When they ate breakfast the following morning the awaited letter from Farnborough arrived, addressed to Alethea. Once she had read it, she looked at Susan. “Henry says that he is feeling a little better, and that we might visit tomorrow if we wish.” Alethea looked at their father. “Aunt Jane and Uncle Robert have also extended an invitation for us to join them as a family for dinner in four days.”
“I shall write back, accepting the invitation,” their mother said. “Will you go tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Alethea answered.
She had not given up on Henry yet, then, and perhaps the invitation for them to dine as a family might be to celebrate a happy occasion and Alethea would not need to give up on Henry.
When the carriage turned into Farnborough’s courtyard the next day, Henry walked out from the doorway to greet them, with Samson beside him. He must have been waiting and watching for the carriage.
If he had been awaiting the carriage it implied the sentiment that Alethea had feared lacking was there.
His arm was once more in its sling but he was still not wearing his morning coat, nor his waistcoat, yet a short black, stock, neckcloth held his shirt closed. His good hand idly played with Samson’s ear as the carriage drew to a halt.
He stepped forward and opened the carriage door. “Hello, ladies.”
Alethea took his offered hand and climbed down. “Hello. How are you, truly?”
“Well enough. I promise. I think the journey here just took it out of me, and I did not give my shoulder time to recover. All that it needs is rest and time.”
“And he was consuming too much laudanum to kill the pain combined with brandy. Aunt Jane said it made a sickly cocktail,” Susan added as she gripped the side of the carriage and climbed down.
Alethea still held Henry’s hand. He had not had chance to turn and help Susan. His gaze caught hold of hers and the hard directness in his brown eyes said—rebellious, anomaly—when she did not allow him the time to help her.
She turned towards the house, turning away from the memories in her mind’s eye, of Henry lying on the sofa in the library and standing in only his dressing gown covered in mottled, awful, bruising. Hateful empathy. “I will leave you two to gossip and recover from your days of separation. I am going to paint.” She did not look back nor await an answer but walked briskly on into the house, seeking the sanctuary of the library. If he intended to propose he would not wish for an audience.
The clock chimed twelve times, and almost immediately afterwards there was a hard knock on the library door.
“Come in!”
Henry opened it, and Samson, his shadow, walked into the room. “I have come to see if you wish to take luncheon with us. You are like a mole buried away in here, Susan.”
Rebellious… A mole was far more like the names she expected him to call her.
She rested her brush in the bowl of water and straightened. Her hand lifted so that her fingers could push her spectacles farther up the bridge of her nose.
Henry smiled and walked towards her.
At least on this occasion he’d left the door ajar.
“The other day you called me rebellious, I cannot think of two greater extremes. I cannot imagine a rebellious mole.” She picked up the rag and took the brush out of the water to wipe it.
“You have been considering that haven’t you? I mean you have been thinking about the word rebellious.” His voice mocked, but then he smiled at her. “I said it because you like to hide in corners and pretend compliance when really you will walk away from what is expected of you at every chance and hole up somewhere. You always have. So you see the two are very compatible when they are combined in you.”
She had never thought walking away rebellious. She looked back down at her painting. “I will eat luncheon with you, yes.”
She expected him to acknowledge her answer and turn away, but instead when he reached the desk he leant over, as Samson nudged at her hip for some Henry-style attention. “Very pretty.” The crisp, masculine scent of his cologne hung in the air between them.
His presence and proximity sent discomfort spinning out into her nerves. The awkwardness it engendered pressured her to continue talking. “It is not rebellious to walk away or leave a room, though I admit to having little patience with conversations that do not interest me or—”
“People,” he inserted as he straightened up.
She met his gaze, still wiping her brush although it must be clean. “People?”
“Or people who do not interest you.” One eyebrow rose, and his implication said, people like me…
Warmth touched her cheeks.
She turned away to put her paint brush back into the paint box and tidy up her paints.
He leant over once more. “This is actually rather good.”
She glanced at him. “Thank you for such exuberant praise.”
His lips split into a smile. “There, see, you are a secret hellion. You taunt me horrendously.”
She made an intolerant, impatient face and shook her head at him. “I am painting orchids, not racing curricles. I am hardly a hellion. You are speaking of yourself.” She closed her paints.
“I have never bothered hiding my nature. But you… You and I have more in common than you think. I would gamble high odds on the fact that Uncle Casper despairs of you as much as my father despairs of me. You do not behave in the ways expected of a woman. The only reason you do not race curricles is that a woman is not given one to be able to race, if you were a man you would race—”
“I am not like you. I would not race. Because there is a vast chasm of difference between us, I think of others not just myself. I would not race because I would not wish to harm another traveller on the road.”
He huffed at her, dismissing her argument. It riled her more. “And I do not behave in unacceptable ways—”
“You are not sitting in the drawing room, sewing and talking with the others.”
“I like doing different things to the others, that is all.”
She turned to walk past him.
“Rebellious.” He leant near her and taunted.
She could not win the argument. Her hand lifted instinctively and swiped out at him as her frustration became anger. She struck his poorly arm. “Oh, Henry!” She regretted it immediately as he winced with pain.
“Bloody hell!” He covered his arm and pulled away. Then said more calmly, “You damned hellion.” Even in pain he was mocking her.
“I am sorry.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I do not think I am.”
She did not understand the jest. “Stop teasing me, Henry!”
He laughed. “It is quite inspiring to see you in a temper.”
Her hand lifted once more. He stepped back with his good hand still protecting his injured arm. “Did I say you might be a match to a man with verbal fencing? I might be persuaded to include physical fencing. Please, no more violence, Miss Forth. You will have people think my bruises were delivered by your hand, and God forbid my friends heard such a rumour.”
He stepped forward again and looked down at her work and at the book to compare it. “You are certainly