Cleo awoke with a start, uncertain what had just transpired.What sort of absurdity was that?She crawled out from beneath the covers and washed her face in the bowl upon the washstand. She poured herself some water from the drinking pitcher by her bed, then walked over to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. It had only been a dream, and yet it had felt so very real and her father’s voice had been a strange and haunting element that she could not shake upon waking.
What did Father mean by avoiding Guinevere’s fate? Was it real or was it naught but fantasy?
Cleo looked out across the back garden. It was mostly cloaked in darkness, but there was a small amount of light from the lanterns upon the garden wall that illuminated the structured formal landscape. To her surprise, she saw the Earl of Dustshore sitting on one of the benches, leaning his back against the wall. The lamps light fell upon his face revealing a sad expression that Cleo knew all too well. It was the look of loss.
The poor man must have loved his father as much as I love mine.The Earl’s father had died the year before, and it was clear that he still felt the loss keenly.When does the pain end? Does it ever end? Will I feel this way for the remainder of my life? Will it ease at all?If the expression on the Earl’s face was any indication, Cleo feared that it might not. Seeing him down there alone and mourning, caused Cleo’s heart to go out to him and she found that she could not just stand by idly while another human being suffered in such an obvious manner.
Wrapping herself in her cloak, Cleo left her room and moved through the house to the back garden door. She slipped out into the darkness and walked over to his side. Had she stopped to think with her head and not her heart, she might have remained indoors where there was no chance of her reputation being compromised, but meeting Arthur the night before had emboldened her, and her intense sense of empathy was what had driven her forward to offer consolation.
“My Lord,” she greeted, stepping forward into the light.
“Miss Wallace,” the Earl looked up in surprise. It was clear that he had not at all expected to find her out in the garden so late at night. “Is anything amiss?” he asked standing quickly, to make sure that she was well.
“All is well. I simply had a disturbing dream and wished to seek the air.” Cleo did not wish to embarrass him by admitting that she had seen his misery and come to offer him a listening ear. She wished to be a friend while still allowing him to retain his dignity.
“Ah, I am sorry to hear it. Please, join me here upon the bench. We can attempt to forget our worries together.” He smiled gently, aiding her to the seat, then sat back down beside her at as modest a distance as could be managed on the small flat stone surface. “Tell me of your troubles?”
Cleo thought of how much to tell him and decided on a version of the truth. “I was dreaming about my father.”
“Ah,” Dustshore nodded in understanding. “I still dream of my own father at times. In fact, it is what brought me out here myself.”
“I am sorry,” Cleo answered, placing a consoling hand on his arm before she thought better of it.
The Earl took her hand and kissed the back of it gently. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Cleo blushed and withdrew her hand. The sorrow-etched lines of his face had eased, and Cleo was glad to see that she had fulfilled her purpose of offering temporary relief. He smiled down at her and leaned back against the wall in what Cleo suspected was an attempt to make her feel more at ease.
She thought about her differing reactions between the Earl of Dustshore and the Earl of Irondale. When it came to Arthur, she felt drawn to him in ways that she had never been drawn to anyone before. Dustshore was charming and kind, but she thought of him as a friend, not a romantic partner. Cleo did not quite understand how Arthur could make her entire being catch fire as he did, while Dustshore’s touch did nothing, but make her feel sorry that she did not reciprocate his obvious interest.
Why do I feel so differently about them? They are both handsome, kind, giving noblemen.She knew that her aunt would be pleased with either one of the men in question, but it was clear for all to see that she preferred Dustshore.
Sighing, Cleo shook her head.Why must I choose at all? Why must I marry at all? I do not need to be worrying about this right now. I must focus on finding my father’s killer.Frustrated with her lack of focus, Cleo stood and put some distance between them.
“I apologize if I have made you to feel uncomfortable, Miss Wallace. It was not my intention.” He arose out of courtesy but did not approach.
“It is not you.” She shook her head in denial.
“It is the situation that you find yourself in, is it not?”
Cleo turned in surprise once more at his understanding of how she felt. “Yes, it is.”
“Would it help you to think of me as a friend only and not as a possible suitor?”
Cleo’s brows nearly shot up into her hair. “Yes, it would.”
“Then a friend, and a friend only, I shall be.”
“You would do that for me? My aunt and your mother have very different ideas on the matter. They will be quite displeased to hear it, though I honestly do not understand why.”
“Miss Wallace, I would do anything for you,” he answered simply. “Leave my Mother and Mrs. Brown to me.”
“Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure. We share a bond of sorrow that I believe we can both offer each other some measure of comfort against.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
“Can I now convince you to call me Brandon?”
