Page 41 of The Truth about the Rogue
“The Marquess of Kentmore is a rogue.”
Andrew dropped his head, the title he had once claimed with great delight and even pleasure now burning into his soul, offering him nothing but shame.
“He states that though he will give that up for the time being, it will not be forever. What hope have I of a happy future? What hope have I of any sort of affection or true kindness or consideration between us? And what is worse, what if I, in my foolishness, find myself drawn to the very gentleman who could not care anything for me? Have you considered such things, Lillian? Or is money and standing all that matters to you?”
And are stolen kisses, fleeting embraces, and words that hold no promise all that matters to me?Andrew closed his eyes, his stomach roiling.What if all that I once held as important was never more than dirt and ashes?
Miss Hawick’s voice faltered, her hands in tight fists by her sides, and though Andrew could see that her sister knew of his presence, given the whiteness of her cheeks and her wide eyes which continued to stare at him, Miss Lillian said nothing. Clearly, Miss Charlotte Hawick had no knowledge of what had caused her sister’s stillness, perhaps lost in her speech, given that it held so much emotion.
Andrew closed his eyes.I am responsible for so much of her pain.
Taking a breath, Miss Hawick put out her hands to either side and then dropped them back to her sides.
“I have never dreamed of love. I have never once imagined a marriage filled with affection and happiness, not until the possibility of that was taken from me. Now, the one thing I never thought to hope for is theonlything I long for, knowing I shall never gain it.”
Miss Lillian Hawick, finally finding her voice, let out a small squeak and pointed directly at Andrew – and all strength seemed to leave his body. He could only stand and stare asCharlotte turned to face him, her eyes going wide as she took in his presence. She took a step back rather than moving towards him and, on seeing that, Andrew’s strength returned to him.
He fled. Rather than go to her, rather than speak to her as he had intended, he turned and took his leave of the gardens and of her. Climbing back into the carriage, he rapped quickly on the roof and urged the coachman to make haste, a sense of relief writhing through him as he sat back and leaned his head against the squabs.
The carriage took him along the cobbled streets, the gentle rolling offering a comfort that Andrew could not reach.
I should have stayed.
The shame of his retreat was like a heavy weight on his shoulders, making his mortification complete. What sort of fellow was he to run from such a situation as this? He had never considered himself to be a coward, and yet, instead of walking towards her, instead of taking her hands in his and speaking to her as he had intended, he had run.
Leaning forward, Andrew put his elbows on his knees and dug his fingers into his hair, his face scalded with shame.
“I never expected to care for her with such strength,” he muttered to himself, his eyes closing again. “I never thought that I would find myself in the least bit concerned about what she thought and felt.”
But now I am overwhelmed by it.
Andrew lifted his head and sat back as the carriage turned towards his townhouse. His heart was heavy, his thoughts a swirling mass of confusion, and his fingers itched with the urge to write; to pour it all into the written word in the hope of finding the smallest sense of calm.
It was the only avenue he had, the only way he had to express all that he felt for, given his foolishness here, it was quite clear that he could never speak those words to Miss Hawick. Instead,he had to hope and pray that she would read his words in The London Chronicle and perhaps feel her heart soothed just a little.
All that matters to me now is her.
That thought struck Andrew hard and he sucked in a breath, his eyes flaring wide as he stared straight ahead, astonished by such a realization. What did it mean? How could he understand it? And why did the thought of returning to the life he had once lived now seem so dull and banal compared to being solely in her company?
Andrew’s penflew over the page, his quill scratching as he wrote and wrote and wrote. This time, it was not poetry that he wrote with the intention of sending it to The London Chronicle, but words that he prayed would empty his heart and mind of all that he felt, all that was tormenting him.
He could not free himself from it.
The door opened, but Andrew waved a hand, dismissing the servant.
“I am not to be disturbed.”
“I was informed that you stated I could come in to call on you at any time.”
Andrew looked up, seeing Lord Glenfield stroll into the room.
“Glenfield. Apologies, I am writing and–”
“I shall not disturb your focus for long. I came to fetch the mask for the ball tomorrow evening.” His eyes twinkled as Andrew frowned. “The masquerade?”
“How could I forget?” Andrew muttered, finding no joy in the thought. Previously, he had been delighted about attendingmasquerades, for it was another opportunity for him to steal the attention of any lady he desired, heedless as to who they were, or what standing they held. They did not know who he was – not unless he revealed it to them, for he always wore an excellent mask that hid most of his face. How much he had enjoyed such things before! But now, there was a heaviness about it, as though he did not really wish to attend. “The mask, yes. I borrowed it from you for the last masquerade, did I not?”
Lord Glenfield nodded, and Andrew rang the bell, waiting for a footman to come to the room. Thereafter, he directed him to fetch the mask for Lord Glenfield and then picked up the sand to save his work.
