Rescuing Lord Inglewood: A Regency Romance

by Sally Britton

  “I need you to let me take care of you,” she said at last. “Please.” When she spoke, her voice hardly more than a whisper, his hand dropped and he took a step away. He lowered himself to a chair. “Very well. I suppose I could—” His stomach let out a fierce sort of groan and he stopped speaking, his face lifting as he whispered in surprise, “The wolves.”

  She almost laughed, his over-comical expression something she hadn’t expected to see from him. “Exactly. Let us feed them.” She moved around the kitchen, not entirely sure where everything was but finding her way tolerably well. She located cups, cider, a knife and carving board. “Would you do the honor, my lord?” she asked, giving him the tools.

  Silas sliced ham, cheese, and bread to put upon the plates she laid before him. She poured the cider and settled in the chair across from his, nibbling at the food. He started with small, polite bites, but it seemed as soon as the food hit his stomach he stopped caring about appearances. Silas consumed large mouthfuls of everything, washing down chunks of bread with cider, not saying a word as he chewed, swallowed, and then reached for more. Esther barely nibbled at her food, keeping her eyes on her husband’s progress through their impromptu supper.

  The silence that settled between them was comfortable. Eventually she allowed her mind to wander, absently rubbing her feet against each other beneath the table. The fire in the kitchen hearth had been banked, so it radiated with some heat but not enough to warm a woman foolish enough to be without shoes or stockings. She adjusted her shawl more tightly about herself, looking down at the bright greens and blues in the cloth with some regret.

  Everything of color must be put away. The usual mourning period for a sibling was six months, if one wanted to make a point of showing sisterly devotion. As she sincerely loved her brother, Esther could not imagine ending her mourning even a day before that time. She had worn mourning for her mother for eight months, then Diana insisted she put it off and go to school until she came out.

  “Is there a reason for that rather bleak look upon your face?” Silas asked. “Besides the obvious.” He ducked his head slightly, looking up at her most contritely. “I am sorry. I spoke without thinking.”

  “No, it is quite all right.” Esther reached out, laying a hand on his wrist where it rested on the table. She offered a smile she hoped was warm and understanding. “We mustn’t tiptoe around each other. Isaac and I tried that, when Mother passed away. It only led to more trouble, more heartache. Speak freely to me, please.” She squeezed his arm gently and allowed herself a melancholic sigh. “I was thinking of all the black crepe I will need.”

  His shoulders tightened, then relaxed. “And here I already have black coats, boots, hats, and everything else in the appropriate color. Excepting cravats.” He leaned back in his chair, gently pulling his arm away from her. “I cannot believe this. I cannot believe Isaac is gone, and we are sitting here, discussing it—” He released a bitter laugh. “I want to rail against it. Go to the Continent myself and demand answers.”

  “I know. I cannot believe it either.” Esther allowed her posture to slump. “I want him here, with us, telling us what fools we are to be married in such a strange manner. I think he might find the situation humorous.”

  “Isaac always did enjoy the ridiculous.” Silas ran his hands through his hair again, demonstrating how it had come to have such odd form. “But I think he would be pleased. His friend and his sister, that sounds like a good match, doesn’t it?” He met her eyes, and there was more to his question there. A different sort of weight rested upon her answer; she felt it.

  What could she say? She had been so angry at herself, at him, for the situation in which they were forced together. But with Isaac gone, it seemed less important to be angry.

  “I suppose it does.” She tilted her head to one side, studying the man she had married with curiosity. Did he regret their union? She wouldn’t blame him if he did.

  If only she could help him see what they could be, how well they might get along. They might even develop a true affection for one another—but there her thoughts betrayed her. Loving him meant a greater risk to her heart if she lost him, as she had lost too many people.

  What if he never cared for her any more than he did any of his responsibilities? If he continued issuing orders instead of giving her the measure of freedom she had longed for all her life? As no more than a servant to his wishes, losing her heart to him would pave the road before her with heartache and regret.

  Esther rose swiftly, her thoughts causing her to shake with panic. She tidied their plates, hurrying about to put things away without leaving too large a mess for the servants. “When will you return to London?” she asked without looking at him, moving about while she spoke. “I know your duties are important to you.”

  “My duty to my wife currently supersedes my duty to Parliament,” he answered, a sigh underscoring the words.

  The sigh jabbed at her heart. Was she such a terrible burden?

  “Very well. If you will keep me apprised of your plans, I would be grateful.” She closed the pantry door and turned down the lamp, leaving them with only the candle for their light. “For now, you must see me to my room, and then you must sleep, too. Facing tomorrow will be easier if you have rested.”

  Silas stared at her, as though not comprehending her words. Then he stood, albeit slowly, and offered to take her arm. “I will do as you say, my lady.” Would he come to his senses and stop bowing to her demands?

  She allowed him to escort her through the halls and up the stairs. They stopped at her chamber door. “Do you need the candle?” she asked.

  “No. Thank you. I know my way around my room quite well.” They stood close again, and she peered up at him in the dark. She let her arm slide away from his, then gripped the shawl in front of her. “I will see you in the morning,” he said.

  “Yes.” She whispered her agreement, the black hall pressing in around them, reminding her that they must part and mourn alone once more. At least now there would be no more than a door separating them rather than an entire house.

  Yet that thought also brought a measure of concern. There was only a door between them. A door easily opened, and the man before her had every right to step through into her bedroom. But not soon. Certainly not this night. She hoped.

  “Esther,” he said, his voice low and almost hoarse. Her heart careened against her chest in a most unsuitable manner at the sound of her name. “Thank you for taking care of me this evening.”

  Then, before she could think to react, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It ought not to have been all that different from his hasty goodbye weeks before, yet it was. And it left her tingling from the top of her scalp all the way to her cold, bare toes.

  “You are most welcome,” she whispered, then she ran. Not literally. That would have been ridiculous. But she opened her door and slipped inside, shutting it hastily behind her.

  Her heart continued to thud against her chest almost indecently.

  For one terrible moment, she had even forgotten her brother’s loss as she basked in Silas’s gentle attention.

  What was she going to do with him so close? Yet, she longed for him to be there beside her in the coming days. Mourning alone—she could not imagine it. She knew, from the early days of her mother’s death, what it was like to have no one to speak to or confide in. It was painfully lonely, the abyss of sorrow infinitely deeper, without someone with whom to talk. When she and Isaac had their row, for that was what it had taken to break down the barrier they put between each other, they had finally begun to heal.

  “Oh, Isaac. Why did you have to go to war?” she whispered to the darkness.

  No answer came.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As sleep hadn’t been expected, it somewhat surprised Silas to wake with a bleary sort of dawn streaming through his window. He sat up in his bed, rubbing at his dry, aching eyes. A weight in his chest, heavy as iron, made breathing somewhat difficult.


  Isaac is gone.

  His friend had marched away to war and would never return home. There were a handful of people in the world Silas trusted and would swear to loyally stand by through the trials of life. To lose one of them, for it to be his first and closest friend, dropped him into a deep, dark pit of loneliness. Silas closed his eyes, attempting to shut out the bleak despair.

  A memory wavered in his mind; a vision in white and green, a glowing candle. Esther. At once his thoughts flooded with her gentle care of him the night before. She had sought him out, like an angel of mercy, though her grief mirrored his own. He had been drawn to her kindness, had made a fool of himself brushing her hand with his at every opportunity, starved as he was for any measure of physical touch to remind him that he and she yet lived.

  She had brought light to him through more than a candle. When she entered his study, the heavy weight in his chest lessened, the pain dulled. Esther had brought him out of the worst of it, at the darkest hour of night. How had she known he needed her?

  In his exhaustion he hadn’t drawn the curtains closed and gave the sun permission to wake him when it rose. He went to his balcony doors and peered out at the sea. Staring out at the blue waves and white surf, he went over every moment of the night previous.

  With a subtle grace he hadn’t realized his wife possessed, she had drawn him into caring for himself by caring for her. Made him eat and nudged him to take his rest. It had taken surprisingly little for her to persuade him to follow directions. Of course, from the moment she entered his study, a candle illuminating her delicate features, he had been captivated by her.

  Things he had never taken the time to notice before, things about his wife, distracted him from their mutual loss. Standing near his desk, he had noted she smelled of honey and lavender. Her hand in his, he’d been awed by the softness of her skin—and noticed a few oddly placed callouses. From her holding a paintbrush or pencil, perhaps.

  To focus on such details when his emotions already twisted within him made him feel as if he may have gone mad.

  Silas pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the doors. Examining all that he felt in the light of day, another thought occurred to him. It was absurd. Perhaps his grief had muddled his feelings and thoughts. Yet he could not dismiss the idea that more than physical attraction played a role in his reaction to the countess. There was a duty there, yes. But duty only bound one to certain deeds, not specific emotions.

  What if—could it be possible—that he cared enough for Esther to develop a deeper affection for her? Perhaps fall in love with her?

  He warred with himself, pacing away from the balcony and into the shadows where the sunlight did not reach. The timing of such a supposition was all wrong. They had lost Isaac. Coming to Esther to mourn with her and then attempting to explore another emotion entirely was shiftless. Giving her support was the whole point of being by her side.

  Unless…

  That word dangled before him, tempting him to follow it, to see where it might lead. Silas hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the door linking their rooms.

  Unless the time they spent together mourning a lost brother might also be a time of healing. If they helped each other as they had the night before, sharing strength, most likely they would grow closer to each other, develop a deeper understanding and affection for one another.

  Could love come from loss?

  Silas turned to study the sunbeams streaming through his balcony doors. The idea of winning Esther’s heart pierced through his grief like morning light through fog.

  Isaac’s ready grin appeared in Silas’s memory, and that was all the encouragement Silas needed. Together they would grieve for Isaac, and in time they would heal.

  Without another thought on the matter, Silas rang for a servant to attend him. His valet might arrive this afternoon, but a footman would do for now. It was early yet, and hopefully Esther still slept, but he must see about his duties. There was a tailor and seamstress to send for, to order the proper mourning attire. They would not stir from their property until it was prepared. His friends would come this afternoon, as he had asked in messages sent the day before, and then the news would spread through the neighborhood. Visitors would come soon after.

  Before he worried about any of it, he would take his wife for a walk. From that moment forward, Esther must come first in his thoughts and in his heart.

  The idea of being with her lightened the weight upon his chest still more. With purpose, Silas could face the day ahead.

  ∞∞∞

  Not a single dream disturbed Esther’s sleep. She awoke slowly, reluctantly, knowing there was something she must face when she began the day that she had rather forget about. And then it came upon her again, like a wave crashing against her and sweeping her legs out from under her. Drenched in sorrow, Esther rolled into her pillow and cried anew for her lost brother.

  It did not take long for her tears to dry up and her head to ache. She rose and went to her washbasin, peering into the mirror hanging above it. Her room was dim, yet she knew she was paler than normal. After splashing water upon her face, she rang for Mary.

  There would be work to do, and she must make certain the earl ate breakfast rather than continue starving himself. That meant no tray, and no hiding in her room. But that was for the best, as she had determined the previous night. Silas did not know the first thing about mourning. He had been barely a child when he lost his grandmother and Esther knew of no other grief in his life.

  Mary came into the room at a slow, almost reverential pace, keeping her eyes to the floor.

  Was this to be how everyone acted around Esther? As though they walked through a tomb instead of a house? She would not allow herself to break from this loss, though she had been bruised by it. Isaac had always left her behind, told her she was not old enough to play at his games or converse with his friends. In death he left her behind again, but as a woman fully capable of seeing to all that needed to be done.

  “I am going down to breakfast,” she decreed, then looked to the clock upon her dressing table. If it were noon, her proclamation would be somewhat silly. It was only nine o’clock in the morning. “Has his lordship woken yet?”

  “Yes, my lady. He’s been downstairs since the sun came up. I’m supposed to bring a note up from him with your tray. But with no tray—” The maid broke off and reached into her apron pocket, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper. She offered it to Esther with a curtsy.

  “Thank you. Please lay out my things while I read. I know I haven’t any black, but there is a dark blue that will do for today.” Esther lowered herself to her dressing table while Mary threw back the rest of the curtains, then bustled around to lay out Esther’s things.

  Unfolding the note, Esther did not know what she expected. Instructions to remain abed? Something of a more serious nature? Maybe he wished to thank her for the previous night’s meal. She peered down at his tidy writing, familiar after all the letters she had received from him in the time he had been away. A letter a day.

  Esther, it began, which was already quite different. Normally he addressed her as my lady in writing. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me on a walk? If the weather holds. He signed it with his name, written without the flourish he used when signing his title.

  She read the words over again, trying to make sense of the request. Answering him with a note of her own seemed rather silly when she might just find him and agree.

  Mary came to help with her hair, styling it simply, leaving no limp strands but not taking the time to curl it with tongs. It was all piled and tucked artfully at the top of her head, then framed by a black ribbon Mary had found. After seeing to the necessary tasks of hair and clothing, Esther opened the drawer at the top of her bureau and tucked Silas’s note away with all of his letters. Why she had kept them all, she did not entirely know.

  To see them all there, folded neatly, each bearing his writing and most with his seal, Esther had to smile
. If nothing else, the man she married was a faithful correspondent. What had he thought of her artwork? Had it entertained or irritated him? She supposed she might ask, since the two of them were under the same roof once more.

  She left her room and took a few steps down the hall when she realized she wanted to respond to her husband’s note in the usual manner. Why shouldn’t she? They may as well make a tradition out of it. Changing course, she went down the long halls from the family wing to her sitting room full of her work and supplies.

  When Esther opened the door, she froze momentarily. Her eyes went at once to the spot where she had stood when Silas told her the news of Isaac’s death. Grief, in its mysterious way, washed over her again. It pulled her deeper. She turned away toward the couch, where Silas had held her as she cried, that pulled her out and reminded her of why she had entered the room in the first place.

  A walk. That was what Silas wanted. She had the answer already painted, in layers and layers of color. The path leading to the birch trees, shimmering with a gentle glow she had imagined rather than seen in truth. The light was from the spring of her childhood, not the dull gray skies hanging overhead of late. The painting was too large to fold, nor did she particularly want to harm it with creases. Esther rolled it instead, then looked about to find something to secure it.

  Ah. A bit of blue ribbon was in a book she had been reading. Without a thought, she slid the ribbon from between the pages and used it to tie up her painting instead. Esther glanced about her hideaway, at the many half-finished projects, the containers of brushes and colors, and sighed. A sitting room really was no place for all the mess she had dragged inside of it.

  Withdrawing from the room, Esther retraced her steps to the main stairway again. She passed a footman in the hall and stopped him. “Peters? Will you take this to the earl?”