Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bathing in the cheery caress of the drawing room fireplace, Henry swirled his glass of brandy—only a tipple, to help him sleep more deeply when he finally retired… and to celebrate the most wondrous evening of his life. He could not believe that, for so many years, he had turned to the entertainment of gentlemen’s clubs, gambling halls, and public houses to fill some sort of hole within his chest. All along, Arabella had held the key to his fulfilment.
How was I to know? At least I know now.He smiled, thinking of her tentative kiss and the way her unruly hair had tickled his face.
“You look pensive, Darling.” His mother’s voice disturbed him from his joyful reverie. “If you were a lady, I would warn you that it will wrinkle your forehead before your time. I have often thought it rather unfair that men do not show their age quite as quickly as we ladies.”
Henry chuckled. “You look as lovely now as you did when you were young, Mother.”
“Flatterer.” His mother beamed with pleasure, and took a seat in the opposite armchair, pouring herself a healthy measure of brandy.
“You are a skillful fisherwoman of compliments, Mother,” he replied, settling back into his seat. “Should you not be in your chambers? Father retired hours ago.”
His mother shrugged. “What of that? I am not beholden to his hours of rest, much as he would like me to be.” She sipped her drink. “Instead, you will be pleased to hear that I have spent a rather pleasant few hours with Lady Arabella. Goodness, she is a delight. A beauty, but not so beautiful that other ladies resent her, and with such excellent manners. She is witty, too! I daresay she would defeat me in a battle of wits, which I am not too proud to admit. Indeed, I look forward to a few repartees when you are wed.”
Henry looked down into the amber swirl of his drink. “I think I really do love her, Mother. You have bandied the word about at your leisure, and I have played along, but I am not playing any longer.” He paused. “The trouble is, I do not know how to say it. I have had so many opportunities, but I cannot urge the word itself to come out.”
“It will,” his mother replied, with surprising softness. “You have not known a great deal about the emotion, so it is only natural that you do not know how to put it into words. I am sorry for that.”
Henry glanced at her, dumbfounded. “Pardon?”
His former aversion to apologizing had been ingrained within him since childhood, for he had learned the tactic from his mother and father. Even when they were blatantly in the wrong, neither deigned to say “sorry.” They ignored matters instead and as it had never seemed to affect their affection for one another too much, he had assumed that apologies were never required. Until Arabella.
“Me? Apologizing. Yes, outlandish, I know.” His mother smiled. “However, as one steps into the winter of their life—though I prefer to think of it as my autumn—it has a nasty habit of making you look back on bygone years. I regret not being present much when you were young. I regret not seeing more of the way you grew up. Getting snippets from the nursemaid or governess or, in time, your letters, is not the same. That is why I have longed for you to find a young lady who… stirred you to love. I hoped it might go some way toward absolving me of my maternal failings.”
Henry’s heart sank. “You did not fail me, Mother.”
“You are kind to say so, even if lying is frowned upon,” she mumbled. “Seeing you like this, and speaking with Arabella, I know you will be happy. Happier than your father and I, and we have been happier than most.”
He smiled sadly. “But if I cannot tell her I love her, I fear she may push me away.” The awful thought had been playing upon his mind since the cove, for he knew more of her nature, now. She reveled in romance and fairytales. If he could not live up to that expectation, he knew he might lose her.
“Do you think me blind, Henry?” His mother arched an eyebrow. “You thought I did not see, but I saw what went on between you down at the beach. It will mean more to Arabella than simple words, Darling, for words are often said without meaning behind them. A kiss… well, that is pure poetry.”
Henry’s eyes widened. “Mother!”
“Do not be coy, Darling.” She cackled. “I am just delighted that she did not push you off the rock for being so forward. It means she loves you, as you love her, for a young lady like her would not have returned the poetry if her heart was not set upon you. Believe me, for that has gotten far too many ladies into terrible trouble. Fortunately, that will not be the case for you. The two of you will be the envy of every young lady in Christendom, and many a gentleman, too.”
Henry relaxed slightly. “Do you truly believe so? I have partially confessed twice, but she has not returned the confession. She says I must wait until summer’s end, instead.”
“As she should!” His mother clapped her hands together, visibly amused. “It is a lady’s prerogative to keep her beloved on tenterhooks, and though I am certain she is not doing it consciously, I suspect this to be some form of test. No, not a test, per se, but a means of insurance, so she knows she is marrying a gentleman who loves her and is loved by her. As such, it appears you have until summer’s end to find that pesky word and say it to her. Ample time.”
Encouraged by his mother’s speech, Henry nodded and gazed into the flickering flames. Only, he would not wait until the end of summer to confess his love to Arabella. He had already planned an excursion to a beautiful, secret beach with sandy shores for tomorrow.
That is when I will do it,he told himself, knowing that if he made a promise now, he would not be able to go back on it.Yes… tomorrow, I will give her whatever assurances my kiss could not.
* * *
Anxiety proved to be a restless bedfellow, making Henry toss and turn upon the bed that had once been his childhood refuge. The coverlets tangled around him, the pillows too stiff, the mattress too hard. And whenever he did manage to drift off, worrisome dreams of Arabella awoke him again—nightmares of refusal, or of seeing her walk straight into the sea, from the inlet he had shown her, and vanishing beneath the waves. The worst, however, was the dream of sitting in a church, watching her marry Lord Powell instead.
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece softly chimed three o’clock in the morning. It would not have woken an ordinary sleeper, but it awoke Henry from another snatched glimmer of sleep.
He stirred, rubbing his eyes. “This is hopeless,” he grumbled, knowing he would look like a wreck of a man when he made his confession to Arabella tomorrow.
Are there any weary, haggard heroes in your stories with dark circles around their eyes?The thought made him chuckle slightly, and the laughter took the edge off his nerves. If only for a moment.
Puzzled, he sniffed the air. An unusual aroma hung over the bedchamber, acrid and familiar. At first, he thought there might be a blockage in the flue, spilling smoke out into his room. Shuffling to the end of his bed, he eyed the fireplace opposite, but the flames had gone out long ago, and no telltale black fog drifted across the floor.
“Am I imagining it?” he murmured, getting up and crossing to the fireplace to double check. As he had suspected, there was nothing amiss there.
