Page 64 of The Notorious Lord Knightly
“I wish I’d been there with you.”
She wished he’d been as well. “You’d feel differently after her crying kept you awake for most of the night. Although overall, she’s been incredibly good and has brought me great joy.”
“And she’s going to be a writer like her mother.”
She laughed lightly. “Not like me. She will tell her own tales in her own way.”
“It’s good you’ll give her that freedom.”
“My mother never expected me to follow in her footsteps onto the stage. Which is a good thing as I’d have been lousy at it.”
“Oh, I don’t know. That night at the Dragons, you almost had me convinced you weren’t the author.”
She smiled against his throat. He’d not bothered with neckcloth, waistcoat, or coat. Only shirtsleeves and trousers. Who was to see this time of night? “I hated you then.”
The words came out without any rancor.
“As well you should have. I hated myself.”
She heard in his tone that he still did, that he didn’t quite forgive himself for the hurt he’d caused. She wished she had the power to absolve him of all guilt. “Does your mother often have episodes like the one I witnessed earlier?”
“She did at first, but it’s been a long while. I think her fears were brought to the fore because of the loudknocking—I’m surprised the door didn’t cave in. I didn’t realize you had such a temper.”
“It grows hotter as I age, I believe. Sometimes I don’t care at all what people think of me, and other times I foolishly give a fig.” Easing back slightly, she settled her palm against his strong jaw. So many things she wanted to say, so many she shouldn’t because they would only serve to make the future harder to face.
In the end, she said nothing. Simply held him in place as she kissed him, not with the fervor of earlier, but with an emotion reserved for letting go. Or perhaps the sentiment more closely reflected a packing up of the past to store it away for later reflection, when she was silver-haired and wrinkled, surrounded by grandchildren. Some of whom might be his as well. Was it fair to deny him that joy? Or would the truth make his burden a heavier weight to bear?
She sensed in him a shadow, within which was the acknowledgment of the need to carry on in solitude. To spare him any further suffering, she held silent.
The horses had turned down the drive, the moments were slipping past and soon none at all would be left to share with him. Then how was she to go on? As he had taught her: with courage and boldness.
The carriage came to a stop. The kiss ended, but they held each other tightly.
The door clicked open. He made to move toward it, and she stayed him with a touch. “Don’t come with me.”
Because when her butler opened the door, she would pull Knightly in and take him up the stairs toher bed, to prolong the inevitable parting. He merely nodded, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “Thank you for tonight.”
She forced a smile when she wanted to weep. “Thank you for... well, for almost everything.”
Then, with the help of her footman, she was exiting the carriage. Without looking back, she dashed up the steps. The door opened and she hurried through it to the front drawing room. The draperies had been closed, but she peered through a slit where they met and watched as Knightly climbed out of the carriage and mounted Shakespeare. For the longest of moments man and beast simply waited there. Perhaps Knightly thought she’d give in and invite him to join her.
But she held strong.
Finally, he urged his horse into a gallop, and she sank into a nearby chair. Shakespeare, the bard, had it wrong. Parting was not such sweet sorrow. It was a hideous ache that left naught but mourning in its wake.
Chapter 20
Passion, I discovered, was not limited to hands and lips exploring. It could be a look across a crowded room. The reading of a poem. A smile. A laugh. A sigh. It could encompass a grand gesture or be as simple as a solitary word uttered at the right moment.
—Anonymous,My Secret Desires, A Memoir
June 29, 1875
Sitting on a bench that her mother had often shared with her father, Regina watched Arianna, her laughter echoing among the blossoms, scampering around the garden with Princess nipping at her heels. And of course, seeing her daughter with the dog reminded her of Knightly in this very garden, legs splayed as he sat at the tiny table. It had been a week since she’d seen him, a week of missing him more than she ever had before, which was utterly ridiculous. They had no future. He’d made his choice. And she’d made hers. Nothing was more important than ensuring her daughter had a life of acceptance that she herself had been denied.
“Madam, you have a visitor.”
She lifted the card from the salver her butler presented to her. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she read the name embossed on it. “What the devil is he doing here?”
