“Then go to her,” Harry advised quietly. “Tell her. She needs to know. You both deserve to be happy.”
Spencer stared at his younger brother, thinking it odd indeed that he should be receiving advice from him. Love and marital advice, when Harry had yet to be married and Spencer had entered the institution twice. Once out of obligation and once out of necessity.
But it had not been mere necessity, had it? He could never qualify what he had shared with Boadicea using such a bloodless word. Though he had compromised her and it had sparked the wheels of their marriage into motion, in truth, he had begun falling in love with her that first day. She had been so stubborn, demanding the return of her book. Defiant at every turn. And how she had kissed him…
The memory of that kiss alone still set him aflame.
Still, it was not enough. He could not be enough. He could win her back to his side now, but to what end? He did not dare to hope.
“I cannot give her what she wants,” he revealed to Harry. He felt as if he had stripped part of himself away, holding it up for his brother’s inspection. He felt ill. “After what happened with Millicent…she went mad because she lost our child, Harry. Something happened to her mind, and she was never the same. She killed herself in front of me. She almost shot me instead, but some odd quirk in her unhinged mind decided to turn the pistol against her own temple at the last moment.”
His brother gripped his shoulders. “Jesus Christ, Spencer. Why did you not tell me before now?”
“I never told anyone.” It was the truth. The aftermath of Millicent’s death had been a whirlwind of shock, guilt, and grief. Initially, he had not told anyone the extent of her actions that day in an effort to protect her. As time had passed, he had attempted to move forward. Revealing what she had done had seemed to serve no purpose. She was dead. He was not. He alone would bear the scars of her actions.
But now, for the first time, he realized that he wasn’t the only one bearing the scars if he perpetuated them upon those he loved.
“You should have bloody well told me,” Harry said. “I would have wanted to know. I do want to know. Spencer, you are my brother. We may not always get on as well as we ought, but I am here for you. Let me be here for you.”
At long last, the burden of the past sprung forth, freeing him.
“Her intent was to kill me.” He said the words with calm detachment, and it was strange indeed to think he could now recount the events of that day in such an aloof manner. But he knew he needed to press onward. Some instinct deep within told him that he must make peace with the past if he ever hoped to have a future.
“Spencer.” Harry hauled him into a hug.
He returned his brother’s unexpected embrace. “Harry.”
They thumped each other on the back before stepping apart and clearing their throats. Their moment of connection had been achingly real, but it nevertheless left them feeling awkward as hell.
“Do you think Boadicea left me?” he asked then, because desperation had begun to tear him apart.
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “You need to find her. Tell her how you feel. And Spencer, whatever your fears are from the past, you cannot apply them to the future. No two situations are alike. Life is strange and wild and unpredictable. It takes us where we least want it and where we least expect it. Live your life for tomorrow rather than for yesterday.”
“Damn.” He frowned at his younger brother. “When the hell did you become so wise?”
Harry raised a brow. “I am not wise. I see what is before me, and I wish the people I care for to be happy.”
Spencer knew there was one way for him to be happy. It involved taking a great risk, the sort that left him with a frozen tongue and a fearful heart.
He had to find his wife, and when he did, he would do away with any traces of the past. Moving forward scared the wits out of him, but even he could see that it was the best option for him. The sole option.
He clasped his brother to him in another sudden hug. “Thank you, little brother. I do believe that this was the talk I needed.”
“Any time,” Harry said. “One day, I hope you can return the favor.”
He patted his brother’s back. “One day, you will find the woman who drives you to distraction. The one woman you cannot live without. Never settle for another.”
Harry nodded. “All you need to do now is find Bo.”
Yes, that was exactly what he needed to do. As expediently as possible.
call to order to the first official meeting of the Lady’s Suffrage Society,” Bo announced, though she really did not need to be so formal since the only members present for the inaugural gathering were herself, Clara, and Ravenscroft’s sisters Lady Alexandra and Lady Josephine.
They were seated in a spacious salon in Clara and Ravenscroft’s townhome, tea and cakes aplenty on hand, papers and pens at the ready. The three other women’s expressions suggested an eagerness that Bo wished she could replicate. In truth, she had been feeling apathetic toward everything of late, and she knew the reason why.
But being heartsick was not an excuse. Nor was it a state in which she preferred to dwell. There was work to do this evening. It was their intent to draft up some ideas for the sorts of campaigns they might employ to attract additional members, funds, and support, all of which the Lady’s Suffrage Society currently suffered a dearth of.
Bo and Clara had thrown themselves into their little society over the last week, and the earl’s sisters—spirited ladies prone to landing themselves in trouble and girls after Bo’s own heart—had been happy to join in the effort. Bo was heartily grateful for the much-needed distraction.
Living beneath the same roof as a husband and wife who were as besotted with each other as Ravenscroft and Clara were posed something of a dilemma for someone nursing a broken heart. She was beyond happy for her friend—the way the earl looked upon Clara when he thought no one else watched made Bo long for Spencer to gaze at her the same way.
Or at all.
Hush, foolish heart. We have been down that road, and it only led back to London and loneliness.
“What shall we discuss first?” Clara’s tone was laden with relish and she was lovely as ever in that bright, inimitable fashion only she possessed.
The Countess of Ravenscroft was glowing again today, and just yesterday, she had shared the reason with Bo: she was enceinte. There was nary a hint of a burgeoning bump beneath her snug bodice, but Clara’s sparkling eyes and the way her hand occasionally strayed to her abdomen had given her away before her revelation.
Once again, Bo was thrilled for Clara in the most heartfelt and bittersweet manner. She would never have a child of her own, and the realization, even as she sat amongst her friends attempting to lead a meeting for the most important cause in her life, struck her with enough force to make her jolt.
“Bo?” Clara asked, frowning. “You’re quite pale. Are you well?”
No, she was not well. Nor did she ever hope to be again. Some part of her had hoped that Spencer might at least write her. She was well aware that he had not been to London in years, and that she had no hope of him daring to venture there. But a word, a sentence—drat it all, a blob of ink on a scrap of paper—would have been enough to give her hope. Their week at Ridgeley Castle had changed her forever. If she had nothing else, she had those stolen, fleeting moments of bliss.
“Indeed, you do look as if you had bad kippers at breakfast,” Lady Alexandra helpfully elaborated.
“Bo?” Clara prodded.
She stretched her lips into a smile. “Of course. Forgive me. I was lost for a moment in my thoughts. I can assure you that I did not consume kippers bad or otherwise, Lady Alexandra. I do not partake of fish.” She gave a shiver at the last, thinking once more of the dreadful procession of odiferous dishes her mother-in-law had foisted upon her.
“A wise lady indeed.” Lady Alexandra nodded with approval. “Did you know that salmon are born in freshwater, live most of their lives
in saltwater, and then only return to freshwater to spawn? Disgusting creatures. I shan’t eat anything that cannot make up its mind.”
Bo stared at Ravenscroft’s sister. With her fiery hair and tall, willowy form, she already stood out as something of an oddity. Her forthright tongue and odd tendency to spew scientific minutiae did not help matters. For all that, she was strikingly attractive, if not in a traditional sense. Her peculiarity rather endeared her to Bo.
“I had no idea that salmon switched between waters, shillyshallying, Lady Alexandra,” she admitted.
“This is the sort of thing I caution you against saying in mixed company, Lex,” Clara said to her sister-in-law, taking on a motherly tone. “While it is good to be possessed of a vibrant and well-versed intellect, you simply cannot speak about spawning in regards to any creature. It is not done.”
Alexandra raised her brows. “Fortunately, we are not in mixed company, sister dear.”
Clara sighed. “Alexandra’s comeout is to be this spring, and up until recently, she has been spending far too much time under the questionable auspices of her elderly Aunt Lydia.”
“Alexandra is still in the room,” the subject of the conversation drawled. “You cannot speak about her as if she is not present.”
“Oh do stubble it, Lex,” Lady Josephine grumbled. “You know you ought to get out of the habit of saying such outrageous things. Clara is only trying to help you land a proper match.”
“I do not want a proper match,” Alexandra grumbled. “I do not want a match at all.”
“A wise lady indeed,” Bo said before she could think better of it.
Three sets of eyes swung to her.
Clara spoke first, frowning with sympathy. “Oh, Bo. Are you certain I cannot hire a thug to rough him up?”
She would have laughed had she not been certain that her friend was partly serious. Americans were a frightfully bloodthirsty lot, and Clara was no exception when it came to defending those she loved. Bo had shared everything with her, from the inauspicious beginning of her courtship with Spencer, to her marriage and honeymoon, to losing her heart, and then the aftermath. She knew everything, and she had been endlessly supportive and kind. A true friend to the last.
“Is that the sort of thing one ought to say in mixed company?” Lady Alexandra queried before Bo could respond, sounding arch.
Clara glared at her sister-in-law. “We are not in mixed company at present.”
A smug smile flitted about Lady Alexandra’s lips. “Precisely.”
Bo did not envy her friend the task of launching such a minx into society. She would be trouble, and coming from someone who had spent her entire life steeped in it, that was a serious assessment.
“Oh, do let’s talk about the Lady’s Suffrage Society,” Lady Josephine said then.
Bo knew a spear of guilt that she had been so caught up in her own selfish thoughts. How could she have lost sight of what was most important?
She cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. Our first orders of business are simple. We are in need of members and funds. As you know, granting women the right to vote has not been looked upon with favor by many members of the peerage. When the queen herself is against it, our work is more than cut out for us. We must also find a means of driving up our coffers. If we have funds, we can publish articles and pamphlets for broad distribution.”
“Donations would do nicely,” Clara chimed in. “Julian and I have already pledged five thousand pounds, which will go a long way toward getting our cause underway.”
Of course Ravenscroft would have supported his wife, the mother of his child, the woman he loved. Bo felt a fresh stab of pain commingled with envy at what she was missing with Spencer.
The door to the salon swung open. Bo turned to find the source of the interruption and froze. Surely her eyes deceived her. Surely she was delusional.
That was the only explanation as to why Spencer Marlow, Duke of Bainbridge, stood on the threshold. Her eyes feasted on him, not daring to look away lest he disappear. He seemed somehow taller, broader, more handsome after a week away from him. His dark hair, green eyes, and sensual mouth complemented his rigid jaw to perfection. The jacket, trousers, and waistcoat he wore were tailored to display all of his quiet, muscled strength.
His emerald gaze found and scorched her. “Forgive me for the interruption, ladies, but I wish to offer a donation to your cause. Twenty thousand pounds, to be spent however the Society wishes.”
The harried-looking butler Osgood appeared behind him then, frowning as if he had just stepped into a pile of horse dung. “My pardon, Lady Ravenscroft. I asked His Grace to wait, and he refused.”
“Think nothing of it, Osgood.” Hesitant optimism tinged Clara’s Virginia drawl. “His Grace is long overdue.”
“Yes,” Spencer agreed, his tone grim, his eyes never leaving Bo. “I am.”
The butler bowed and took his leave. Bo scarcely noticed his departure, too fixed upon the tall, beautiful man she loved.
The stark reality of it resonated down her spine.
Spencer was here.
He was in London.
The man who had not travelled to the city in years had come here on his own. He had appeared in the salon, beautiful and forbidding. He was still harsh angles and planes, still dark and austere and severe. But there was something different about him as he stood bathed in golden morning light, something indefinable. The way he looked at her now…it made her heart pound.
And she knew then and there, instinct telling her body what her mind would not yet believe: he was hers. He had come here for her, despite his fear, in spite of everything that kept him too afraid to move forward. He had not just met her halfway. He had made the entirety of the journey.
All for her.
“Spencer,” someone said, and she supposed it must have been her, for everyone looked at her expectantly when she did not even recall saying a blessed thing. She took a deep breath, found her voice again. “Spencer, you are in London.”
A half grin shattered the asceticism of his somber visage. “Oh? Is that where I am? I had not realized.”
She stood, the papers in her lap upon which she had jotted copious notes in preparation for this meeting flying everywhere. She did not care. Could not care. The only person she saw—the only person she wanted to see—was her husband. With no more than half a dozen purposeful strides, she crossed the room and stood before him.
“Do not dare joke,” she warned. “Not now. Not like this.”
His lips firmed into a solemn frown once more. “I do not joke. Indeed, I have it on the best authority that I am ordinarily frigid and humorless. Insufferably arrogant as well. Also a nodcock.”
He was using her words against her, and it was unravelling her as if she were a ball of yarn. She stared at him, hating him for raising her hopes, loving him for coming to her, for offering to donate to their cause in such an unimaginably generous fashion. For being Spencer Marlow, equal parts ice and fire. She could not stop staring. Or smiling. Or loving him.
Just loving him. Always loving him.
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. She stared up at him, inhaling deeply of his beloved woodsy scent. “Why are you here, Spencer?”
“Is it not obvious, princess?” His voice was low and intimate, pitched for her ears only, velvet seduction to her senses. “I am here for you. Come home with me to Bainbridge House, Boadicea. Please.”
It was all she needed to hear.
It was all she had ever wanted to hear.
She turned back to their startled audience. “Ladies, I fear I must adjourn this meeting for now.”
“Yes.” Clara gave her a look rife with meaning. “Go with your husband, Bo.”
She nodded, feeling halfway as if she were in a trance as she turned to leave with Spencer.
“Oh, and Bo?” Clara called after her.
She stopped, looked back. “Yes?”
“If the outcome is anything less than ideal, you cannot ke
ep me from doing what we discussed earlier.” Clara’s tone was pointed, her expression unflinching.
Oh dear heavens. The Countess of Ravenscroft was a veritable outlaw. She met her friend’s gaze. “I would not expect anything less.”
And then she took her husband’s extended arm, feeling unaccountably awkward and nervous, allowing him to escort her from the salon. His big, warm body burned into hers. Shock still reverberated through her as they left Ravenscroft’s townhome, exiting past the watchful eye of the much-aggrieved Osgood.
She could not seem to find her tongue, so it was just as well that Spencer informed the butler that they would send word regarding what was to be done with her belongings. She left with nothing but the dress she wore, and she didn’t care. It was only when she was ensconced in the carriage, seated opposite her husband, that the enormity of it all finally hit her.
She could not look away from him. “You came for me.”
His emerald gaze was intent upon hers, inscrutable. “Yes.”
“To London.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “When was the last time you were in London?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Not since before Millicent’s death.”
The admission cost him, she could tell. Relinquishing the tight rein on his control in such astonishing fashion could not have been easy. Indeed, she suspected nothing about this was easy for him, which meant that he must care a great deal for her.
Hope, that stupid and persistent creature, bubbled up within her once more. It had been years since he had been in London, and yet here he was, handsome and elegant as ever, seated opposite her in a gently swaying carriage that smelled of oiled Moroccan leather. He had come for her, and surely that had to mean something. She loved him so much that being in his presence once more was enough to soften her toward him. But still, she could not deny that he had explaining to do.
If he would deign to, that was.
“What has changed, Spencer?” she pressed.
“Did you leave me?” he asked instead of answering her question, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, peering at her face as though he could read all the knowledge he required there. “Please tell me that you do not wish a divorce. I cannot—losing you would be more than I can bear, Boadicea.”
Darling Duke (Heart's Temptation Book 6) Page 27
