There was nothing he would not do to remain at her side. There was no sacrifice he would forbear to make. Even if what he had to give up was every shred of protection he had built around his heart—every piece of armor put into place over a lifetime.
The softness of recollection had fallen entirely from Bertie’s face as he looked at Arthur. “I had always imagined that when you fell in love, it would be the same for you.”
“It is,” Arthur said hoarsely. “It is that way for me.”
Bertie reached out and, in one quick movement, gathered the papers on the desk into a pile. “Do you know,” he said briskly, “where Huw is?”
Arthur leaned back, bewildered by the question. “I assumed he was here with you.”
Bertie shook his head, tapping the papers into a stack. “He’s on his way to London. We had word—well, my dear boy, we had word of Miss Hope-Wallace’s impending wedding in London.I must confess, we assumed it was to you. I was terribly sorry I had to stay with the estate and could not be there.”
The words came to Arthur as if from a very great distance. “A wedding?” His stomach performed a slow, swooping revolution. “Lydia’swedding?”
“Mm.” Bertie tipped his head at the papers. “You might want to finish your letter to her. Or”—he broke off, Arthur having leapt to his feet so quickly that his chair clattered to the ground—“you might consider speaking to her in person.”
“When?” Arthur managed.
Lydia’s wedding. To Davis? It must be. The sight of his brother on his knees, Lydia’s hands clutched in his, was as clear in his mind as if seconds had passed and not days.
Every corpuscle of his being revolted against the thought. He could not let it happen, not without speaking to her first. He had to try.
Christ! He had not told her how he felt before he ran from London. What if she had turned to Davis because she thought that he, Arthur, had abandoned her?
You did abandon her, you spectacular fool, some part of his brain was shouting. But he could scarcely hear it over the crashing rhythm of his heart.
“A few days hence,” Bertie said with maddening calm. “I suspect you’ll have time, if you go quickly.”
Arthur found himself halfway across the room. He had forgotten to right the chair. He turned back—dizzy, dazed—and Bertie was there, pressing the stack of blotched papers into his hands.
“What would you risk for love, my dear boy?” Bertie murmured. “Your pride? Your heart?”
Everything.
He was not certain he had even said the word aloud. But Bertie nodded as if he had heard.
And quite before he knew what was happening, Arthur was on Luath’s back, riding hard for Dunkeld and the mail coach.
And from there—bloody fuckinghell—on to London, to try to break up a wedding.
Chapter 29
Please forgive me. I love you. Let me set things right.
—from the papers of Arthur Baird
Mrs. Hope-Wallace, as usual, had responded to disappointment with millinery.
“What do you think of this one, my darling?” She held up a stiffened silk bonnet, which she had trimmed entirely around the front, sides, and top with shiny grapes of a magenta decidedly not found in nature.
She reallymustbe concerned, Lydia reflected. Normally she had excellent taste in hats.
Lydia tucked her legs farther beneath her on the settee and held her teacup between her palms. “Lovely, Mother.”
Georgiana, across the sitting room, gave a scoff so vehement that Bacon, who had scarcely left her side since their reunion, clambered off her lap in a huff.
Mrs. Hope-Wallace turned her gaze on Georgiana. “I beg your pardon?”
Georgiana gave her a rather wooden smile. “A tickle in mythroat, Mrs. Hope-Wallace. It’s—ah—lovely. That is the only word I can think of.”
