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There was no point in waiting for her sisters to travel back home from Europe in order to bury their father: As women, none of them would be allowed to attend.
Of course, Jo went anyway.
…
The funeral was a sad affair. A grand one, but sad nonetheless. The viscount was beloved by all of his peers, and all his friends had come to say goodbye to a great man.
Her brother barely seemed to notice her there, and if her father’s friends and relatives did, they did not glance in her direction once.
No one else looked at her either.
It was as if being a woman in a space reserved only for men suddenly rendered her invisible. As if she were not a daughter, a grieving human being. As if she were not even there. Or perhaps they thought that if they pretended she was not there, if they did not look at her, it would shield them from the impropriety of her actions. Ostrich-brained fools, the lot of them.
I have to go back to the house after this, she thought frantically.That enormous, empty house. By myself. No sisters or Teddy. Father will be gone too, gone as he never was before.
Suddenly the mere absence of his bodily presence felt as if it were the absence of the earth beneath her feet. Her father had not been any substantial presence in her life since Beth died, but all of a sudden, his empty chair seemed too heavy a burden to bear, even though she would have the exact number of conversations with it now he was dead as she had while he’d still been alive: None.
I have to prepare the house for Justin, she thought.It belongs to him now. And his future bride, in theory.He will never marry, I’m certain of it, not after all he’s been through in this house. Although he does not care about the house or the title either. Look at him, he is so drunk even now, barely able to keep his eyes open.
He would be off to London first thing, she was sure.
And she would be left behind, to keep house for him. A spinster sister, a spinster aunt. That was her future. She idly wondered how many times she would almost pick up her quill to write to Laurie out of pure desperation.
Suddenly, she realized that he was there.
He had come late, heaven knew from where, and had appeared silently as out of nowhere, but it was definitely him. He was standing opposite her, on the other side of her father’s coffin, impossibly tall and sophisticated.
Barely recognizable.
Those cheekbones. The taste of his lips. His hands closing around her waist. Those arms. The feel of his wet shirt as he pressed her body against his. Those eyes. The sound of his moans—
She shook herself.
He’d better leave too, directly after the funeral.
Good Lord, is that why women are forbidden from attending these things? Because grief drives them to such madness they begin to desire their best friends?
‘I am not your brother.’
Laurie’s angry words flew into her mind, and she flinched visibly. His head shot up and his eyes searched for her in the crowd frantically. When they found her, he immediately looked away, his neck turning pink. So he did still care in spite of all his silence. That boy and his peripheral vision. Always keeping an eye out for her.
But not anymore. He’d left her, and he’d leave her again.
…
They were standing in front of an open grave before she knew it, and Jo found herself standing next to her brother’s swaying form while the vicar droned on about eternal life.
Justin leaned over, keeling a bit, and hissed in her ear: “You shouldn’t be here.”
She had thought he had not even noticed her presence. Then again, she was the only person wearing a dress—she had debated wearing men’s breeches, but had decided against it. Papa wouldn’t have liked it.
“Neither should you,” she retorted. “You’re intoxicated.”
Justin smiled out of the corner of his mouth. It made him look ugly, and, as men went, he was the most beautiful specimen in London. Everyone agreed.
“I am the new viscount,” he said. “I can show up to a funeral drunk and no one will even dare to comment on it.”
“What is wrong with you?” Her brother lifted an eyebrow. “More so than usual?”
