He took the small bouquet of violets and placed them atop the mound of Cecily’s grave. The problem with speaking to the dead was that it was a one-sided conversation. Still, it felt good to say the things which had infected him for so long.
Cecily, Lady Dutton, had died of consumption two years into her marriage to Lord Dutton. The news of her death broke him, though since he’d locked away his heart, the pain was rather muted. She’d written to him. Repeatedly, before she coughed out her life.
Charles burned every letter without reading it.
A year later, Charles forgave his father as he lay on his deathbed. Then he was gone too.
The debauchery that had become his life worsened after that. Until James came to London and forcibly removed Charles from a brothel where he had been enjoying himself for over a week.
“Enough, Charles. They are both gone. Do you wish to join them in your anger?”
Bless James. He was an excellent older brother. Not at all like Drew’s prick of a brother, Bentley. Even better, James had ensured that Charles would never have to be a viscount or be motivated to produce an heir. He had a brood of four boys, all of whom Charles loved dearly.
“You see I can love.” It was only that he was picky about who he gave his heart to. “Because of the scars, Cecily.”
There had been so many women since then. Meaningless affairs which failed to move Charles one way or another. He played a great deal of cards and eventually discovered his ability to glean information from his opponents, small details that seemed meaningless. But those tidbits helped Charles decide where to invest. Not large sums at first. But later. He was good at it. Now, not only investments, but other business dealings and enterprises that would prove fruitful.
He looked down at the weathered stone where Cecily’s name was etched along with a pair of dates. Dutton had rewed barely a year later and probably never visited Cecily. That was why Charles had brought her flowers.
Aurora would need to know the truth. Not the rubbish Cecily had spouted off about. He couldn’t bear for Aurora to think he’d abandoned Cecily after ruining her.
If he could get her to speak to him again.
Charles had other things he wanted to tell Aurora. To be patient with him because his heart was fragile, and he was terrified. But he was meant to be hers.
After placing the violets, Charles stood. “I cannot allow you or your memory to take Aurora from me, and thus I forgive you, Cecily Millstone. I regret that I could not do so before you came to rest here, but I wasn’t able. I hope you understand.” A lone tear traveled down his cheek, and he brushed it away. “I loved you. Truly. And I’m sorry I didn’t read your letters, because I think I should have.”
Charles wandered over to the bench and sat for a long time, sipping at his flask of brandy. He felt lighter, though if anyone happened upon him, they’d think Charles mad, drinking brandy and speaking to a bloody gravestone. Aurora Sinclair was a terrifying prospect, for all the right reasons. But he had to put such fears aside. He wanted Aurora.
“Enjoy the violets, Cecily.”
He finally came to his feet and walked back to his carriage just as the first drops of rain hit his shoulders. How best to approach Aurora? Seduction would be his first choice, but given her mood, that might not be best. Apologize, absolutely, for being such a prick most of the time and pushing her away. Court her? Yes. That was likely the only way she’d see that his intentions were completely honorable. The idea made his stomach pitch violently. Not because of Aurora but—
He’d have to go to Emerson and ask permission, and even then, Charles wasn’t sure Aurora would accept him. So maybe seduction and then see her brother.
Emerson might simply call Malcolm to shoot him.
Maybe Charles should start with Drew.
He mulled over his options the entirety of the return trip home and still hadn’t decided what to do when he left the carriage to jog up the steps.
“Mr. Worthington.” Ropely opened the door and took his coat. “You have a visitor.”
Charles frowned. There had been no carriage sitting outside. Nor was he expecting anyone. Unless Kenebruke had sent over his solicitor? Which made no sense since the papers were already signed, but maybe he had additional questions. As long as it wasn’t that twit Healey.
Tossing his coat at Ropely, Charles walked toward the drawing room.
“Sir—” Ropely tried to stop him.
Charles walked into the room and was immediately assaulted by the scent of honeysuckle and the sight of Aurora seated calmly on the sofa, wrapped in her cloak,The Bloom of the Roseopen on her lap.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Aurora.”
Worth appeared as if he might faint at the sight of her. She couldn’t discern if he was pleased or distressed to find her sitting in his drawing room once more. Not that she gave a fig for his opinion at present. She wasn’t leaving. Not until things were resolved between them, no matter what form that took.
“Page forty-two.” Aurora held up the book.The Bloom of the Rosehad been sitting on a side table near the window. There was a bit of jam stuck to one page, as if he’d been eating breakfast one morning and just leafed through pages of sexual acts between bites of toast before putting the book aside.
