They left quietly, not even saying goodbye to their friends. In the carriage ride on the way to his townhouse, she sat in quiet contemplation. He’d love to know what she was thinking. Chesterton had upset her, but she wouldn’t open up to Henry. With a twinge of envy, Henry saw that the natural accord Marcus and Sabine shared was not yet within in their reach.
The one thing he’d not anticipated this night was the blood-curling anger he’d experienced seeing Chesterton with his hands on Amy. Possessive raged welled, and he could quite easily have ripped Chesterton’s head from his body. He’d struggled with jealousy all evening at the ball. He wanted to banish every man who danced with her.
He’d never felt this possessive anger over any other woman. Amy was his. They belonged together. She was his soul mate. Wasn’t she?
The walk into his house was silent. Amy thanked the footman for his help in descending the carriage, not waiting for Henry’s assistance.
“Timmons, can you organize some refreshments? Tea, perhaps?” he asked Amy. She nodded.
“Very good, my lord. The fire is still lit in the drawing room. I’ll see that it is stoked.”
“No need, it’s rather warm this evening.” Amy’s response drew his eye to the fact that rather than being warm, she looked deathly cold, pale as a ghost.
She took a seat on the chaise lounge and stared blankly into the fire. He went to her and crouched at her feet. He took her chilled hands in his, so small his fists swallowed them.
“What’s wrong, Amy?”
She couldn’t look at him.
“Did something Chesterton say upset you?” He squeezed her tiny hands. “You know you can tell me anything. I’ll always be here for you.”
She looked at him blankly for a moment before saying. “If you’ll excuse me, I need the retiring room.”
He rose swiftly. “Of course. Timmons will show you the way.”
He watched her leave the room with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something was dreadfully wrong. If she had a problem or was upset, Amy should be able to talk to him about it. Didn’t couples in love share everything? He thought of Sabine and Marcus. Sabine most definitely let Marcus know when anything was wrong.
Yet, Amy wasn’t Sabine. She was younger, less experienced, and wounded by a family that didn’t love her. Was this why she was worried? Didn’t she know how much he loved her?
He drained the brandy in his glass. He rested his head on the back of the chair and realized he’d been a fool. He might have proposed, but he’d never said the words. He’d assumed she’d know his heart. When she returned he’d spend the rest of the night telling her, and showing her, just how much he loved her and wanted her—forever.
#
No sooner had Timmons directed her to the retiring room, Amy slipped along the corridor heading straight toward Henry’s study. She had a fair idea where it was located given the number of times she’d been in Cravenswood house over the years.
Her throat was dry, her hands clammy. She didn’t wish to believe Chesterton, but Henry had never once told her he loved her. Oh, he’d shown it physically, but was that love, or did Henry want her because she looked like Millicent? The idea of Henry thinking of another woman when he was with her, in her...Pain lanced her body as expertly as a well-aimed arrow hitting the bulls-eye.
The woman whose name he’d spoken in his garden only a few weeks ago—did Millie hold his heart? Was Amy second best, like her mother had been for her father? She had to know.
Who did he really want in his arms? Who did he hold in his heart?
All her life she’d wanted someone to love her just for her. Not her pedigree, or dowry, or social position. Her! Was that too much to ask? She thought Henry was that man. The man who’d pursued her, made love to her, asked her to marry him...Was it all a lie?
She tried to keep tears at bay as she neared the study door.
She stood before the closed door and took a deep breath. She ran a hand down the worn oak, caressing all the nicks and knots in the wood. So old. If the door could talk, it could tell a thousand secrets. She wished she knew the secret of Henry’s heart, so that what she might find within didn’t have the power to destroy her.
With a shaking hand, she reached and lifted the latch. She gently pushed the door inwards, holding her breath. Forcing herself to look, her eyes swept the walls, willing Chesterton’s words false.
They reached the far right and halted. She sucked in a depth breath to ward off the pain that struck in precise stabs. A black haired woman was smiling down at her. Her face beautiful in its composition, her eyes warm and understanding, her body clothed in an exotic rich burgundy silk, voluptuous in the extreme.
It wasn’t like looking into a mirror, but the similarities were there. They shared the same coloring, the same body shape and damn Chesterton to hell, the same pout of the lips.
The pain grew in intensity and she doubled over, backing out of the room. She stood trying to breathe through the hurt, holding onto the door to stop herself from crumbling into a heap on the floor.
“My lady, are you hurt?” Timmons voice brought her to her senses. She had to get out of here. She didn’t want Henry to see her like this. Her pain was too raw to face him.
She pushed past the concerned Timmons and raced for the stairs. Reaching the entrance hall, she ignored the stunned look of the footman and tore open the door. Heedless of the shouts behind her, she ran into the night, through Henry’s blasted garden to the safety of her home.
#
Henry, hearing the commotion, strode out of the drawing room, peered over the railings to the entrance hall below and noted the door wide open. “Timmons, what on earth is all this commotion?”
His butler looked up, concern etched on his face. “It’s Lady Amy, my lord. I fear she’s taken ill. She ran off.”
He reached the entrance in record time. “Amy? Where is she?”
Timmons pointed into the dark. “I assume she went home. I’ve sent Simon to check.”
At his words, a panting Simon came back through the door. “Lady Amy ran back to her house. I saw her go safely inside.”
“Thank you, Simon.” He turned to his stunned butler. “You mentioned she was ill.”
Timmons spluttered. “I assumed so. I saw her bent over, holding onto the open door of your study.”
The hand of fear ripped through his skin and clenched his innards in its fist, twisting until he thought his insides would spill from his stomach. “My study? She was in my study?”
“Yes, Lord Cravenswood.”
He closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath. He knew what bloody Chesterton had told her. Fists clenched, he imagined his hands were around Chesterton’s neck squeezing the life out of him. He’d never wanted to kill a man more.
He started for the door. He had to see her. He had to explain. He called over his shoulder. “Timmons, remove the painting in my study and store it in the attic.” As he strode out the door into the night, he berated himself that his butler didn’t even have to ask which one. It was obvious. What a bloody fool he’d been.
#
Amy raced straight to her room, valiantly holding back tears until she reached the privacy of her bedchamber. Once there she dissolved into tears in Lorraine’s arms.
“Whatever has happened? Shush, don’t cry. It can’t be that bad.”
In between sobs, she said, “I look just like her.”
“Like who?”
“Millicent.”
Lorraine’s arms tightened around her and she could hear her utter a few choice words about wishing parts of Henry’s anatomy would fall off.
She drew in a shuddering breath and pushed out of Lorraine’s arms, flinging herself on her bed face down, too ashamed to face the world. “I’m such a fool. I thought he really loved me. Me!”
“So, you look like her. That doesn’t mean he’s not in love with you.”
She threw an accusing look over her shoulder. “He still has her por
trait on his wall. In his study.”
“Oh.”
Amy flopped back on the bed. There was nothing more to say. “How am I going to get out of this marriage? Father will kill me if I rebuke Henry. The wedding’s in three days. The scandal will ruin me.”
Her sobs grew anew, almost blocking the sharp rap at her door. Lorraine hurried to answer it and soon was back at her bedside. “The earl is below demanding to see you.”
She rolled onto her back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to see him. I can’t face him.”
“I’ll go.”
In abject misery, she watched her lady’s maid leave the room. She rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. Sobs began anew. The pain was crippling. She was a fool to think Henry loved her. She had known when she heard him whisper Millicent’s name that his heart belonged to another. Why hadn’t she listened to her inner voice? Because you love him so... Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks and she let them, too emotionally exhausted to care.
“She doesn’t wish to see you, Lord Cravenswood. I feel it best you leave.”
Amy’s maid, Lorraine, he remembered her name, looked at him coldly.
“I’m not leaving until I’ve explained.” He pushed past her. “Amy,” he yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
Lorraine began pushing him toward the door. “This is doing neither of you any good. Come back in the morning when she’s had time to get over her hurt.”
His heart thudded painfully in his chest. He’d hurt her. He hated to think of her upstairs, alone, hurting. “I have to go to her.”
“And say what? You’re sorry you kept a picture of another woman on your wall while professing to love Amy? You’re sorry you didn’t mention she looks like your last lover?”
Henry bit his cheek to stop from berating the woman defending Amy. “It’s not as it seems.”
Lorraine sighed and pushed him again toward the door. “It never is. Leave her be for now. I promise you, if you go up those stairs, you’ll make it worse. She’s too hurt to hear any pretty words you may say.”
Perhaps it was best to talk to her in the morning when hopefully she’d have had a chance to calm down. It would have been a shock to see Millie’s portrait. He inwardly cursed himself for not removing it sooner, but he’d simply forgotten it existed. He would have to put his faith in Amy. She loved him, and she must realize he’d not marry her if he loved another. They’d talked about their hopes and dreams. She’d heard him confess his dreams in his garden, night after night. She would understand.
He placed his hand on the doorframe, stopping Lorraine from pushing him out into the night. “There is no need for her to be upset. I love her. Will you tell her? Please.”
Lorraine stared into his eyes, trying to get the measure of him. He let her see deep into his heart. She hesitated before nodding. “I’ll tell her. Now go.”
“I’ll be here in the morning. No one will stop me from speaking with her then—no one.”
With that he turned and made his way back to Cravenswood house, fear gnawing at his insides.
#
Henry was surprised when Caitlin paid him a visit early next morning—very early. She marched into his drawing room, removing her gloves, obviously upset. “What’s this I hear about a painting of Millicent?”
His face heated and he was less than a welcoming host. “How did you hear of the painting?”
“Our household staff knows each other almost as well as we do.”
He saw Timmons edging from the room. “I’ll fire the lot of them,” he yelled after his butler’s departing figure. “It’s a simple misunderstanding–an oversight on my part.”
She raised an eyebrow at him and took a seat. When he didn’t move, she said, “Well, aren’t you going to ring for tea?”
Feeling his temper rise, he replied politely, “This is a long visit, is it? As you may be aware, I have a fiancée that needs an explanation from me. Although how she can profess to love me while not trusting me is making me see her in an altogether different light.”
Timmons arrived with a tea tray without having to be asked, no doubt trying to appease his lordship. Silence reigned as, with a curt nod, Henry waited for her to pour.
“I really don’t understand why she’s so upset. It’s only a painting. A gift from Millicent I received a long time ago. I simply forgot it was there.”
“You think this is about the painting?” Caitlin set her cup back on its saucer. “Don’t you look at me with that angelic face. Millicent looks very much like Amy. Even I assumed the worst when I realized you were infatuated with Amy. If Harlow hadn’t assured me you were completely over Millicent, I’d have told her myself.” She threw a look at him that would cause even the boxer Gentleman Jack to duck. “You should have told her. Immediately. What’s the poor girl to think?”
“She should have more faith in me. Love is built on trust. How can she profess to love me if she doesn’t trust me? Perhaps I’ve made a mistake.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s absolutely the perfect woman for you.”
All sense of propriety fled as his words, filled with pain, tumbled out. “She thinks I could make love to her while thinking of another, that’s how little she thinks of me.”
Caitlin’s faced flush a lovely shade of pink. “I see. And men haven’t done precisely that before?” His stance remained ridged and he turned his back not eager for her to see his hurt. She sighed behind him. “A woman’s heart is as delicate as a rose. It doesn’t take much of a storm to come along and scattered the petals to the wind. You know how fragile Amy’s was. She’s never felt loved for her own sake. Not from her father, or brother, or anyone in her life. So I’m not surprised she has doubts. But the doubts are engrained deep inside her. It has little to do with her faith in you, and more to do with her faith in herself. Has she selected wisely? She watched her mother pine all her life.”
He sank down into the nearest chair. “I’m such a fool. I thought my love would be enough. You overcame Harlow’s past and mine’s not nearly as—robust–as his.”
“It may sound strange to you, but I’d have been more worried if Harlow, like you, had one woman he favored above all others. He simply had nameless, faceless many. You, however, had a mistress for a very long time. And you keep a picture of her on your wall. And she looks very much like your current fiancée.”
Fear crept over his skin like an insidious smell. “What are you trying to say? Have I blown my chance at happiness?”
She shook her head. “No. I just think you’re expecting too much too soon. To keep the bud of love alive it takes more than a few weeks of courting. It takes a lifetime of patience, understanding, and commitment.” When he still did not answer, she said irritably, “Perhaps she’s right. You really don’t love her if you can give up at the first hurdle.”
“I know I should have taken Millicent’s portrait down eons ago, but if Amy’s my soul mate, why doesn’t she know I’d never willingly hurt her?”
“Soul mate? Oh, Henry. I hated Harlow at first sight. He might be my soul mate now, but I didn’t know that to begin with. In fact, I thought him an arrogant, conceited buffoon of a man when we first met. Like a well-worn pair of boots, you grow into love. It doesn’t happen to everyone the minute you meet. Especially women. We have to be more careful than men. The consequences for us, if we make a mistake, can destroy us, socially, financially, and emotionally. There is no way out.”
He raised hopeful eyes to Caitlin. “And because of Amy’s upbringing she’s even more careful.” She nodded. “What do you advise I do?”
Placing her tea on the table in front of her, Caitlin rose and walked to kiss his cheek. She stood looking down at him as she pulled on her gloves. “I wouldn’t go to her all, ‘oh I love you’, she’d be wary of that. I’d go in there as if she’s being ridiculous. Jar her out of her despondency. Make her angry enough to fight it out.”
Henry’s mouth dropped open. She pushed it clos
ed with a gloved finger. “Are you sure?”
“Definitely. If you act as if her portrait is nothing of consequence and you don’t understand what she’s fussing about, it will take the wind out of her sails.”
Seeing her off at the door, Henry said, “I hope you’re right. Without Amy, I’m lost.”
She kissed his cheek and whispered. “Then go find her.”
Chapter Twelve
The next morning Amy refused to hide in her room. She rose earlier than normal, still tired from a sleepless night worrying about what she would say and do when she saw Henry.
When she arrived downstairs, she was surprised to find her father at the breakfast table so early in the morning. She chewed her bottom lip worrying about how her father would react if she wished to withdraw from her engagement.
Not really feeling up to facing food, she collected a scone from the sideboard and made her way to the table.
Her father’s voice startled her. “I heard about the ruckus last night. I hope the marriage is still going ahead.”
“Why am I not surprised you’d take that stance? You don’t even care. He’s in love with another woman. Just like you, Father.” She choked on her words. “I even look like her. At least you chose a wife who looked the complete opposite of Helen.”
“I didn’t know you’d met Helen,” he said quietly.
She shrugged and poured a cup of tea. “I was on an outing with the Sothebys many years ago and I spied you and your other family in the crowd.”
“I’m sorry.”
She turned to him. “For what?”
“For making a terrible mistake and marrying your mother when I did not love her. Plus for treating you as I have. Take your pick.”
Amy looked at her father suspiciously. “You. Apologizing? Are you ill?”
His apology was grudgingly given, like blood seeping out of stone. “It was not fair on her. However, I didn’t realize she loved me until after we married. I thought she viewed our arrangement as, well, just that—an arrangement. If I’d known of her feelings I would have married another. But most of all, I’m sorry that my guilt made me neglect you.”
To Challenge the Earl of Cravenswood (Wicked Wagers 3) Page 13
