“I know what I want.”
“There are other women.”
“The criteria are surprisingly narrower than you would think.”
“I know. Andromeda told me.” Kingston lifted a hand and ordered a drink, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Clearford…”
Samuel groaned.
“What about your Guide?”
“Don’t mention the bloody thing.”
“Very well.” He scratched at the table. “Only…”
“Only what? Can’t you leave me to find my courage in solitude?”
“Is that what you were doing?”
“Only what?” Even through the thick fog of self-pity, Samuel felt a glint of curiosity. What did Kingston have to say about the Guide?
“You offered me one excellent bit of advice.”
Samuel picked himself up, resting his cheek on one elbow-propped hand. “I cannot countenance it.”
The maid brought Kingston’s coffee, and he took a swallow, then set the mug down, cupping his hands around it and staring into it. “Choose the right lady. Never woo the wrong one—disaster lies that way.”
Samuel held himself a little taller. “Emma also said that bit of advice was not so horrid. The problem is—”
“How do you know?”
“Precisely.”
Kingston sipped his coffee once more, then his gaze flicked to the table beside Samuel’s elbow. “I think, somehow, you simplyknow.”
Samuel let his arm drop to his lap and tilted his head to see the damage he’d done to the table. Hell. Bloody hell.
“You did call her Emma earlier. You failed to use her title. I would not have suspected the matchmaker, but then we rarely know who’s best for someone else. How can I see who you’re looking at if I’m always looking at Andromeda? And how can you see Lady Huxley if you’re always looking at—”
“Stop.” Samuel cradled his head with both hands. “Please stop.” A whisper. “I swear I’ll do what I must. Iwill.”
Taking another swallow of his coffee, Kingston stood. “Consider reconsidering what youmustdo, Clearford. If you’re unhappy—”
“Annie’s unhappy, and that upsets you. Yes, I understand.” He spoke while looking at the markings carved into the wood, the familiar letters.
“No, Clearford. If you’re unhappy, so am I. You’re my friend, and I do not need my wife’s tears to care about you. Do not walk home foxed. Hail a hackney.” And then he was gone.
And then Samuel ordered another coffee, this one without whisky. The letters he’d carved into the wood mocked him as he drank.
EMMA.
He might as well have drawn a heart around it.
Why not…
The knife handle was cool when he picked it up, and it bumped over grooves in the wood as he curved a shape around the letters. There. His heart, carved out of his own chest and wrapped around her name.
With an empty hole aching behind his ribs, silent and weeping, now he could do what must be done.
