“No. The love part,” Frederica said shakily.
“You do love him, don’t you?” Honora said nonchalantly, as if this wasn’t a whirlwind thing to discuss. “You cannot hide it, can you? Do you deny it?”
She had once thought it to herself that she was falling in love with Allan, but to admit it aloud was something else altogether. It would suddenly make the thing she was trying to deny herself a reality.
Slowly, she shook her head.
“Oh, do not be ridiculous!” Honora snapped, waving her hand at Frederica. “You forget, I saw you two together. I saw the way you would smile at him — how when you let your guard down, he could make you happy in a way no other could. The only problem was you weren’t willing to let your guard down.”
“But Aunt —”
“No, listen, Frederica.” Honora sat taller. “Because I love you very dearly. You are the kindest family member I still have — the one I want to be happy more than any other — and I can’t stand the fact that you strangle yourself all the time and stop yourself from living that happiness. If you love him, then say it. Why is it so wrong to tell him that you love him?”
“Because what good can come from saying it?” Frederica countered, just as vehemently. “We can’t be together. We just can’t be. For his safety, it cannot happen.”
“So, you do all this to keep him safe, eh? All for him.”
“Lord Wetherington would hurt him. Lord knows what he’s capable of, Aunt. I have no choice. I can’t go back to London.”
* * *
“Well? Anything?” Allan asked, stepping into Stephen’s house.
Stephen grabbed his shoulder and placed a finger to his lips, jerking his head in the direction of the sitting room. Silently, Allan inched toward the door, peering inside.
Dorothy was fast asleep on the settee, and she was not the only one. Her daughter, Arabella, was sleeping soundly in her arms, and even Peter was asleep in the chair next to his mother, his head resting on his small coiled up hands.
Allan felt pain and joy at seeing them. It was a moment of perfect familial peace, and it seemed a peace he would never know. He would never be able to stand as Stephen stood now, smiling at his family with doting love in his eyes.
Allan had to turn his back on the idea of family; the pain was never-ending.
That is not mine and Frederica’s future, is it?
Even if he managed to find Frederica and get her out of Lord Wetherington’s clutches, there was nothing to say she would ever love him as he did her.
Stephen took his shoulder again and steered him into the parlor across the corridor. The moment they were inside, Allan started speaking again.
“Anything —?”
“They had a sleepless night,” Stephen explained with a wave of his hand. “They need this. I don’t think it helped, me being out most of the night trying to find Lord Wetherington. I take it you found nothing, then?”
“No, nothing.” Allan sighed, pacing around the room. “I tried three gentlemen’s clubs in Covent Garden. I even heard a rumor that Lord Wetherington is fond of a particular theatre there, but he was nowhere to be seen there either. Any luck finding his house?”
“No luck.” Stephen sat down, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Everyone I asked seems to think he’s staying outside of London, but his country seat is Hertfordshire way. He must have a townhouse or lodgings where he is staying.”
“Do you think…” Allan halted, afraid to finish asking this question. It had plagued his mind all night as to whether Frederica could be with him or not.
“If she’s with him, I do not think for a second that Frederica went willingly, no,” Stephen said quickly, raising his head. “I think she went because she had no choice.”
Allan looked away, returning to his pacing. All night he had been unable to sleep. He caught a glance of his reflection in the nearest window now, seeing the heavy shadows and the ashen-gray color of his face.
“I look sick,” he muttered in surprise.
“Lovesickness will do that to a man,” Stephen murmured. Allan glowered at him, but they said nothing more on the subject.
“He didn’t come to the wedding, Stephen. Her parents didn’t insist on him being there and he didn’t appear and object to the wedding either. So, why do this now?”
“It rather depends on what type of man he is, doesn’t it?” Stephen said with interest, crossing his arms over his chest. “Objecting at your wedding would be a desperate act. It would reveal him to be a man so utterly obsessed and full of need. Instead, he has made her dance to his tune, rather like controlling an automaton.”
