Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

by Stephanie Laurens

  Oh, God. Wildly she searched his eyes, trying to convince herself she wasn’t looking at the confirmation of her worst fears.

  He’d known; he’d recognized what she’d been doing and had with cold deliberation—the same deliberate planning with which she’d approached the exchange—given her what she’d wanted. He hadn’t been swept away by passion, hadn’t been moved by her wordless declaration—he’d been as deliberate as she in using the act to communicate what he’d known she’d wanted to hear . . . he’d come looking for her intending to do just that.

  She’d received the response she’d schemed to get, but now she had no reason to believe he’d meant it, rather than that he’d seized the opportunity she’d engineered as the surest route to his desired goal.

  The hollowness inside intensified.

  His hazel eyes bored into hers; his voice dropped to a lower register. “Are you telling me last night wasn’t an indication of your true affections?”

  She glanced aside. Forced her shoulders to lift in a small shrug, then elevated her nose. “Last night . . . was just another night. Wasn’t it?” She glanced fleetingly at him, saw nothing but an increasing stoniness in his features, looked away and hurriedly went on, “It was, I grant you, somewhat more intense, but . . .”

  Why the devil had she let herself expose her heart so? It hurt. Just thinking that he’d deliberately intended to engage with her, to persuade her like that even though he didn’t—clearly didn’t—love her slashed like a blade through her heart.

  Dragging in a breath, raising her head higher, she baldly lied, “I wasn’t aware it was anything all that special. It wasn’t on my part.”

  Silence greeted her pronouncement.

  She couldn’t look at him, didn’t dare. If she did, he would see the emotions roiling inside her.

  “I . . . see.” There was a tone in his voice that she’d never heard before.

  She wanted to look at him but didn’t. The too-exposed, too screamingly vulnerable part of her couldn’t.

  She sensed him draw in a huge, deep breath.

  Then he more crisply, almost normally, said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just remembered something I need to do.”

  Before she even glanced his way, Breckenridge turned and started walking back along the path, heading toward the rear of the manor, back the way he’d come.

  He kept his head high, his shoulders straight.

  He’d suffered rejection before.

  He couldn’t remember it hurting like this.

  Last night hadn’t been anything special on her part. What he’d seen as exposing his heart—and his soul, come to think of it—had meant nothing to her.

  Suppressing the urge to swear and kick something took effort.

  Just as well—the effort distracted him.

  He knew better than to get on an unfamiliar horse in such a temper. In such turmoil. He kept walking. Out past the stables, out along a track between two fences.

  Picking up his pace, he strode fast and furiously. Only when he was out of sight of the manor’s turrets did he halt. Hands on his hips, breathing hard, he hung his head.

  Closed his eyes.

  He’d thought . . . tipping back his head, he blinked up at the blue, blue sky.

  He’d thought she loved him.

  But no.

  For some reason, the foremost rake in the ton was impossible to love.

  Perhaps because he was the foremost rake in the ton . . . but that had been a reaction to not being loved by Helen Maitland. He’d thought to show her what she’d declined by becoming the noble lover all the ladies like her begged to grace their beds . . .

  And he’d somehow made himself unlovable in the process.

  He didn’t know how he’d done it; if he knew, he’d try to change.

  But no. Too late. He was what he’d become, and no matter what he thought had occurred in the dark passionate watches of the night, Heather Cynster wasn’t about to give her heart to him.

  Back in the herb garden Heather stood where he’d left her, her gaze fixed on the spot where he’d passed out of her sight.

  He’d gone.

  Simply turned on his heel and left . . . because he’d realized his tack hadn’t been working and so had abandoned it and gone off to think of some other way to pressure her?

  Probably.

  She’d thought back over the words they’d exchanged, but her conclusion remained the same. Last night he’d deliberately set out to use the very same route she’d thought to use to demonstrate her love for him, but his intent had been merely to tell her what he’d realized she wanted to know. While she was truly in love with him, he wasn’t truly in love with her.

  He wanted to marry her because he’d made up his mind that that was the correct thing to do, and he’d decided it would suit him well enough.

  After what she’d just learned, he would need to think again.

  As for her . . . she would have to accept that there was no future for her with him.

  That there was fated to be no them.

  He finally understood what it was to lose one’s heart.

  His chest felt empty, hollowed out; he couldn’t think, could barely function well enough to preserve an outward glamour of normalcy.

  He couldn’t let this—let her—go. Felt compelled to step far beyond what was wise and make one last push. . . .

  Even if she didn’t love him, he loved her.

  He knew it, had always in some corner of his brain suspected it, but now there was no hiding from the truth. Not after last night, when he’d thought, been convinced beyond question, that she loved him—and he’d seized on the prospect, gloried, and rejoiced—and in doing so had finally recognized all he wanted of his life.

  Had recognized, with an unshakable finality, that he had never felt and would never feel for any other woman what he felt for her. She was the only lady he would ever love.

  And if in general love was deemed worth fighting for, then the chance to love was even more precious to a man like him.

  Such thoughts, that understanding, drove him to hunt her down.

  Luncheon, as usual, was taken with the entire household in the great hall. He and Heather sat apart, with the twins and Algaria between them. Neither Heather nor he made any effort to communicate in any way, not by word or glance; if the others found anything unusual in their mutual avoidance, no one gave any sign.

  When the meal ended, and everyone rose and headed off in various directions to whatever tasks and chores awaited them, he followed Heather from the hall. He caught up with her in the shadowed alcove at the top of the stairs leading down to the dungeons.

  Hearing his boot steps, she halted and faced him.

  He was determined to keep this brief. “I’m about to ride out with Richard.” During the meal, he’d heard her arranging with Algaria to process the herbs she’d gathered that morning. “Before I do, I wanted to state that I’ve had enough. Enough circling around our reality.”

  He couldn’t stop his expression, already hard, from hardening even further; his face felt like graven stone. “I’ve given you time to grow accustomed to that reality—as much time as I can, as much as we can afford. As much as the situation allows us. Regardless, the facts haven’t changed, and they dictate that we must wed.” He held her stormy gaze. “You have to accept that, have to acknowledge that there’s no choice, make up your mind to it, and then start planning to leave here for London. We can’t hide here for forever.”

  Heather stared into his eyes, agate eyes that told her nothing—that showed her nothing beyond utterly determined, invincible implacability.

  Her temper geysered; she opened her mouth on a scalding retort—

  “Breckenridge!”

  Richard, calling from the front hall.

  They’d both turned their heads at the ca
ll.

  She looked back at Breckenridge.

  Just as he stepped away, met her gaze, and curtly nodded. “I’ll find you when I get back. And we can start making the necessary decisions.”

  With that, he walked off.

  Heather watched him stride down the corridor. Felt her fury fade.

  Felt the cold emptiness within swell and grow.

  And wondered where, in dealing with him, she had gone so terribly wrong.

  Her heart had sunk so low that it had drowned.

  It seemed she was finally seeing his true colors—his unswerving focus on getting his ring on her finger, love be damned.

  Love—her “true affection”—was for him merely a route to his goal.

  After he’d left, she’d come down to Catriona’s workroom. Algaria had joined her, but only long enough to show her what to do with the wormwood, rue, and tansy she’d gathered that morning. Leaving her to bind the fronds in bunches, Algaria had hurried off to resume her oversight of the twins and their lessons.

  In the cool, peaceful workroom, Heather methodically sorted and bound. Her gaze remained on her hands, her fingers deftly parting the delicate foliage before winding twine around the stems, but her mind was elsewhere, retreading her arguments, replaying conversations, trying to see, to reexamine it all in the desperate hope she’d missed something vital, or had misinterpreted . . . but no.

  Underneath all their words, underlying all their actions, one fact remained unchallenged.

  She loved him—and because she did, because she was the woman she was and he the man he was, she had to know beyond question or doubt that he loved her in return.

  Yes, that need was an emotional one, one fed by both a fear and a dream.

  The fear that if she accepted him without the surety of his love, of having it acknowledged and declared, then at some point, unbound by such a love, he would stray. That he would turn from her to one of the myriad ladies who were forever trying to lure him to their beds.

  That fear was real enough, hard enough to counter, yet her dream was even more an innate part of her, one she had no wish to deny. To her, marriage meant one thing—a partnership in which both parties were committed to, and therefore free to, love without restraint. Without reserve, without boundaries.

  No such marriage could come about without both parties being openly and honestly committed to that ideal.

  No marriage like that could ever be founded on the commitment of one party alone, with the other shying from the act.

  The necessary investment had to come from both, or the marriage would never stand.

  She’d clarified her thoughts, reaffirmed her decisions, when two hours later she heard Breckenridge’s boots slowly, deliberately, descending the stairs.

  She didn’t look up as he loomed in the doorway, but continued neatly tying herbs.

  Breckenridge ducked beneath the arch of the open doorway. Heather stood on the opposite side of a deal table, a welter of herby foliage spread before her.

  She didn’t lift her gaze from her hands. Gave no acknowledgment that she knew he was there, but of course she knew he was.

  Halting, he, too, looked down at her hands, at the stems she was gathering and binding together.

  This was, he knew, a risky gambit, a last desperate push to get their marriage that had to happen back on track, but he didn’t know what else to do.

  He glanced briefly at her face.

  Didn’t like the look of her closed expression, saw precious little to make him hope.

  He’d rarely felt so helpless. So unsure.

  Quelling a strong impulse to rake his hands through his hair, he sank both hands into his breeches’ pockets, hauled in a huge breath. Let it out with, “So—when will we leave?”

  The demand sounded a lot harsher than he’d intended.

  She continued calmly working, pressing stem to stem. “I have no interest in when you leave. For myself, I’ve decided to remain here for the moment.”

  “Heather—”

  “No—just listen. And please don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. You asked me to make up my mind, and I have—I’ve made up my mind that I will not marry you.”

  He stood there, absorbed the impact of her words, of the determination behind them, and felt a blade slide into his heart.

  “However”—Heather laid aside the bunch she’d tied off, picked up more fronds, and tried one, last, desperate throw; men like him were possessive, at least about the women they loved—“you needn’t fear any social repercussions. If later a marriage becomes necessary for me to do as I wish with my life, then as I am an heiress, well-connected, and passably attractive, I’m sure there’ll be some gentleman ready and willing to overlook this adventure, especially as the family will no doubt have invented and spread some tale to account for my absence from town.

  “So, you see, you may leave with a clear conscience.” She paused, waited, but he said nothing. Drawing in a tight breath, she forced herself to continue, “There’s no reason for you to stay longer—there’s nothing to keep you here.”

  Silence fell.

  Breckenridge felt chilled. Chilled to his marrow, frozen and numb.

  Sightless, deaf, all that he was transfixed by the revelation that, if she had to marry, she’d rather marry any man but him.

  That’s what she’d just told him, in words impossible to misconstrue.

  The knife slid deeper, and twisted.

  The pain of it nearly brought him to his knees.

  Breathing in—God, had he ever known such pain?—by main force he gathered the shredded remnants of his heart, of his pride. Clinging to the latter, he forced himself to stop thinking.

  To stop dwelling on what he’d thought, on what he’d hoped and had barely dared dream . . .

  He should be accustomed to women using him, engaging with him for fleeting pleasure without any true feeling involved; she hadn’t treated him any worse than countless others before her. He couldn’t fault her for that.

  Couldn’t fault her for not loving him as he loved her.

  He had to get out of there before his control fractured.

  Where had they been? Oh, yes. He’d had the bright notion to give her an ultimatum, and she’d responded.

  Leaving him with only one way to go.

  One road to follow. Alone.

  “Very well.” Even to his ears, his voice sounded distant, not just detached but disengaged, soulless. “If that’s what you wish, so be it.”

  He told his feet to move. To his relief, they did. He could barely see as he walked to the doorway. Reaching it, he paused, then over his shoulder said, “I’ll make arrangements to leave tomorrow.”

  Alone didn’t need to be said.

  Against all sense, despite all that had passed between them, he paused, waited, hoped, prayed that she would suddenly see her mistake, suddenly speak and reverse her decision . . .

  “That would probably be best.”

  Hope died.

  Dragging in a tight breath, he ducked under the arch and quietly started up the stairs.

  Heather listened to his footsteps recede.

  Wondered if she would ever feel warm again; she felt chilled to the core.

  He was leaving—truly leaving. Going back to his life in the capital.

  Leaving her there, alone and aching . . . as she’d wanted. That was for the best, wasn’t it?

  If she’d harbored any doubt that she loved him, immutably and ineradicably, she knew better now. Nothing but love was strong enough to evoke such icy, deadening pain.

  But she knew all the arguments, knew it would never have worked, that there never truly had been any different option for her. For them.

  She could still feel the tug, the witless but compelling impulse to rush after him and tell him she’d changed her mind,
that she would marry him regardless . . . but no. If after their wedding he turned to another . . . that, she truly wouldn’t be able to bear.

  Looking down, she forced her fingers to bunch the last of the herbs. Felt bitterness at the back of her throat, the sting of tears in her eyes.

  Told herself the tears, and the deadening chill inside, were a small price to pay to escape the devastation that would otherwise have come her way.

  Loving him as she did to the depths of her soul, yet not being loved in return, if she’d acquiesced and allowed herself to be bound to him in marriage . . . when the inevitable happened, she might not have died, but she would have become as good as dead inside.

  Despite the pain, despite any inner railing, despite all her rage and despair, she’d taken the right road; she knew it.

  Better it end like this.

  The afternoon was waning when, deep in the highlands, the laird rode into his castle bailey.

  Alone he might be, yet he was glad to be home.

  Swinging down from Hercules’ back, he smiled and returned the cheery greeting of the young whelp who came running to take the big gelding’s reins. He handed them over. “Give him a good rubdown and a helping of oats. He’s done well carrying me over the miles. Give the saddle bags to Mulley.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  With a last fond stroke down Hercules’ neck, he turned and crossed to the keep. Striding up the stone steps, he glanced up to the apex of the fluted arch rising above the massive, iron-studded door.

  His family’s crest, now his, stood out in sharp relief, carved upon a stone shield.

  Honor above all.

  The motto was barely legible now; he hoped that wasn’t a portent.

  Pushing open the heavy door, he crossed the threshold and felt the invisible weight of responsibility weigh on his shoulders again.

  Not that he’d been in any danger of forgetting even the smallest tithe of that burden over the days he’d been away.

  He heard his mother’s footsteps rushing eagerly down from her tower. Halting just inside the great hall, he exchanged greetings and a quiet word with his steward, then she was there, striding swiftly up the hall, her black skirts flaring behind her.