Molly laughed. “But as for what hereallylooks like … he’s got the blackest hair, like a shadow in the night.”
“I think your Irish stories are coming out.”
The maid snorted. “That’s a compliment, Miss Audrey, and you know it. As for the earl, his eyes are this intense green, very vivid. Think of clovers, and you’ll know the color. He has laugh lines at his eyes and mouth, which I always consider a good sign in a man.”
Laugh lineswerea good thing. He must have gotten beyond the tragedy that had caused his business partner to lose hope. She admitted her own curiosity, but it was hardly something on which she would ever intrude.
“You and all your experience with men,” Audrey said with mock seriousness.
Molly giggled. “Don’t you remember my ma saying that?”
“Not exactly, but it sounds like her.” Audrey sighed at the warm memories of her nanny, who, like her own mother, had treated Audrey as if she were a normal child, insisting she use her utensils correctly and even that she walk like a lady, though her hand might be following along a wall.
“Did I hear right, that his lordship knew your husband?” Molly asked.
“They were in the same regiment in India. You know Martin didn’t write much,” she said dryly, “but he did mention the earl. They’re from the same parish. The earl’s country seat is only a few miles from Martin’s house.”
“You mean your house,” Molly said, her voice quiet and serious.
“Yes, my house,” Audrey echoed. “He only wrote of his lordship in passing, his excellent skills on a horse. He might even have said he was brave—I think. If you can even count Martin’s opinion for anything.”
“Hmm,” Molly said, still slowly drawing the brush through Audrey’s long hair. “Now I think you need to do as you told your father, and rest. Just try to close your eyes.”
“I won’t be able to. All of the guests are arriving.”
“And at last you’re going to be a part of it.” She squeezed Audrey’s shoulder. “You know Mrs. Gibbs is taking good care of them. You work too hard, Miss Audrey. You should insist Miss Blythe help you.”
But they both knew Audrey wouldn’t. And it wasn’t just that Blythe didn’t care enough to do a good job—Audrey was simply afraid that if she didn’t prove herself indispensable, they’d put a blanket on her lap like an old woman and never let her do anything again.
When Molly had gone, Audrey sat in the window seat, the window partially open to the cool autumn air. She could remember the view, had forced herself to think about it often so the memory wouldn’t blur. The park surrounding the house had always been lush and green, but on this side was a lovely garden with winding pathways Audrey knew by heart. Off in the distance would be the rolling fields separated by hedgerows, the summer grain already harvested, fields being plowed for the winter wheat crop.
But although she tried to distract herself by remembering the grounds, she kept going back to Martin. Her fatherhadwarned her, she mused, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him, had thought he only had selfish motives to keep her at home—but she should have seen beyond that. Martin had beenvisiting a school friend in their village when Blythe had had her first coming-out party. Blythe had thought every man should focus on her, but it was Audrey whom Martin focused on. In some ways, Audrey didn’t think Blythe would ever forgive her for “luring” a husband so quickly. Audrey understood now that she’d been susceptible to Mr. Blake because she felt unloved after her mother’s death, so grateful to be admired for her courage. And she’d really had no illusions—they’d never professed love to each other, and she knew he was a younger son. But she’d never imagined that the moment he had his hands on her dowry, he would purchase a commission in the army and leave her with her family so he could “see the excitement of the world.” She’d had her first hope of freedom, until he’d cruelly denied her.
Of course her father wouldn’t allow her to go to Martin’s home, then or now. But she’d spent the weeks leading up to her wedding dreaming of being mistress of her own household, with the authority to do what she wished,gowhere she wished. And instead, her life changed barely at all—until she’d realized she was with child.
She’d been gloriously happy that their rather inadequate wedding night had still given her such a wondrous gift. Her father had been disappointed, her sister almost fearful, but not Audrey. She had been confident she’d meet the challenge, knew that having her own child to love would change her life forever. The baby grew inside her, and its first movements were like the touch of butterfly wings. Soon, it seemed to want to escape, and she loved the feel of its little feet pushing on her.
Then came the news of Martin’s death. She didn’t suffer terribly with grief, for they hadn’t loved each other. But her child wouldn’t have a father, and she might never have been allowed to raise it as she wanted. Her father could even have had the baby taken away from her. She’d lived in fear of this—until theworst happened. She’d gone into labor too early, and the baby died.
For several months, she’d existed in despair, especially when her brother expressed relief that at least she wouldn’t have a blind baby. Did everyone wish she hadn’t been born? Realizing how dangerous her thoughts were, she’d focused on the manor she’d inherited, a place of her own, where she would have independence and never risk losing herself again.
But she wouldn’t tell any of this to the earl, for fear he’d pity her. She didn’t want his pity; she wanted his help—as long as he seemed trustworthy.
But how was she going to convince him to take a blind woman away from her home against her father’s wishes?
3
Robert came down to the drawing room before dinner and found Blythe Collins holding court like a princess, and Mrs. Blake nowhere to be seen. Were they keeping her out of the way? he wondered uneasily. Five young men were in attendance besides himself, and all turned to stare at him with curiosity. Several even looked familiar. But Lord Collins approached him first, leading a young man who resembled him in nose and in slightly expanding girth.
“Knightsbridge, this is my son, Edwin Collins.”
Robert bowed to the other man, who looked near his own age, his expression pleasant and curious—not like a man who’d gone along with keeping his sister trapped against her will. Robert had to remind himself to be objective, to consider both sides.
“Good evening, my lord,” Collins said. “It was kind of you to visit my sister. She is doing well, eh?”
Robert cocked his head. “You would know better than I.”
He blinked. “Yes, you’re right, of course. Come, let me reacquaint you with the men you might know, and those you don’t.”
