Oh God, he’d thought he was doing the right thing. Leaving her there. Removing the impediment of his presence.
But as the carriage took him farther and farther in the direction of his home, every revolution of the wheels felt wrong. He’d wanted to give her the gift of time and freedom, had wanted her to have the chance to know her own mind—to sort out whether or not Daviswasthe better match for her.
But that was not the whole of his motivation. He could admit that to himself now.
When he’d heard her soft words of forgiveness, heard Davis’s heartfelt proposal, the only thought in his mind had been to flee. He had not wanted to know what her response would be. He’d seen her cheeks grow pink—with embarrassment? With pleasure? He had been afraid to find out.
She was loyal beyond belief. He knew she would not want to throw him over, not when she’d given him her word. He’d been terrified that when she looked up and met his eyes, her face would be written with nothing so much as horrified regret.
And he—
God forgive him, some part of him had wanted to protect his little brother from pain. He couldn’t separate out his tangled emotions—his regret over their past, his years of resentment. Somehow, he had not wanted Davis to be hurt—even though the very thought of losing Lydia made him feel scorched inside, hollowed-out and desperately alone.
So he’d fled.
But it seemed to him now, as he tried to find the words to write, that what he’d meant as a noble gesture—pulling away, freeing her from obligation—was more cowardice than generosity. He’d left her there without a single word—and he could not sort out how to ask her forgiveness, not when he was still five hundred miles away.
As he dipped his pen again, the door to the drawing room came open. He looked up, blinking at the figure silhouetted against the rectangle of light.
Whattimewas it? He had arrived at the castle at twilight and had gone straight to the drawing room to try to finish—begin?—finishthe letter of explanation and apology he meant to send to Lydia. He had not thought so very many hours had passed, but the amount of light pouring in through the threshold suggested otherwise.
He glanced at the room’s moth-eaten drapes, which were, he supposed, limned with wintry sunlight. Was itmidday? Of thenextday?
And then he looked back at Bertie, who still stood framed dramatically in the doorway.
“Yes,” he said, “come in.”
Bertie crossed to the desk and seated himself. “I did not realize I required permission.”
Arthur pressed the heel of his hand to one eye, behind whicha headache had gathered several days earlier. “You don’t. Of course you don’t. This is your home as much as it is mine.”
Bertie glanced down at the papers spread haphazardly across the desk, written and cross-written, the words scratched out and started again.
I have made many mistakes in my life born of fear or desperation or the desire for safety…
You stagger me…
I should never have let you go…
Arthur dropped his hand, intending to sweep the inchoate mass into a pile, then gave up on the notion and let his fingers splay open across the ink-spattered words.
“Strathrannoch,” Bertie said bluntly, “what the devil is going on?”
Arthur’s hand closed into a fist and then loosened again. “I scarcely know where to begin. I—”
“When did you return?” Bertie’s voice was curt, almost distant. Arthur felt uneasiness curl inside him at the sound.
“Last night. I’ve been here in the drawing room. I wanted to… finish something I’d started. I—”
“And you did not think to let me know that you had arrived?”
He had. Of course he had. Only he’d been half-paralyzed, desperate to finish his letter to Lydia and afraid—still afraid—to finally put his feelings into words.
But he had forgotten, somehow, in all the turmoil of his anguish and his desires, that he was still Strathrannoch, and that he could not abandon the people who relied upon him. He had been gone from Strathrannoch for nearly a month. He ought to have thought about something other than himself.
“I’m sorry, Bertie. I did not realize how long I had been in this room.” The words sounded inadequate to his own ears,unconvincing. He stared at the papers spread out beneath his hand. “I’d meant to come to you today. This morning. I know I should have found you immediately—I don’t doubt there’s much to speak of about the estate and the tenants after my absence.” There would be papers to sign and seal, small disasters to resolve. He’d missed Polly Murray’s wedding—he would need to make up for that. “I ought not have shirked my responsibilities to you or to Strathrannoch.”
“Arthur.”
