The hotelier rubbed at his neck, straightened his cravat. “Not until you either give in and let Lady Emma stay here—”
“Ha! You tell her to stay. I’d like to see how that goes.”
“Or,” Trent continued, “tell me you understand the consequences and that you are willing to accept them.”
“Can youaccept them?” Helston asked softly. “Are you free to? Immy has told me why you are courting Lady Huxley.”
“Has she told you I proposed, and the lady refused?”
“Erm”—Helston tugged at this cravat—“no, she did not say that.”
“I am glad she rejected you.” Trent shoved Samuel backward. “You were a fool to consider marrying her.”
Samuel stuttered backward but caught himself, steadied himself. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you seem set on protecting some hypothetical, innocent woman before you even know who she is or what she wants. You were set on saddling the widow Huxley with a husband who cares little to nothing for her, other than marryingher keeps his conscience clean. You are making a decision based on disaster when disaster may never come to pass. I am relieved to find Lady Huxley wise enough to tell you no.”
“I'm sacrificing myself.” Samuel surged toward Trent again. “Because my sisters were willing to do so for me. Isabella”—he looked toward Helston—“and Imogen were willing to sacrifice to save me last Season. And who are you to lecture me, Trent?” He poked the man in the shoulder. “You were ready to let Isabella slip away merely because you feared she would one day regret your social status.”
“And I will be the first to call myself a cowardly fool.” Trent kept Samuel’s gaze while brushing at the spot Samuel had poked. “But I will not step away from this door until we come to an understanding.”
Samuel’s entire body might collapse. His legs that numb, his pulse that erratic. But he stood strong, only dropping his head and hiding his face in his palms. “Felicity doesn't need Lady Emma, damn it.” Finally, Samuel found true words in the palm-warmed darkness. “I do.”
When he’d first read Felicity's note, every thought had been lost behind a storm of rage, of fear. He’d had no idea what he was doing until Emma called his name and called him to his senses. The pounding in his ears had faded away, and his pulse calmed. One look at her, and he’d been able to think again.
“I do know the consequences,” Samuel said, “and I am more than prepared to face them.” Since they’d shared a series of letters, since the widow had rejected his suit, no… since the day he’d read his father’s note in his mother’s book… he’d begun to wonder if there was another way, one that did not require him to sacrifice his heart. “It takes bravery to find happiness. Living in fear only breeds more pain.”
“What’s that mean?” Helston asked.
Trent stepped away from the door. “It means he understands how this goes when he returns to London.” He scribbled something on a bit of paper on his desk, folded it, and shoved it at Clearford. “You have my blessing. We've held you up long enough. Use this for excellent accommodations. Now go find your sister.”
“We'll take care of everything else,” Helston said.
And Samuel trusted they would. His sisters, no matter their reasons for marrying, had married well, and Samuel must follow their lead. A cautious courtship had ended and a reckless one had begun.
But as Samuel settled back into the coach across from Lady Emma, he felt lighter than he had in years. This new courtship may be reckless, but it would be successful.
Because this time, he intended to court for keeps.
Chapter Sixteen
Itrust you know what you’re about.
Truthfully, Emma could not say she did, but she’d hugged Aunt Georgie and assured her otherwise right before flying out the door. When had that been? Four hours ago? Five? Six? If only she could keep the time as well as she’d kept Aunt Georgie’s parting words and her own.
We will be swift. We will be careful. We will return with Lady Felicity. And no one shall know.
How likely that outcome, though? The sky had blackened as the coach careened at full pace down the road, and they’d passed through at least two towns. Not a word said between them. Likely because Clearford was as busy as Emma, constructing various potential outcomes—the good and the bad.
But they needed to speak. They must.
She scooted to sit directly across from where he rested against the side of the coach, and she leaned forward, peering through the shadows to better see his face. His eyelashes fanned above his high cheekbones, and his usually tight lips were soft and full in sleep. Yes, sleeping. He needed his rest. The skin beneath his eyes had been too blue and shadowed the last fewweeks, his cheeks too gaunt, the bones above them sharp as blades.
The coach hit a rut and bounced her backward, bounced him, too, away from and back into the glass with a thwack. She winced. He’d have a bruise there. He didn’t wake, but a lock of hair had fallen over his eye. She reached for the lock and gently, barely touching him at all, pushed it back in line with the rest of his hair. Silken and thick.
She wanted to dig her fingers deeper. In this touch, the danger of their letters writ in life.
His eyes flashed open, and his hand caught hers against his cheek, lowered it slowly to his leg but did not let go.