Page 87

Edwin

Sitting on the bench in the conservatory, Edwin was waiting for William to wake up. His hands twisted in his lap as he nervously bounced one of his legs. After the ordeal with Andrew, Edwin had initially started home, but on the way, he’d realized how completely lost he felt about everything and had decided to come to the estate instead. Thanks to his recklessness, he’d ruined things with Andrew and had thereby made a complete mess of his plan to help William and Agnes as well. And so, Edwin needed to attempt to rectify things as soon as possible.

He had to talk to William.

Perhaps William still could marry Agnes. Edwin could still move out as soon as he found some other type of work. Something that would pay him enough to afford his own place. Sure, the exact circumstances wouldn’t be quite as ideal, but hopefully his promise to stop being an obstacle to William and Agnes’s relationship would still be enough to prevent William’s engagement to Miss Bidwell. And then, even if Edwin’s relationship with Andrew was still in shambles (which seemed inevitable), at least Edwin would know that he hadn’t ruined both his sister’s life and his best friend’s life, too.

While Edwin was busy rationalizing all of this, he began thinking about what had happened that morning with Andrew. Poor man. He must be so confused. And Edwin had been such a bastard to him, yanking him around. Back and forth. Intimate and then not. Several steps forward and then a million more backward.

Dammit.

“Edwin?”

William’s voice cut through Edwin’s thoughts. Edwin sat up.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d ever speak to me again,” William said, hovering near the entrance. “I’ve been coming here every morning looking for you.”

Edwin simply stared, the explanation for his absence stuck in his throat, knotted up with his still-lingering indignation over William’s behavior. Teetering back on his heels and smiling in that maddeningly boyish way of his, William lifted his chin to gesture at the free seat next to Edwin on the bench.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

Edwin shook his head. If only he could make himself say something. Anything. Jesus, fuck, he’d have settled for one Goddamned word rather than this silent head shaking. Edwin held his breath as William approached. He let out a long, slow exhale as William sat down beside him and then rested his forearms on his thighs. They sat in silence for a while.

Finally, William leaned forward, mirroring Edwin’s positioning.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he said. “I know why you’re mad at me. Assuming you are still mad, that is. I’m pretty positive you are because of that look in your eyes. Not to mention the vein in your neck.”

Edwin pursed his lips to contain a smile. He kind of liked how well his friend was able to read him. But he hated it too.

Edwin was busy pretending to scowl when William poked his neck where the vein presumably was. Edwin swatted him away, and William snorted a laugh.

“Stop that,” Edwin said through a reluctant chuckle.

“I’m right, though, aren’t I?” William said, his laughter dying. “You’re still upset with me.”

Sighing, Edwin said, “I’m not sure what I am, William. I’m mad at you, yes, but I’m mad at myself as well. Actually, I’m madder at me than I am at you.”

William’s brow furrowed. “Why are you mad at you?”

“I’m the reason you’re marrying Amelia Bidwell,” Edwin replied matter-of-factly. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be engaged to Agnes by now.” He paused to gather his courage. “But I know how to fix it. I can move out. And then you and Agnes can come up with some sort of story about me. Something to tell your parents. Tell them I ran off to New York City or Boston or something. Or kill me off. Or—or whatever you feel like saying. Neither of them will ever have to know what really happened to me. So, then, I’ll be safe. I’ll be safe, and I can keep being Edwin, and you and Agnes can be happy together.”

Edwin looked over at his friend. He expected his statement to be met with a look of sympathy or gratitude or maybe even sorrow. But instead, William was wrinkling his nose, his face twisted up in confusion.

“Do you really think that’s why I can’t marry Agnes?” he asked. “Do you really think it’s because of you?”

Edwin crooked an eyebrow. “Yes? What . . . else would it be?”

“It’s because of me,” William said. “Edwin, I can’t believe . . . I mean, why—”

“How could it be because of you?” Edwin asked. “Is it because of money? Is it a—a status thing? I know that’s important to some families, but—”

“No, it’s . . .” William squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s because there’s something . . . wrong with me.”

“Wrong with you? What do you mean?”

William reopened his eyes, and they fell to the floor.

“It’s too embarrassing,” he said quietly. “I have no idea how to even begin to explain it.”