. I don’t deserve, nor want your pity.”

  Unspeakable things? Elizabeth didn’t dare dwell on what constituted unspeakable.

  When he stopped pacing and looked directly at her, his eyes were guarded. Back to hiding his guilt and secrets. Guilt and secrets tearing him apart little by little. How had she never noticed the turmoil, self-hatred, and suffering he dealt with on a daily basis? Simple. He hid it well. No one who knew him outside of this home would ever reconcile this man here tonight with the impeccable marquess who prowled drawing rooms, clubs, and balls on a nightly basis.

  Something needed to change, though, because she’d set her sights on him. She loved him. What better time than now, to show him that his past didn’t change her feelings for him. Only one small problem? Since she came out the previous Season, she’d played at being knowledgeable where men were concerned, shocking her family with some of her words and behavior, just shy of being ruinous. When truth be told, besides kissing Amesbury once, she knew nothing about seduction or what a man wanted. Everything she knew came from a sex manual she’d found in Spencer’s room many years ago. A book with crude drawings.

  There hadn’t been much in the book she could imagine doing. She went with instinct. Elizabeth walked up behind him, circled her arms around his waist and rested her cheek on his back between his shoulder blades. It was as far as she reached. Amesbury stood nearly a foot taller than her.

  When her arms first wrapped around him, his entire body tensed. When her cheek pressed softly against his back, his tension intensified. Then slowly, ever so slowly, muscle by muscle, tendon after tendon eased. His heart which beat rapidly against her ear also calmed.