His parents would have welcomed her when she returned to England. They knew of his friendship with Thomas. Hell, they’d met Thomas. Had him for Christmas supper, even. They would have no reason to doubt Cecilia’s word if she showed up claiming to have married their son.
But all of that was so calculating. It wasn’t like her to be that way.
Was it?
He shut the door behind him, giving her a small nod before sitting down in their one chair so that he could remove his boots.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
“No,” he said, then looked down before he could see her swallow. That was what she did at times like these, when she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. He used to love watching her, the delicate line of her throat, the graceful curve of her shoulder. Her lips pressed together when she swallowed—not quite like a kiss, but close enough that he always wanted to lean forward and transform it into one.
He didn’t want to watch this tonight.
“I—”
He looked up sharply at the sound of her voice. “What is it?”
But she just shook her head. “Never mind.”
He held her gaze, and he was glad that the light had gone flat with the approach of nightfall. If it was too dark to see her eyes, he couldn’t lose himself in them. He could pretend they weren’t the color of a shallow sea, or—when the light was still tinged with the orange stripes of dawn—of the first unfurled leaf of spring.
He worked off his boots, then rose to place them neatly in the space next to his trunk. The room was heavy with silence, and he could feel Cecilia watching him as he went about his usual movements. Normally, he would be chatting with her, asking idle questions about her afternoon, or, if they had spent the day together, commenting about what they’d seen and done. She might recall something that had amused her, and he would laugh, and then, when he turned away to hang his coat in the wardrobe, he’d wonder about the odd tingle that fluttered through his body.
But he’d only wonder for a moment. Because it was obvious what it was.
Happiness.
Love.
Thank God he’d never told her.
“I—”
He looked up. There she was again, starting a sentence with a halting pronoun. “What is it, Cecilia?”
She blinked at his tone. He had not been unkind, but he had been brusque. “I don’t know what to do with Thomas’s ring,” she said quietly.
Ah. So that was what she’d been about to say. He shrugged. “You could put it on a chain, wear it as a necklace.”
She fingered the threadbare blanket beneath her. “I suppose.”
“You could save it for your children.”
Your children, he realized he’d said. Not our children.
Had she noticed the slip of his tongue? He didn’t think so. Her expression had not changed. She still looked pale, and numb, and exactly how one would expect a woman who’d just been informed of a beloved brother’s death would look.
Whatever Cecilia had lied about, it had not included her devotion to Thomas. That he knew was true.
All of a sudden he felt like the worst kind of heel. She was grieving. She hurt.
He wanted to hate her. And maybe he would in time. But for now, he could do nothing but try to absorb her pain.
With a soul-weary sigh, he walked over to the bed and sat beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders.
Her body did not soften right away. She was stiff with grief and probably with confusion, too. He had not been playing the part of a loving husband, and Lord knew, that was what he’d been until his meeting with Colonel Stubbs that morning.
He tried to think of what might have happened if the news of Thomas’s death had not been accompanied by the revelation of Cecilia’s deception.
What would he have done? How would he have reacted?
He would have put his own grief aside.
He would have comforted her, soothed her.
He would have held her until she slept, until all her tears were gone, and then he would have laid a whispered kiss on her brow before pulling the blankets over her.
“How can I help you?” he asked roughly. It took everything in him to form the words, and at the same time, it was the only thing he knew how to say.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was muffled; she’d turned her face into the crook of his shoulder. “Can you just . . . stay here? Sit next to me?”
He nodded. He could do that. It hurt somewhere deep in his heart, but he could do that.
They sat that way for hours. Edward had a tray brought up for supper, but neither of them ate. He left the room so she could change for bed, and she turned to face the wall when he did the same.
It was as if their single night of passion had never happened.
All the fire, all the wonder . . . it was gone.
Suddenly he thought about how much he hated opening the door to the room, how he never seemed to be prepared for the burst of light.
What a fool he’d been. What a damned fool.
Chapter 18
This letter is for both of you. I am so glad you have each other. The world is a kinder place when one’s burdens can be shared.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to Thomas Harcourt and Edward Rokesby
The next morning, Edward woke first.
He always woke first, but he’d never been quite so grateful for it before. It was past dawn, although not much, based on the hint of light filtering in around the curtains. Outside the window, New York was already coming to life, but the sounds of daily living were still intermittent and muted. A wagon creaked by, a rooster crowed. Every now and then, someone let out a shout of greeting.
It was enough to pass through the thick walls of the inn, but not enough to wake a sound sleeper like Cecilia.
For most of his life Edward had used his sparsely populated mornings to get up and attack the day. He had always found it remarkable how much more one could achieve without so many other people around.
But more recently—or more specifically, in the brief time since Cecilia had entered his life—he found himself taking advantage of the early morning quiet to settle into his thoughts. It helped that the bed was so comfortable. And warm.
And that Cecilia was there.
She gravitated to him in the night, and he loved taking a few minutes to enjoy her soft presence before sliding quietly out of bed to don his clothes. Sometimes it was her arm, thrown over his chest and shoulders. Sometimes it was her foot, tucked curiously under his calf.
But he always left the bed before she awakened. He wasn’t entirely certain why. Maybe it had been because he wasn’t prepared for her to see just how much he adored the closeness. Maybe he wasn’t willing to admit just how much peace he found in these stolen moments.
And then there had been the day before, when he’d been so eager to hop out and buy her some treats at the bakery.
That had worked out well.
This morning, though, he was the one with the wandering limbs. She was curled up against him, her face burrowed near his chest. His arm held her in her place, close enough so that he could feel her breath against his skin.