Her feelings didn’t matter at the moment, she knew, as she hovered near the threshold to his closed study door. Another loud bang could be heard from within, along with a loud curse. She winced and took a deep breath, her hand wavering on the knob. Very likely he still would not wish to see her, but she had waited in vain in her chamber for him to arrive. She hadn’t been able to wait any longer. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed her, whether he wanted to or not.
The door opened soundlessly to reveal a dimly lit scene of inanimate-object carnage that undoubtedly reflected the tumult of his soul. She stepped inside and closed the door at her back, mindful of the shards of glass at her feet, perhaps the remnants of a decanter. Then she saw him, his back to her, his head hanging.
“Goddamn it, I told you I don’t want anything for the remainder of the evening,” he all but yelled.
Maggie jumped, stilling to contemplate the wisdom of her invasion. But it was too late for second thoughts. “Simon, it’s Maggie.”
He turned around at her voice, his face haggard even in the poor lighting offered by the two gas lamps on the far wall. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.
Not precisely the welcome she’d been hoping for, but Maggie was in for a penny, in for a pound. “I’m worried about you. I haven’t seen you in hours.”
“I’m not fit company just now,” he told her, his voice low. He raked a hand through his already askew hair. “You should go.”
At least he hadn’t tossed anything yet, she reasoned. “I cannot leave you like this.”
“You ought to, by God. I don’t trust myself. Damn it, I killed Eleanor, Maggie. I killed her.” His voice broke on the last word, a rare show of real emotion from a man who was often cold unless he was in the bedchamber.
Her heart broke for him just as surely as his voice had. She had no choice but to go to him, crossing the chamber to his side before she could even think twice. She slipped her arms around him and he surprised her by leaning into her, pressing his face into her neck. “You didn’t kill her, Simon. You mustn’t think such an awful thing.”
“I all but pushed her from the window with my own hands.” His tone was tortured. The wetness of his tears slid over her skin.
Dear God, he was holding himself responsible for Lady Billingsley’s awful decision. Little wonder he was falling apart before her. “She chose this end, not you.”
He shook his head, lifting it to look down at her. His hands tightened upon her waist with an almost painful grip. “I chose it for her. I left her. My God, if I had realized how delicate she was, I never would have gone.”
The implications of his words were painfully clear. He would have allowed Maggie to leave if he’d known Lady Billingsley would kill herself. That stung, much as she knew that he was in a rough state of mind, blaming himself for something he’d had no power to stop. “She was not well, Simon, or else she would not have done what she did.” Surely no one would make such a final decision precipitously. She little knew Lady Billingsley other than the brief time she had spent at Denver House, but Maggie believed beneath her lovely exterior had been some ugly demons, demons that had nothing at all to do with Simon.
“I abandoned her when she needed me the most. Christ, I’m my father.”
His despair hurt her heart even more than what he’d said. “You’re not a bit like him.” He refused to look at her, his eyes a deep, pain-filled moss, staring unseeingly beyond her. “Look at me, Simon.”
“No. You should go, Maggie. You should get the hell away from me,” he snarled, his tone vicious. He caught her arms and pushed her from him.
She staggered back, flinching at the raw rage emanating from him. She’d seen him at his ugliest before, when he’d discovered he’d bedded his wife without realizing. But even then, he had not been as he was now, mercurial, filled with fury and pain. Ready to wound.
“I cannot leave you when you’re like this,” she said at last, all but wringing her hands as she watched him give her his back and stalk away. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was further away from her now than he’d ever been, lost in the regrets and sorrows of his heart. He must have loved Lady Billingsley very deeply, more deeply than she had even supposed.
Had it been nothing more than guilt that had prompted him to follow Maggie? She had to wonder now. Surely he must have felt something for her other than duty. He had said so, had all but confessed he loved her mere hours before. That had to mean something yet. After all, he’d certainly never felt responsible for her a day in his life before. She shrugged the troublesome thoughts from her mind and followed him across the study, uncertain of what she ought to do yet unwilling to leave him alone.
“You ought to leave me,” he called over his shoulder, stopping in his angry strides only when he reached the paneled walls. “Good Christ, you ought to have left me a long time ago. I’m a bloody curse.” He pounded his fists against the wall with so much force she feared he’d injure himself.
Maggie rushed to his side, not stopping until she was near enough to entwine her arms about his lean waist. She embraced him as she had that long-ago day at Lady Needham’s before she’d known he was the husband who’d abandoned her. This time, it was because he was the man she’d grown to love, and he was in pain. Somehow, nothing mattered—nothing could matter—more than that Simon was hurting, lost and confused. He needed her.
“You’re not a curse,” she told him firmly, past the knot in her throat. She hated that Lady Billingsley had chosen such an awful end, that she had been spiteful enough to pitch herself from a window knowing Simon would find her. It had been a final act of exerting power over a man who had no longer wanted to be beneath her dainty thumb. And it had wounded Simon as mortally as any bullet could have.
“Go, Maggie,” he ordered her lowly, resting his head against the wall. His breathing was deep and hitched, his heart a rapid thrum beneath her ear. He slammed his fist again, startling her. “Go now.”
“No,” she denied, holding on to him when he would have shrugged her away. She was afraid to leave him, afraid of what he might do in his anguish. If he injured himself in some way, she’d never forgive herself. She couldn’t bear that. No, she very much needed Simon in her life, as impossible as that seemed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Have you no notion the danger you’re in?” His voice was deceptively quiet, laced with darkness. “I’m not myself. Jesus, I don’t think I’ll ever be myself again.”
But Maggie remained undeterred. “I’m not here to make drawing-room pleasantries with you. I’m here because you need me.”
There, she’d said it. He stiffened beneath her touch, and she feared she’d overstepped the fragile boundaries he had once again erected between them. But then he startled her by spinning around to face her, his hands sinking to her waist. He hauled her up against him, her breasts pressing into his chest.
His gaze seared hers, raw agony and grief starkly reflected in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I do need you. What will you do for me, Maggie?”
She wasn’t sure she liked the implications in his tone. She didn’t know what to say. It was as if the passion that always burned between them was turning into rage. She didn’t want that to tarnish what they’d shared. But still, she wanted to show him she was here for him, an anchor of support in a storm-tossed sea. “What would you have me do for you?”
“Nothing. There’s not a thing you can do.” He drew away from her, gripping her arms, and shook her with enough force to catch her breath. “I keep seeing her face, her body hanging impaled on that damn fence. I caused it. I’m responsible for her death.”
She cupped his beloved face, trying to comfort him, knowing she couldn’t. He was in pain, blaming himself, lost in the depths of his agonizing grief. There was no place for her in his heart after this. Everything he’d said to her earlier that afternoon outside the carriage seemed to have fallen away. Now there only remained the jarring shock left to survivors. I
don’t think I’ll ever be myself again, he’d said. Thinking of it struck fear within her, fear that all they’d accomplished would be whittled down to naught. That the love she possessed for him would forever go unanswered.
But she couldn’t think of herself, for that was selfish and weak. She needed to be strong for her husband, to help ease his suffering. “You mustn’t punish yourself,” she told him. “You did nothing wrong.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “I did everything wrong.”
She supposed he referred to the last fortnight they’d shared together. To her, it had been heaven. His words stung. “Perhaps I am at fault. If I had never convinced you to spend a month with me, none of this would have happened.”
“I wish to God it wouldn’t have happened.” He sounded incredibly weary, as if he spoke from his very soul. “But it has, and it is our heavy mantle to live with. Christ, I’ve got to write to her family, to her husband. They need to know what’s happened.”
“I can write the letters for you,” she volunteered, numb. Maybe he blamed her as well as himself. If so, it was possible he’d never forgive her.
“No.” He pushed her away from him. “It’s my duty. Jesus, Maggie, just get out of here before I hurt you. There’s nothing you can do but leave me to my misery.”
She rushed after him as he stalked away from her, placing a staying hand on his arm. “Please, Simon. Don’t keep me at a distance.”
He shrugged away from her touch with such violence that she lost her balance for a moment and stumbled over a book he’d thrown in his rage. It sent her sprawling to the floor, the breath knocked from her lungs. Her head smacked off the carpet before she could catch herself.
“Damn it,” he gritted, dropping to his knees at her side. His expression had softened to one of concern. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she said, feeling merely shaken and horribly sad for him, for Lady Billingsley, for herself. “I tripped over the book.”
“Devil take it.” He took her hands in his and hauled her to her feet, severing the contact the instant she stood. “Leave me now, Maggie. I don’t trust myself.”
“But—”
“Now,” he commanded. His tone was as fierce as his expression had become. “Go at once.”
There was no arguing. No winning. He didn’t want her company or her comfort. Very likely, he didn’t want her at all. “Very well,” she allowed. “I shall go.”
As she left his study, she couldn’t help but feel she was making a terrible mistake in leaving him alone. But what choice did she have? She could little force herself upon him when he didn’t want her there. All that remained for her to do was to grant him the solitude he desired. He didn’t want her, and he’d made that more than apparent. How quickly, she thought as she cut a somber path back to her chamber, the world around her could change. How quickly it could crumble, never to be mended.
* * * * *
When Maggie woke in the morning, it was to a heavy heart and an empty bed. Simon had never come to her. She had spent a nearly endless vigil waiting for him until, exhausted and puffy-eyed from the tears she’d been crying, she finally gave in to slumber. The awful events of the day before seemed as though they’d been a nightmare to her as she allowed her lady’s maid to dress her. But the evidence remained in her reflection, the pinched lips, pale cheeks, still-swollen eyes.
Her lady’s maid was uncharacteristically silent as she dressed Maggie’s hair into a subdued style. Her morning dress was a somber black. Yes, there had been a horrible death. She’d woken in the night twice, swearing she’d heard screams. It was terrifying to think of what Lady Billingsley must have experienced in the final moments of her life. There would have been the stomach-churning fall, the landing on the fence. Maggie prayed she had passed instantly, that she had not lingered in pain overly long. And she prayed too that Simon would somehow recover.
After a final errant curl had been tucked into place, Maggie thanked her lady’s maid and descended to the breakfast room. She wondered what it would be like to face Simon by the grim light of day. Had he even slept? She doubted it. Likely, the days to come would only prove more difficult. He had lost the woman he loved and he felt responsible for that loss. Maggie knew her own guilt for her part in the bitter affair. She never would have wished for Lady Billingsley to commit such an act, but she little knew now how she would react if she were to do it all over again. Would she pursue Simon? Would she leave knowing he would follow?
It all made her head spin and her heart ache.
As she rounded a bend in the lower hall, she nearly collided with Mrs. Keynes, who appeared unusually flustered, her time-weathered cheeks flushed with the exertion of her frantic pace. Maggie stopped herself short of the petite woman, startled and a bit flummoxed herself.
“Mrs. Keynes, good morning,” she greeted, although she didn’t feel even a drop of cheer.
“I’m afraid it’s anything but, my lady,” Mrs. Keynes returned, sounding uncharacteristically worried. “Haven’t you heard the news, then?”
News? Dear God. Maggie’s heart plummeted to her toes. She couldn’t bear any more terrible news. “I have not,” she said slowly, almost afraid to hear it. “What has happened?”
“It’s his lordship.” Mrs. Keynes pressed her lips together, taking a moment to compose herself, it seemed. “He’s gone.”
Ice crept into her heart. “What do you mean that he’s gone?”
“I’m so sorry to tell you this, my lady, but he’s disappeared. The head groom tells me he took a horse last night and never returned.” She wrung her hands together, the picture of distress. “We’ve sent men out to search for him, thinking perhaps his horse went lame or…”
Maggie knew the ominous portent of the unspoken portion of Mrs. Keynes’ words. Perhaps he’d been thrown from his horse. Perhaps he had chosen to hurt himself as Lady Billingsley had done. Perhaps she would never see her husband again.
“I’m sure he will return in no time, Mrs. Keynes,” she forced herself to say through numb lips.
She tried to tell herself it was yet too soon to worry. After all, he could have only been gone for hours, not days. But fear still unfurled in her, a snake waiting to strike.
“Of course, my lady. He’s likely to return before we know it, and we’ll all call ourselves silly for even concerning ourselves.” Mrs. Keynes gave her a kindly, almost pitying look. “Word of Lady Billingsley’s incident has been sent to her husband at Elton Hall. I expect Lord Billingsley will arrive in the next day or two.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Keynes,” she said, grateful that the tragedy had at least been dealt with by their capable servants. It was one less cause for apprehension. “Your efficiency in this is most appreciated.”
“It is my honor, my lady. Pray forgive a woman in her old age for having a moment of sentimentality.” She curtseyed, her countenance remaining pinched as ever.
Maggie suspected they both knew that the housekeeper’s attempts to conduct business as ordinary only glossed over the fact that, at least for the foreseeable future, life at Denver Hall would be anything but ordinary. If indeed it ever had been to begin with.
Chapter Nine
“Maggie, read your latest poem to Mr. Tobin, do. I fancy he’ll love it every bit as much as I did.” Nell’s eyes danced with mischief as she made her request.
Maggie frowned at her once-again hostess, who had become a true friend to her. She wasn’t prepared to share her work yet, and Nell knew it. Especially not to a brilliant poet like Jonathan Tobin. “I’m sure the company would far prefer to hear Mr. Tobin’s poetry than mine,” she deflected, occupying herself with the drape of her evening gown.
Although she would have once been thrilled to keep company with the likes of the eccentric man who had penned some of the finest contemporary verse, now she simply felt hollow. Unable to appreciate the world around her. She had sought out Nell in a moment of weakness, too tired of spending her days and nights alone, fraught with fe
ar. The dear woman had thrown an impromptu house party in her honor, inviting every great artist, novelist and poet of their age. It was a glittering, entertaining group of fine minds, but it was mostly lost upon Maggie.
A fortnight had passed without word from Simon. And then another. She had no way of knowing if he would ever return. She had nowhere to send her letters, no hope of knowing what had become of him. Perhaps she would never know. She’d written every known associate of his. No one knew his whereabouts. None had heard from him.
He was lost to her.
Lady Billingsley’s suicide had been her final act of manipulation. And it had worked, for the tentative bridge she and Simon had been building between them had crumbled into ash. She was once again alone.
“My lady?”
She glanced up from her lap, her hard thoughts disrupted by Mr. Tobin’s deep, gentle voice. He was indeed a handsome man, she thought, wishing it wasn’t lost on her. If only Simon’s defection hadn’t hurt as much, she would have been stronger. She would have been better off had he never trounced her train that fateful evening, for then she never would have realized her husband was a man she could love.
She shook herself from her troubles, forcing a smile to her lips. “My apologies, Mr. Tobin. I fear I was woolgathering.”
“About a dark and storm-tossed sea, it would seem,” he quipped, leaning closer to her on the settee they shared. “Do share. It simply isn’t fair to keep all your troubles to yourself.”
She relaxed a bit at his easy teasing. She rather liked him. He was enigmatic but humble, willing to appreciate a female poet in her own right. She found his way shockingly and wonderfully modern. “I’m certain you don’t wish to hear me wax on about the miseries in my life.”
“But my dear Lady Sandhurst,” he drawled, “miseries make for the best poems. Surely you must know that.”
“It’s true,” Nell added, grinning in that unfettered way she possessed. “Miseries and lost loves were expressly created for the sake of beautiful poetry. Just as men were created for pleasing women.”
Her Lovestruck Lord: 2 (Wicked Husbands) Page 18
