Page 57

Just yesterday, Lord F. and Lady S. were seen conversing intimately on a public street. Has the notorious widow taken back up with him, despite his recent vows to Miss A.?

Pain squeezed through her chest like a vise.

She released the sheet, letting it fall from her fingers, and dropped her head into her hands. The tears she had been determined to contain rose fast and hot, escaping despite her best efforts. Brendan had assured her that their marriage would be faithful. What did the word intimately even mean in this context? What had the observer seen? A touch? A smile?

How was she meant to interpret this?

“Lily?”

The voice, low and familiar, startled her. She gasped, spinning in her chair and hastily wiping her cheeks. Brendan stood in the doorway, rain-damp and travel-worn. His cravat was wrinkled, his coat rumpled and speckled with mud. His dark hair clung to his forehead, and water glistened on the shoulders of his coat.

“Brendan!”

“I must speak with you.”

He stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him and leaving First John in the hall. Without waiting for an invitation, he crossed the room and sank into a chair at the opposite end of the table. His eyes alighted on the covered plate, and with clear relief, he yanked off his gloves and drew it toward him.

Soon, he was eating like a man who had not seen food in days, while Lily watched in silence, taut with emotion. She longed to demand answers. The urge to knock the fork from his hand and force him to speak was almost overwhelming. But she held herself still. Just barely.

“Where have you been?”

Her voice rang sharply in the sudden hush, for just then the rain outside had eased, leaving only the sound of her own breath and the clink of cutlery. But she welcomed the fire that surged through her. Anger, at least, gave her strength.

Brendan sipped his tea, his plate now clean. “I was questioning the other barons who attended the coronation.”

Lily blinked. That was not the answer she had expected. “What?”

“I was running down the lords who sat near my uncle to learn what they recalled. Lord Simmons was about to leave for his country seat, so I rode out to Chiswick to catch him. We started back late, but we were caught in the rain and stuck in the mud within an hour. With the horses too exhausted to continue, and no fresh ones to be found at such an hour, we slept in the carriage until dawn.” He yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “Though I would not call it restful. Not with Stephen as my companion.”

Lily stilled. Stephen, the footman whose intentions remained uncertain. So Brendan had not only been delayed, but he had been wary, perhaps even in danger.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Brendan reached across the table and laid his hand gently over hers. His fingers were cool against her skin, and the gesture sent a shiver down her spine, as she reached a sudden understanding.

“My deepest apologies,” he said, voice low and sincere. “Believe me, Lily, I would have far preferred to spend the night at your side.”

She stared at his hand, her heart still uncertain even as her mind began to calm. When her eyes lifted to his, she found him watching her with that warm, quiet look that had undone her the first time he had used it. His brandy eyes were lit with something deeper than amusement, something close to tenderness.

“Oh,” she whispered again, this time with less pain and more wonder.

The anger that had sustained her all morning faded, replaced by the bashful warmth of remembered closeness.

Brendan brushed his thumb across her knuckles before reluctantly withdrawing his hand, leaning back with a sigh.

“Unfortunately, I do not think we shall be sharing evenings for the foreseeable future.”

Lily straightened, her expression sharpening like cut glass. “What does that mean?”

“It means …” Brendan hesitated, then drew a breath. “I want nothing more than to be with you. But I have been thinking that perhaps, for a little while, you should stay with your parents.”

“What?” She sprang to her feet, her voice rising in disbelief. “Are you trying to send me away?”

He shook his head quickly. “Certainly not. This is about protecting you. Until we know who killed the baron, I do not believe Ridley House is safe. After all you have done, I cannot risk something happening to you.”

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “I refuse to leave! I am not some helpless child. I can take care of myself.”

Brendan stood as well. In two strides, he was beside her. Gently, he drew her into his arms. At first, she remained stiff, unyielding. But he held her close, his face buried in her hair, drawing comfort from her nearness after such a long and wearisome night. Her scent, warm and familiar, washed over him. A balm to a frayed spirit.