“Neither you should. London’s full of scoundrels.”
“Including you?”
“Yes, including me,” he said gloomily. Then more loudly for the sake of Jones who edged closer, clearly suspicious, “Do you live in the country the rest of the year?”
“I’ve been at school in Bath. Now I live with my mother at Alloway Chase in Yorkshire.”
“Your mother doesn’t come to Town?”
“She isn’t well.” She stared at his black armband. “I’m sad to see that you’ve recently lost someone.”
“My brother died in January. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.” If Leath had warned Sophie away, surely he’d mentioned Peter’s financial woes. Peter’s calamitous mismanagement of the already sparse Thorne coffers threatened the family’s ruin, making Harry an even more unsuitable match for this lovely girl.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” He met her compassionate blue stare and his love, already powerful, deepened into something richer. “He was marvelous company and he’d go to the wall for the people he loved.”
“He sounds wonderful.”
“He was.” Harry found himself saying what he hadn’t said to anyone else since Peter’s lonely death. “I’ve lost my taste for pleasure. The whole world is gray.” Except when he was with Sophie.
“I felt like that after my father died.”
The late marquess had passed away four years ago. The nation had mourned the loss of a brilliant politician. As with his son, there had been talk of him becoming prime minister. Just up from Oxford, Harry had paid little heed. He’d been too busy kicking up his heels and adding a few more smears to the family reputation.
He reached to comfort her before Jones cleared his throat. Winning Sophie from the dragons who protected her wouldn’t be easy. For the first time in his shallow life, Harry burned to meet a challenge.
He glanced around and noticed that full day had broken. Riders emerged for their morning exercise. To save Sophie from talk, he must ride on. “It was a pleasure seeing you.”
She bent her head with a grace that hinted at the grand lady she’d one day become. Under the brim of her stylish beaver hat, Harry caught a gratifying flash of longing in her eyes. “I’m engaged for Lady Carson’s ball tonight.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you there,” he said, not meaning perhaps at all. He bowed. Jones’s watchful expression warned him that a kiss on her hand would take things too far, damn it. “Good morning, Lady Sophie.”
Hills above Genoa, early March 1828
Pen stood on the inn’s terrace and stared at the rugged coastline below. The night was clear and she easily made out Genoa’s lights in the distance. Around her bloomed pots of spring flowers. After the frozen wastes, this seemed nothing short of miraculous.
The grueling journey drew to a close. Tomorrow, they embarked for home. This last week had been almost easy. The weather had been kinder and the roads in the more heavily populated areas showed considerable improvement from the goat tracks higher up. Even the inns were more luxurious, saving her from sharing a room with Cam again. Thank God. She still remembered lying awake, eaten with useless jealousy, while he’d stretched silently beside her, no more asleep than she.
The announcement of Cam’s marital plans should have eased the tension between them. She’d always known he’d marry, and now that his bride had a name, she should finally be able to crush her painful longing.
Instead, since that endless night, the atmosphere had weighed heavier and heavier. Until tonight it had become so unbearable, she’d barely finished dinner before rushing outside to escape him.
She flattened her unsteady hands upon the stone balustrade and stared blindly into the night. She wore a favorite gown, a sea-green silk purchased last year in Florence. Even as she’d asked Maria to find it, she’d recognized her pathetic purposes. She flaunted herself, taunting Cam. This will never be yours, however much you want it.
Definitely pathetic.
“Has my conversation driven you to throw yourself off a cliff?” a low voice asked behind her.
Slowly Pen turned. She should have guessed that Cam would follow. Lamps lit the terrace, lending enough brightness for her to see him in the shadows near the doorway. He’d dressed with care too, as if aware that tonight marked some kind of ending.
She’d been so reluctant to travel with him. It seemed absurd to be sad that their time together was nearly over. “You don’t talk enough to drive me to self-harm.”
He approached with the loose-limbed stroll that always set her heart racing. She really was a besotted idiot. He passed her one of the glasses of red wine he carried. “Let’s toast old acquaintance.”
For once, prickling hostility was absent. Instead, Cam seemed like the kindhearted boy she’d known years ago. Her determination to maintain her distance faltered. She raised her glass. “To friendship.”
“Our journey ends,” he said musingly.
“We have the voyage ahead.”
“We’re safe from scandal on the Windhover. My crew is paid to keep their mouths shut.”
How he must want this marriage with Lady Marianne. Unworthy chagrin cramped Pen’s heart. She wanted to tear every hair from the woman’s no doubt perfectly coiffured head. Pen had devoted too many futile hours to wondering about Cam’s choice. Beautiful, Pen was sure. Impeccably behaved. Circumspect.
“We’ve made it.” She tried and failed to sound happy.
Thankfully Cam didn’t appear to notice her glumness. He sipped his wine and stared out to sea with a pensive expression. “Yes. And without killing each other.”
“We’ve come close.”
He studied her. “I wish you well, Pen. I’ve only ever wished you well.”
She knew that. Her rejection of his proposal might sting. Her independence and obstinacy undoubtedly infuriated him. Perhaps he even regretted that they’d never explore the desire simmering between them. But the bonds of childhood affection persisted.
“I wish you well too, Cam,” she said softly.
“What do you intend to do when you get home?”
“Settle my aunt’s affairs.”
“After that?”
She shrugged. “Return to Italy. I have friends here and places I’d like to see.”
“You won’t stay in England?”
And witness, even from afar, Cam’s wedded bliss? Cam becoming a father? She’d rather cut out her liver with a paperknife. “No.”
“Elias and Harry would love to have their sister home.”
“They have their own lives. They’re used to doing without me.”
“Now they have to do without you and without Peter.” He flinched at her distressed inhalation. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”
She stared at him. “Goodness, Cam, was that an apology? I thought you’d lost the knack.”
His lips firmed, but he remained calm. Pity. Her longing was so much easier to control when dislike crackled. Except what vibrated between them wasn’t exactly dislike.
“I’ve been a brute.”
Her laugh was wry. “Not by anyone’s definition but your own.”
His gaze remained unwavering.