Page 3 of Love Denied

Chapter Two

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true “The empty vessel makes the greatestsound.”

—Shakespeare,Henry V

Nicholas watched Catherineflee, resisting the impulse to chase her. She had not been expecting him and, no doubt, was feeling overwhelmed. After all, it had been four years since they’d last laid eyes on each other. And she’d been through much in the last few months. Facing Daniel’s death without Nicholas’s support would have been difficult. Her brother must be equally devastated. Laurence had been more brother to Daniel than Nicholas had been himself.

He continued staring until she disappeared around the curving sweep, strategically planted shrubbery hiding her from view. Running a hand through his hair, he tugged at the windswept tangle with a frustrated jerk. This was not how he’d imagined his homecoming. He certainly had not spent his nights envisioning Catherine running from him.

He turned and faced the manse. She was right. It was best that he see his father alone. In all honesty, he had hoped to use her as a bulwark. Not fair, but he would have preferred entering the austere building with her by his side. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. He crossed the drive. The colonnade blocked the sun, and he shook a sudden chill from his shoulders.

Before he could take the last few steps, the door swung open. Of course it did. A groom would have given them word, and they would be watching for him. Years of looking over his shoulder for the enemy had dulled the memory of what it was like to anticipate time with family and friends. Except his older brother was no more. He shook his head, rolling his neck to free the grasping tension.

Fredericks, dressed impeccably in somber black, his shock of white hair as untamed as ever, stood just inside the threshold. While his face was impassively schooled, there was a twinkle in those milky blue eyes. Nicholas took the last few steps and clasped his bony shoulder.

“Fredericks, old man, good to see you.” He meant it. Fredericks was a fixture at Woodfield. He’d been in the employ of Nicholas’s grandfather, and Nicholas would swear the man had been ancient even then.

Fredericks’s eyes crinkled in response. “Lord Walford, it is good to see you safely home.”

Nicholas stiffened at the effusive welcome.Damn. Damn. Damn.Lord Walford.It didn’t feel right. He was Sinclair. Daniel was damn Lord Walford!

“I am sorry, my lord. For your loss.”

The old man had always been able to read minds. He and Daniel could get away with nothing under the butler’s watchful eye.

“As am I, Fredericks. As am I.” He squeezed Fredericks’s shoulder lightly, then dropped his hand and scanned the foyer. “Father?” His voice echoed in the cavern of the hall.

“In the library, my lord.” Fredericks’s voice reverted to its customary detachment.

He tried not to wince at the deference. It was not Fredericks’s fault that Nicholas now wore the title that Daniel had shed with his death. Instead, Nicholas nodded. “I will see myself in.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“As I wish?” he muttered, walking past the first column, tugging at his gloves. “Nothing is as I wish.” He yanked off the second glove as he reached the library door, then hesitated, girding his loins. What must his father be feeling? They had not parted on good terms, and now he’d come back as heir. He knocked but did not wait for permission to enter.

Nothing had changed in the years he’d been gone. The library remained a masterpiece of architecture, affirmation of the earl’s masculinity and affluence in every line, in every piece of furniture. His father sat in one of the overstuffed chairs by the south fire—a fire that burned despite the temperate July afternoon. His crown of gray hair just visible over the high chair, he did not turn around.

“Father?”

No response.Damn him. Nicholas tossed his gloves on a side table.

“Father,” he repeated, suddenly uncertain. “Am I welcome in your home?”

Silence ensued. He was about to leave when the low, familiar rumble finally answered. “It is soon to be your home, isn’t it?”

Nicholas hesitated. Just how did one respond to that? He took a calming breath. He had lived through much more than this. So much more. Refusing to cringe before one man when he had not cowered before an army, he headed toward the brandy on the opposite side of the room to put some distance between them. Grabbing the decanter, he poured far more than a finger, threw it back, and then refilled it. He gripped the ends of the mahogany stand, gazing into the dark, amber contents of the glass.

Steady, old boy. Steady.

Standing tall, he snatched the tumbler and walked toward the fire before flinging himself into the chair a few feet from his father. Petulantly refusing to make eye contact, he instead stared at the flames. The silence in the room was suffocating, and he ran his fingers around his collar, trying to loosen its choke. He raised his glass, ready to toss the contents down his throat, seeking surcease to the stifling stillness.

“Did you become a drunkard as a soldier?”

Lowering the glass, Nicholas almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. He had not touched alcohol on the continent until Badajoz. Drink was many a soldier’s escape, but it was also their downfall. An officer needed his wits about him to survive in the shifting tides of war. No. Liquor was not a vice for Nicholas. Could the man not see thathedrove him to imbibe?

“You took your time coming home. Your brother has been dead more than three months, and you finally elect to make an appearance.”

The fire snapped, a hiss escaping the wood as Nicholas counted his way to a calm and reasoned response. He watched the shooting sparks, the falling embers. He would never please his father. That had been clear many years ago.

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