Page 70 of Enticing the Devil

The next morning, he caught sight of the letter he’d stuffed into his pocket just before he’d gone to speak with Lord Humphries. In his rush to change that evening, he’d tossed it onto the valet stand and had forgotten about.

As he took a closer look at it, he realized with a clutch of trepidation that it was from his oldest sister. It had been dated almost two weeks earlier and contained news that couldn’t be ignored.

His time in England had come to an end.

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ANNE AWOKE THE NEXT morning with an ache in her head as well as her heart. The indulgence in spirits the night before had certainly eased her distress at the time but did nothing for her in the light of a new day.

Despite her current discomfort, she couldn’t help but feel a tiny thrill as she recalled those brief moments during her waltz with Beynon when they’d managed to speak freely of their desire for each other. It had given her a lovely glimpse into what things could be like between them. Once again, she wished he’d simply talked to her that night instead of sending for her father and riding off to London. She might have been able to convince him they could continue as clandestine lovers without the weighted consequences.

Would she really have been prepared to do something so scandalous?

Closing her eyes, she imagined what it might be like to sneak off with Beynon to quiet corners and darkened rooms where they could explore the passion that flared so intensely between them. Her skin tingled as she thought about how safe she always felt in his presence. In his arms.

Yes. She could have managed an affair very well. If it was with him.

But now, instead of passionate lovers, they were to be unwilling spouses.

It was all so hopeless and unnecessary. To have tasted something so wonderous and enlightening only to have it ruined by the dictates of a hypocritical society. It had taken Anne far too long to decide to live life on her own terms only to have her autonomy swept away by notions of duty and honor and the unrealistic expectations of purity and perfection.

But what choice did she have?

None. Her father had ensured that. As had Beynon when he’d decided to take steps to repair something that hadn’t been broken.

Rubbing her forehead, she rose from her bed and rang for the maid. Perhaps the servant would have some concoction that might help her aching skull and uneasy stomach.

Nearly an hour later, Anne’s head felt much better.

After a quick breakfast, she decided to make use of the clear morning to do a little painting in the garden. The hobby always managed to soothe tumultuous thoughts and ease stresses she could not otherwise contain.

Without really intending to, she found herself back under the oak where she’d painted Beynon. She settled on the grass near the rosebushes that formed a border along the walkway. After positioning her small easel and arranging her paints, she took some deep breaths and forced herself not to think of her father or Beynon or Wales or anything at all.

She focused on the roses, still dewy from the night, and took a moment to admire their vivid colors and the graceful curves and curls of their lush, layered petals. Within minutes, she was fully immersed in the task of recreating the luxurious blooms and rich foliage.

But even so, she was not so lost to her painting that she didn’t know instantly the moment Beynon found her.

Her body reacted with a waterfall of delicate sparks along her nerves. Her belly tightened and her heart leapt with what might have been joy or dread.

Turning her head, she saw him there.

He stood several paces away, still on the path, as though he’d come to a sudden stop when he caught sight of her. He looked as handsome and strong and devastating to her senses as he always did. But when she forced herself to look into his face, she stiffened. He was tense and worried. The scowl riding his brow was heavy and his jaw was tight. His eyes appeared darker than usual and their focus was distracted, almost harried.

“Good morning, Mr. Thomas,” she said as she set her brush down atop the wooden case.

She remained seated even as he started toward her again. With each step he drew nearer, she became more convinced that something had upset him. Something that seemed to involve her.

As he reached her spot on the grass, she had to tip her head back to continue looking at him, but only for a moment as he lowered to a crouch beside her. His eyes settled on her watercolor first and she got the impression he was deliberately not looking at her as he clearly struggled to find words.

He’d sought her out for a reason. Something that clearly had him concerned.

When the silence lengthened, Anne’s worry got the best of her. Lifting her hand, she set it on his bent knee, finally drawing his attention to her. She saw a wary regret in his eyes. Her throat tightened. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath. “I received a letter from my sister Eirwyn.” He glanced down to a spot of grass beside her hip. His voice lowered roughly. “She says our mam fell sick and has been abed for some days.”

“I’m sorry, Beynon,” Anne muttered. The news was obviously worrying him. “Will she be all right?”

He gave a slow shake of his head. “Mam is not one to take to her bed. The only times she’s done so in my memory were for the births of my siblings.” He cleared his throat. “That Eirwyn felt it necessary to write to me at all tells me this is not a simple illness. And already the letter is weeks old.” His gaze became intent as he stated the rest. “I cannot wait to hear if she’s recovered or worsened. I must return to Gwaynynog as soon as possible.”

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