Page 18 of The Lost Lord
He hadn’t intended to circle back to the initial topic, yet Richard’s tongue had spoken what his brain hadn’t meant to say out loud.
“If I hadn’t already hated you, Richard, I’d start right now.” Lizzie pushed herself off the bed and shook her skirts straight. The waistline was defined but high, disguising any mild bulge that might or might not have begun to show. She caught him inspecting her midsection and smirked. “If you’re hoping for a reprieve from responsibility, you’re an even greater coward than I thought.”
Richard could hardly disagree.
She stalked away, surveying his modest apartments with contempt. Only two weeks earlier, Lizzie had claimed to find his residence relaxed and inviting. Now, Richard wondered with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach whether he’d ever understood her motives.
Had she truly believed herself in love with him, or had she been entranced with his title and plotting to obtain it from the start?
Richard had never cared enough to find out. He, too, had been ensorcerelled by his conferred, unearned importance in the world. Losing his place as heir to the Briarcliff earldom had been the greatest single blow to his self-regard he’d ever experienced. Richard recalled the precise moment he’d changed from the tolerated but never adored spare into the heir apparent. His brother’s disappearance into the wilds of Brazil had changed the course of Richard’s life for the better. He had become the sainted, the respected, and the most important of all family members. Overnight, his sisters and younger brother had demonstrated an increased degree of respect—or had, once he’d returned to England with his father.
His mother had grown more lenient with him the longer Edward was missing. As the years passed, she had poured her efforts into searching for Edward, and had hardly paid any attention to him at all. Richard mulled this in silence for days as his muscles stretched and strained to raise barrels of food, bolts of cotton, or fine china packed in sawdust and sealed in heavy wood crates.
His brother’s return three years ago had unmoored Richard. Overnight, he lost the title, his allowance, and his new mistress. Friends had abandoned him like rats from a sinking ship once Richard had been reduced to a hard-living almost-heir spending his abruptly curtailed inheritance as fast as he could. The sudden restrictions on his income had angered him, as had his father’s insistence that Edward could be restored to sanity well enough to claim his rightful place. Richard had offered nothing but needling jokes and viciously targeted humor as he’d plotted to have his brother locked away in asylum.
Edward’s return had left Richard unneeded.
Unwanted.
Unloved.
Miriam had stared at him like he was a gift from the gods from the very first moment they’d met. Richard hadn’t had to do anything at all to earn it. He did not deserve Miriam’s soft gaze or innocent kisses any more than she deserved to be the unwitting victim of her friend’s plotting. For a time, Lizzie had given him that sense of being adored. It had been a lie, but it had been an effective one, a balm to his badly bruised sense of worth.
“Break,” Howard yelled. The men released the rope as one. Wood scraped and men’s voices rose in a cacophony that chased away Richard’s miserable thoughts.
By the end of the week, Richard’s resolution had fractured. He needed to see Miriam again, to bask in the glow of her affection whether he deserved it or not. After all, he was the son who’d murdered his own father. Forgiveness, redemption, and love were not for him.
July
Chapter 10
Richard had darkened countless doorsteps of imposing town houses and elegant country manors. Why the facade of the Walsh’s home, with its squat proportions and brooding black-framed windows, shouldn’t make his hand tremble as he moved to knock. But it did.
Incongruous boxes of bright summer blooms spilled out from beneath the windows. A bee buzzed lazily amongst them. Richard ran his fingers through his hair and inhaled the sweet scent of the flowers. When was the last time he’d felt faint with nerves? Had he ever?
The door creaked as it swung open. Richard startled. A man barely taller than Miriam, with thick black waves of hair sprinkled with gray at the temples assessed him with obsidian eyes.
“Lor-” He stopped. Miriam’s father did not appear to be the type who was easily impressed by titles granted by a far-off sovereign. One his country had waged war to part ways with, at that. “Richard Northcote to see Miss Walsh.”
“Are you now?” he asked softly. A bright spark lit the older man’s eyes like an ember from Hades’ forge. Richard swallowed, pinned in place by the intelligence and curiosity he found there. It was too late to turn tail and run. Pity, that.
“Yes, sir. Is the lady available?” Richard asked, clearing his throat.
“Mebe,” Walsh responded with an exaggerated American accent.Maybe. His skeptical gaze roamed Richard’s body from tip to toe. Richard had found the funds to have his best suit tailored and freshened, but it no longer looked new. His work at the warehouse had turned his biceps into mounds and broadened his shoulders necessitating new clothing entirely, not simple alterations. Richard had done what he could, but he was acutely conscious of the fact that he did not present as a nobleman from a distant land.
“If there’s a more convenient time for me to return…” Richard trailed off. He did not appreciate being left dangling on the doorstep like a servant at the wrong door.
“She’s in the rear yard,” Livingston replied. “Miriam has been waiting for you ever since you sent your first note. What pressing business of yours kept my daughter on tenterhooks for ten whole days, might I ask?”
Real fear prickled up Richard’s collar and concentrated at the base of his skull. Livingston Walsh looked like the sort of man who would bite the head off any man who dared to disappoint his daughter. He was carved of black marble and rough-hewn freedom.
“I had work at the warehouse,” Richard blurted, as though that could help his case.
“Howard’s, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Richard replied, swallowing hard around the lie. “I’m his partner.”
Abruptly, Mr. Walsh turned his back. Boot heels clopped on wide, scuffed planks. Richard peered into the house and, after a moment’s hesitation, followed.
