Nearly a Lady (35 page)

“Gideon—”

“I’ll tell you what I know now! What I learned soon enough! It takes no more than a metal ball and the space of a heartbeat to rip through nearly a half dozen of them!” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “Just one ball. One ball and the captain responsible for placing them in the way of it.”

“No. That’s not true. You—”

She bit back the argument when a footman knocked on the open door. His eyes darted to the shattered glass, but as was expected of a man of his position, his face betrayed not a hint of emotion. “My lord? Are you or Miss Blythe in need of assistance?”

Winnefred watched, helpless, as Gideon struggled to pull himself together. “No. No, we are both well. Thank you.”

“Shall I send for a maid?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Winnefred listened to the sound of the footman’s retreating steps but kept her eyes on Gideon. The flash of temper had burned itself out, and in its place had come resignation. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Gideon—”

“No.” He held up his hand. “I’m done discussing it. I only wanted to explain. I wanted you to understand why I can’t . . . I will not be responsible for someone ever again.”

Someone like a wife, she realized. Any wife. “But—”

“Let it go, Winnefred.”

Afraid he would retreat again, she took an argumentative tone. “I’ll not let it go. Because you are
not
responsible.”

“You weren’t there,” he snapped.

“Did you ask for a young crew?” she demanded. “Pay a press-gang or buy their commissions? Did you fire the cannon that killed them? Build the ship that housed it? Start the war that required the ship?”

“No, I—”

“There is blame to be placed here,” she pushed on. “But it is not yours. You did the best with what you had—you said that yourself. If politicians and royals and trumped-up tyrants who fancied themselves emperors had done
their
best to care for the people they were responsible for, we never would have had a war—or children fighting it.”

“Men will always make war.” He shook his head and turned from her to look out the window. “Always. There’s little to be done about it but attempt to stay out of its path, and failing that, find the pleasure in life where and when you can.”

Winnefred stared at his back, desperately racking her mind for a way to reach him, to help him. And then it occurred to her—

“Do you . . . Do you care for me at all?”

He threw a surprised glance over his shoulder. “What the devil has that to do with anything?”

“Answer the question.” If she could find the courage to ask, he could damn well find the courage to answer. “Do you care for me?”

“I do,” he said clearly. He turned and held her eyes as if to be certain she knew he meant it. “You must know that I do.”

Her relief was so great, her legs turned to mush. She wanted to throw her arms around him and laugh. And she wanted to sit down. She ignored all three desires and nodded decisively. “And if we were on a ship right now, right this very moment, and a battle broke out—where would you put me?”

An instant of fear crossed his face before he could hide it. “I wouldn’t allow you anywhere near a warship.”

She ignored his evasion. “Knowing what you know now—where would you put me?”

“This is ridiculous.”

He sidled away from the window, and her, as if to distance himself from the question. But she wouldn’t let him run. She took two steps forward. “Where, Gideon?”

“Let it alone—”

Another step. “Where?”

He shook his head, pleading.
“For pity’s sake.”

One last step to stand directly before him. “Tell me
where
.”

“I’d put you in the bleeding hold!”

She reached out to cup his cheek with one hand. “Because it’s the safest place on the ship. Because you care for me, and it’d be the best thing you could do for me. What might happen after that would be out of your control.”

“They were children,” he whispered hoarsely. “They were innocents. I should have protected them.”

“Even you cannot stop a cannonball.”

“I should have—”

“No. There was nothing else you could do, Gideon. Nothing. It just was.”

 

G
ideon squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He didn’t want to hear the words; he didn’t want to admit that they might be true.

He knew that there was a basic human desire to have control, to understand, to know the reasons
why
. He knew that the drive to discover meaning in the events of one’s life—both large and small, beautiful and tragic—had led men to religion, philosophy, science. And greatness had come from those searches; comfort from the answers they provided.

But perhaps there were times when an explanation wasn’t to be had, and maybe it was less frightening to blame himself than acknowledge his helplessness, and easier to shoulder the guilt than to accept that no one would be held accountable. But anything, anything at all, was better than contemplating the idea of six young boys dying senselessly in a hold of a ship and no one being held responsible.

Someone
had to be responsible.

He drew her hand from his cheek and let it go. “I’m sorry.”

She searched his face with her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“This.” He breathed past the knot of pain in his chest. “You and I. It cannot be.”

“But you care for me,” she whispered. “And I for you. Why—?”

“I cared for them too.”

“But surely—”

“
No
, Winnefred.”

She turned away and, for a long time, stared at the fireplace without speaking. He wanted to fill the silence, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. There was nothing left to explain.

Winnefred spoke at length, and without turning back to face him. “Is this . . . Is this your final say on the matter?”

“It is.”

She looked at the ground and put her hands on her hips the way a person did when they were trying to catch their breath. “There is nothing I can say to change your mind?”

He wished she would look at him. “No.”

She gave a nearly imperceptible nod of her head. “Very well.”

This time, when she moved to leave, he didn’t stop her.

F
or a long time after Winnefred left the study, Gideon stood in the middle of the room and stared into the hallway.

He had told her. He had told her everything. He had shared with her the burden he had promised to carry alone. He wanted to berate himself for that, but there didn’t seem to be any point. It wasn’t possible for him to feel any worse.

He’d always known that to be true, but he’d not spoken the words aloud until now. And he’d never intended to speak them to Winnefred. If he had been a little more careful, and a little less self-centered, he would never have had to. He’d known his interest was returned. He’d seen the light of desire in Winnefred’s eyes and felt the way she had melted against him when they’d kissed. But he had willfully ignored what he’d known to be true so he could indulge in his own selfish need to seek her out.

Well, no more. It was too late to undo what was done, but he could repair what damage he could and make damn well certain he didn’t cause more.

He would find a way to make things comfortable between them again, just comfortable enough for her to feel easy in his company . . . Which he intended to severely limit in the future.

There was no avoiding his duty of escorting the ladies to balls and parties, but his free time could be spent visiting friends or relaxing at his club. He could do that. He
would
do that.

To prove it, he grabbed his coat, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and left the study. He would spend a few hours at White’s, he decided. He would give Winnefred a bit of time and himself a bit of space. Then he would see about making things easy between them again. Distant, but easy.

He was reaching for his hat and gloves in the front hall when the front door flew open with a crash.

Lucien stumbled inside, looking nothing like the proud and aloof peer of the realm their father had hoped he would become. His hair was windblown, the traveling clothes on his tall, lean frame were wrinkled and dusty, and there was a set edge to his sharp features that spoke of blind determination and not enough sleep.

Lucien’s eyes snapped to his. “Gideon. Where is she?”

Suddenly, despite everything, Gideon felt the urge to smile. “Welcome home, Lucien. How was your trip?”

“Eventful. Where—?”

“I am quite well, thank you. You received my letter, I presume?”

“It reached me in Berlin. Is—?”

“Lady Engsly?”

“Dead,” Lucian replied impatiently. “She succumbed to opium poison two months ago.”

“Opium.” Gideon blew out a short breath. “I hadn’t realized she was an addict. But it would explain the madness, wouldn’t it. Where is Kincaid?”

“He stayed behind to handle a few remaining details. For pity’s sake, man, where is she?”

Gideon took pity on his brother. “Upstairs.”

As if to prove his point, Lilly suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. She put her hand on the banister, looked up, and froze.

Lucien went equally still.
“Rose.”

Not wanting to intrude, and equally unwilling to miss what happened next, Gideon backed away to watch the scene unfold from the open doors of the dining room.

Lilly was the first to move. She resumed her walk down the stairs, coming to stop a few steps from the bottom.

“Lord Engsly. Welcome home.” Her voice was smooth and calm, and so painfully polite, Gideon felt a pang of sympathy for his brother. “I trust your journey was a safe one?”

“It was . . . productive.” Lucien took another step forward. “Are you well?”

“Quite, thank you. It was very kind of your family to allow—”

“You look just as I remember,” he blurted out.

“I . . . I am headed to . . . to the library.” She moved forward suddenly, down the last steps and past a stunned Lucien. “Excuse me.”

“Wait.” Lucien caught her arm. “Rose. Wait.”

Lilly looked down at his hand and then slowly up to him. “My name is Lilly,” she said coolly. “Miss Lilly Ilestone.”

Lucien visibly started. His hand dropped. “Yes . . . Yes, of course. My apologies.”

Lilly gave a regal nod of her head that Lady Gwen would have been proud to see and turned to resume her walk toward the library.

Lucien stepped forward, faltered, then growled something akin to “bugger this” and took off after her before she’d made it halfway across the hall. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the parlor.

“Stop.” Lilly tugged at her arm. “What do you think—?”

“I think I haven’t slept in days,” Lucien practically barked. “I think I chased a madwoman across four countries.” He threw open the doors to the front parlor. “I think I’ve waited twelve bloody years for this.”

He pushed Lilly into the room, stepped in behind her, and slammed the doors.

 

W
innefred didn’t like to think of herself as a selfish woman, but as she sat on her bed with Lilly and listened to the retelling of Lord Engsly’s arrival, she was forced to admit that she was secretly grateful to have a distraction from her own troubles.

After leaving Gideon in the study, she’d spent a full hour pacing the floor of her chambers, berating herself and Gideon, and alternating between wanting to cry and scream and take the first coach back to Scotland.

Dealing with Lilly’s woes was so much simpler.

Lilly plucked at the counterpane, her blue eyes filled with uncertainty. “Lucien . . . That is, Lord Engsly has agreed to stay at his own town house.”

Which meant Gideon would have to continue staying here, Winnefred realized. “Is that something you asked of him?”

“Yes. I also asked that he acknowledge that a great deal of time has passed since we last met, and he agreed it is significant and promised to limit his references to our shared past.”

“I see.”

“He has also made it clear he intends to begin a courtship.”

“Did he really?” Winnefred blew out a short breath when Lilly nodded. “Well. Is that what you want?”

“I didn’t. I refused at first, but . . . Well, he did make concessions. It was only fair I do the same.”

“What concessions did you make?”

“I agreed that it was, perhaps, unfair of me to criticize him for not seeking me out after hearing I had married. It would have been dishonorable for him to approach another man’s wife in that manner.” Lilly gave up plucking to tuck her knees up under her chest and wrap her arms around her legs. “I would never have thought so highly of him to start had he not been an honorable man.”