Michael felt nauseous as he led Anne up the steps to her parents’ townhouse. He hadn’t been here since the day of his thwarted proposal—not the most comforting memory.
And now he was about to inform Anne that her former husband, the man whom she had pledged to love and to honor, and in favor of whom she had promised to forsake all others, was an outright villain, and that her marriage had been built upon a lie. And even though every indication was that Wynters hadn’t treated her particularly well and that she harbored no deep affection for him, Michael, the man who’d stared down a charging bear without flinching, was terrified.
Yarwood was manning the door, and as soon as he spotted Michael, his stern features creased into a portrait of misery. “Lord Morsley, I am so glad you have come. I spoke to Lord Fauconbridge and Master Harrington the other day, and I beg you to allow me to express how horrifically sorry I am. I honestly thought I had delivered your letter to Lady Anne. But clearly I failed to safeguard it.”
Anne’s mouth had fallen open as she stared wide-eyed at the Astleys’ normally taciturn butler. “Yarwood?” she said softly. “What on earth?”
Yarwood did not seem to have heard her, for he soldiered on, wringing his hands. “I had entirely forgotten he was here that day. It was not until some months later that we came to realize that Lady Anne had never received your proposal, you see. And compared to your unexpected arrival, his presence was such a trifle, it was hardly even worth remembering. It wasn’t until Lord Fauconbridge and Master Harrington questioned me that I recalled that you were not the only guest we had that morning.”
Michael nodded sympathetically. “It’s all right, Yarwood.”
“It is not all right.” Yarwood’s voice was shaking. “It is not all right, and it never will be. I think—” He squeezed his eyes shut. “He asked me to fetch him a drink. I’m almost certain of it. And I left the room. I left the room, left your letter right there on the desk, and he must have…"
Michael clasped him on the shoulder. “You are not to blame. The blame lies solely with the man who acted with such dishonor.”
“I am inexpressibly sorry for it,” Yarwood said, hanging his head.
“There is no need.” Michael gave his shoulder a squeeze. “We came here to speak with you, so please don’t mention our arrival to anyone. I need to have a word with Lady Anne.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Anne had fallen silent. Michael released Yarwood’s arm with a final squeeze, then led Anne into the same drawing room where he had scratched out his proposal all those years ago.
“Michael,” Anne said as soon as the door closed, “am I to understand that you were here four years ago? And you—” She shook her head, as if distrusting what she’d just heard, “—you wrote me a letter of proposal?”
“I did.” He walked over to the writing desk. “The whole business with my uncle was so urgent, I had to depart on the first ship going out. But I stopped here, hoping to make my proposal first. You were out with your mother, and the footmen weren’t able to track you down. When it reached the point that I had to leave or I would miss my ship, I sat down right here, and wrote out my proposal in a letter.”
“A letter that someone took,” Anne said. She had been staring into the fireplace, but she slowly turned. Her eyes were guarded as she whispered, “Who was it?”
Here it was, the moment he’d been dreading. “I think you know,” he said carefully. “Think, Anne. Right around the time I left for Canada, did you come home from paying some calls, and find a letter had been left for you?”
“I did.” She gave a bleak chuckle. “I daresay the only reason I recall it is because so many people have asked me a similar question over the years.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then opened them. “It was a note from Lord Wynters. That’s whom you encountered here. Wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
Anne’s voice shook. “Let me make sure I understand. You came here on the day of your departure and wrote me a letter of proposal. Lord Wynters happened to be here as well. After you departed, he sent Yarwood away on an errand, removed your letter, and replaced it with one of his own. Is that what you’re telling me happened?”
Michael swallowed. His heart was pounding, and he thought he might be physically ill, but he forced himself to say, “That is what I believe must have occurred, yes.”
For a horrible eternity that was probably no longer than five seconds, Anne stood perfectly still. Then she made the most wretched sound, like an injured animal, some combination of misery and fury. She whirled around to face the fireplace. Her head was bowed, and her shoulders were heaving and convulsing.
“Anne,” he said, crossing the room in three steps. He reached out tentatively, unsure if she was crying with hurt or anger or something else, only to find that she wasn’t crying at all. Instead she was… digging through her reticule? “What are you—”
“Here!” she said, pulling out a pocket mirror with a porcelain case. She pulled her arm back as if to throw it at the wall.
“Anne!” He covered her hand, trying to be gentle even as he pried the mirror from her grasp. In as many years as he had known her, he had never seen Anne like this. She was physically shaking with fury. He had no idea what it meant, no idea what to do, what to say. “I know you must feel very upset. But you’ll regret smashing your mirror.”
She glared up at him. “It was a gift from Lord Wynters.”
“Oh. In that case.” Michael hurled it straight into the fireplace, where it made a very satisfying sound as it shattered.
He turned back to Anne, to find her struggling to unclasp her garnet earrings with hands that shook.
“Did he give you those, too?”
“Yes.” She was breathing hard.
“Don’t destroy those,” Michael said as she started to draw her arm back again. At Anne’s glare, he said, “They’re worth something. You can sell them and donate the proceeds to the Ladies’ Society.”
Her voice was petulant. “Fine.” Wrinkling her nose and holding them between her thumb and forefinger, the way you would pick up a ball dropped by a dog that was dripping with slobber, she deposited them in her reticule.
When she lifted her gaze to Michael, her eyes were wary. “Why did you not tell me?”
He sighed, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the sofa. “Because I wasn’t sure, not until two days ago. It’s a serious accusation, and not something to be made lightly.” He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I was in such a state that day, I forgot the man’s name as soon as he told it to me. The only thing I could remember was his unusual walking stick, with a handle in the shape of—”
“An icicle,” Anne finished for him, looking down.
“Yes. It took me years to piece it together, and still I wasn’t sure. Not until your brothers confirmed it was Wynters who carried that walking stick.” They fell silent, Anne staring blankly into the fireplace. After a moment Michael said, “May I ask what the note you did receive said?”
“It was merely a sentence or two, explaining that he had stopped by in hopes of seeing me, and looked forward to dancing with me at, oh, whatever ball was being held that night.” Anne brushed at a stray tear with the back of her glove. “It was nothing of any consequence, and those were the exact words I said to Mama when she came bursting in here, asking what my letter said.”
Michael squeezed her hand but said nothing.
Anne continued, “I understand now why she was so excited. Yarwood must have told her what was in your letter. She asked to see it, but I… I was in a bit of a pique that afternoon, and I refused. She had been encouraging me to be more confident, you see, to stop hiding in the ladies’ retiring room. And I knew she would interpret it as a sign that Lord Wynters was interested in me.” She looked down. “Which I suppose it was. But I clutched it to my chest, and said, ‘Please, Mama. Just leave me be.’ Then I stalked out of the room.”
“And she thought you had refused me,” Michael said quietly.
“She must have, yes.” Anne’s face crumpled, and tears began to streak across her cheeks. “I could have married you,” she said, her voice breaking. “I could have spent every single day with you. My best friend. My favorite person in the whole world. And instead, I… I…”
He pulled her into his lap. “I know, Anne. Believe me, I know.”
They stayed that way for a while, with Michael stroking Anne’s back while she cried on his shoulder. Eventually the worst of her sobs subsided, and she sat up, accepting Michael’s handkerchief. “Come on,” she said, sliding off his lap. “Let’s go home.”