Page 11 of On a Midsummer Night
Henry nodded and looked away.
As she rang her hands, Beth grappled with what to say. Talking about him marrying Lucy had nausea bubbling up her throat. If her aunt and uncle had it their way, Henry would be family in the near future, and she needed to come to terms with that. Her continued attraction to him, the tingling sensation that streaked across her skin whenever he was near, must be overcome. It must.
“And what of you, Beth?” His simmering gaze captured hers. “I must confess I’m surprised you’re still unmarried. If I recall correctly, your hand was coveted by all the young men in polite Bristol society.”
Her cheeks burned hot. “I don’t know about that.”
“But I do,” he whispered.
Dropping her head to her chest to hide how his voice unsettled her, Beth said, “I was engaged for a time but ended it after realizing we were not suited.”
Henry advanced a step closer. If she extended her hand, she would have been able to touch his chest. “You were to marry?”
“I was.” She brought her head up and attempted a blithe smile. Beth wasn’t sure if it was convincing. “Several months after you left, a gentleman paid me court. He was standing to be an assemblyman in Bristol. He was attractive, and his prospects were many.”
“What happened?”
Beth tried to ignore the sharp lilt to his question, even as it matched the intense look on his face.
She shrugged. “I didn’t love him.”
“Why not?” he pushed.
Because he wasn’t you.Beth hadn’t understood it at the time, but when Silas Newell had asked to pay her court, her heartbreak over Henry had been tempered for a spell. She had seen it as a sign her feelings were superficial, but in truth, Beth had been relieved to discover a handsome, eligible man wanted her when the man who had won her heart had treated it so carelessly.
Now it was she who was being careless.Beth stumbled back a step, the loud exclamation of her mind startling her. Henry reached out a hand to steady her, but she shied from his touch. She had thought she could do this. She had thought after all these years that she could view him as a friend. As Lucy’s future husband.
But she had been wrong, for that flame in her chest—the one Beth thought had been smothered when he abandoned her and all her hopes for a future with him—had flared to life the moment his deep, dark gaze had settled on her.
Clamping her eyes closed for a moment, Beth shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He’s married and happy, and I am here and happy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should return to the party.”
Beth didn’t give him an opportunity to respond before she escaped back down the path toward safety.
Chapter Four
“Here’s your tea, Mr. Ramsgate.”
Henry jerked his head up, his valet’s voice drawing him back to the moment. He’d been replaying the events from the night prior. Pondering Beth’s stricken expression when he’d asked why she hadn’t loved her former fiancé. Whatever possessed him to ask such a question was beyond him. All Henry knew at that moment was that the idea of Beth being another man’s bride had made him want to put his fist through something. Made him want to tear down cities and reduce them to ashes. The deep want—that possessiveness he’d once carried for her—had roared back, and he’d been at a loss for words, unable even to follow her when she’d fled.
He was still at a loss for words. Still wrestling with these new—long dormant?—emotions. And by God, he did not like them. Henry did not have the time or the luxury to swoon over a young woman who could not benefit his career.
Brown, his valet, pushed several stacks of papers aside to set the tea tray down on the edge of the desk before pouring Henry a cup. As Henry sipped his tea, relishing the heat that spread through his blood and relaxed his stressed limbs, Brown extracted a stack of mail from his pocket.
“Also, here’s the post, sir. It was delivered a few moments ago,” he said, setting the pile on the desk in front of Henry.
“Thank you,” he murmured, sorting through the stack absentmindedly.
Invitation. Invitation. Dividends report. A letter from his mother that he would save to read before bed. She was a faithful correspondent, sending him a letter at least once a week. His hand paused over the stack, though, when his gaze latched onto a letter with a familiar script. The room was suddenly devoid of air, and it took Henry a moment to catch his breath.
“That will be all, Brown. Thank you,” he finally said, his gaze not lifting from the letter on the desk.
The valet nodded and departed the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Henry ripped into the letter with trembling fingers, scattering his neat piles across the desktop. Exhaling, he held up the sheet and read:
Dear Henry,
I’m uncertain if you received my past letter, but Aaron and I will be in London the week of June twenty-ninth and would welcome an opportunity to meet with you. We think the time has come for us all to have a conversation.
