By evening, Asher was determined to leave London behind and forge ahead with a new life. At least, that’s what he told the Hollander twins.
In the forefront of his mind, however, he could only think about Winn. Those infernal ifs had been swirling inside his skull and leaving him with the lingering thought that, should he go to her one last time, it might make a difference.
Picking up his hat, he passed the twins on the way out.
“Well done, Holt. We’ve just come to fetch you for a proper send-off celebration,” Bates said with a waggle of his brows in the lamplight. “A night of merriment awaits us in the fine company of a few opera dancers.”
Avery, on the other hand, said, “I don’t think he’s leaving with us,” and released a lengthy sigh. “You’re going to her again, aren’t you?”
“I’m likely beating my own head against a rock, but I have to try.” And without another word, Asher sprinted away, leaving them to celebrate without him.
He was out of breath by the time he reached Winn’s house. After a robust rap on the knocker, the butler opened the door and eyed him warily.
“Lord Holt, I cannot allow you admittance.”
“Is it that blasted Holt, again?” Waldenfield barked from within, then marched across the foyer and filled the doorway like a blockade. To the butler, he said, “I’ll handle this.”
Then he stepped outside, closed the door behind him and crossed his arms. “Let us be done with this once and for all. I’ll even hear you out, if you like. So, tell me, what are your intentions toward my daughter?”
Asher straightened and offered the complete truth without varnish. “I want to marry her, my lord. I want you to rescind her dowry. And I want to take her away with me on a ship that sails tomorrow morning.”
His wiry red brows arched in amusement. “Is that all?”
“It is not a jest. I am in earnest.”
“Very well, then,” he said wryly. “What are you offering my daughter, a life of uncertainty? A promise of flitting off whenever a whim takes your fancy?”
He thought about the coin in his pocket from the servants. “At the moment, I have next to nothing. At least, nothing more than love to offer her, and a promise to give her the happiest life she could imagine.”
Waldenfield’s mouth tightened. “Did it ever occur to you that my daughter wants to marry Mr. Woodbine? He will make her a duchess one day, after all. And she will have a fine house and a life that will allow her to hold her head high in society.”
“A life from which she ran away. She never cared about becoming a duchess. All Winn wanted was to please you and her mother, and try to live up to impossible standards.”
“Mind the ground where you tread, young man,” Waldenfield warned darkly.
“Forgive me, my lord. It’s just that I know how difficult it is to live in the shadow of a parent who constantly demands more than any person can be expected to give.” Asher stood tall, straightening his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. “Winn deserves to be loved for who she is and I can give her that.”
Waldenfield scoffed, studying him with hard scrutiny. “You’re one of those romantics, with your head full of poetic delusions. Permit me to be crystal clear, Lord Holt. My daughter is not pining for you. In fact, she is so eager to marry Mr. Woodbine that she insisted the wedding be done with utmost haste. The date is set for the day after tomorrow.”
Asher winced as though he’d been struck. He certainly felt the sting of the blow.
But Waldenfield wasn’t through delivering his beating. “My daughter hasn’t mentioned your name once since you left. And in case you aren’t aware, it was her decision to have your letters returned at the door, not mine.”
This, Asher knew too well, had been his last chance.
Swallowing down the bitter truth, he inclined his head. “I am grateful for your candor, my lord. I shall be away for an indeterminate amount of time, and so I wish you and your family all the felicities that one can possess in life. I will not trespass again.”
* * *
That evening after dinner, Winnifred stopped by her father’s study to bid him good-night.
When she pressed a kiss to his cheek, he looked at the clock on the mantel and frowned. “So early? It’s not quite eleven.”
“Merely tired from a long day. I don’t have mother’s stamina for shopping,” she said, offering him the same excuse she’d given to Mother when she’d left the parlor a moment ago.
Though, in all honesty, the excursion had only been a jaunt to the milliner’s, where her mother had spent far too much time praising how well Winnifred wore a hat—without once mentioning that it effectively hid her unruly curls—and then to the draper’s to discuss the importance of the perfectly upholstered chair.
She turned to leave, when her father suddenly spoke, stopping her.
“You don’t sing any longer.”
“I will, if you like,” she said reflexively but secretly hoped he would not ask it of her.
The very thought of singing made her lungs feel tight, close to suffocation. She pressed a hand to her middle and drew in a breath before she faced him, forcing a smile in place. At least, she hoped it was a smile. Contentment was a disguise that fit about as comfortably as a steel corset with an iron busk.
Thankfully, he shook his head. “I used to hear you humming to yourself or singing oftentimes throughout the day. I suppose I noticed how quiet it has been these past days.”
“Perhaps you need to send Mother on an excursion for a music box.”
“Perhaps,” he said with a sardonic curl to his lips. Then he looked at her intently, his mouth in a grim line. “This wedding business is on my mind, as it is doubtless on yours.”
She offered a nod but said nothing.
“I want what’s best for you, Winnifred. I hope you know that.”
“I do,” she said, and meant it. She understood better now that her parents were flawed creatures, just like everyone else. And she appreciated that they tried to do the best they could. “You’ll be glad to know that there won’t be any running away this time. I’ve come to terms with my marriage to Mr. Woodbine. With him there will be nothing to speculate over. No unwelcome surprises waiting to spring out at any moment. I know precisely what I am to him and he will never be capable of fooling me into believing otherwise.”
His frown deepened. “Is that what Holt—”
“Please, Father, don’t say his name,” she said in a rush.
She tried to smile afterward, to stand tall. But she was suddenly too exhausted, and especially tired of how her parents were always looking at her as if she were about to dissolve into a puddle at any moment.
She said nothing more as she excused herself from the room. But in the corridor, she pressed her back against the wall and tried to catch her breath.
Then, when she was alone in her bedchamber, she let her false smile fall. She was fairly certain no one knew that part of her died a little more every day. No one knew she clutched her pillow to bury the desperate sobs choking her.
She tried not to think of Asher Holt, or how she’d once felt priceless and beautiful in his arms. She tried to ignore the suffocating agony of losing a love that she never truly had in the first place.
But every night, her pillow and her heart knew the truth.
It had all been a lie.
* * *
Imogene walked into his study that evening, charging forward in a rustle of silvery-blue taffeta, and stopped on the other side of Julian’s desk. She set her hands on the graceful flare of her hips and expelled a huff to gain his attention.
As if she imagined he wasn’t aware of her every moment of every day.
“Well, Julian? Did you see Winnifred at dinner?”
He casually lifted the first page from the wedding contract and turned it upside down beside the stack. “Of course, we were all at the same table.”
“You’re so stubborn and single-minded that you never see what’s truly important. But surely, even you have to realize that she’s in love with Viscount Holt.”
Yes, he did. He’d seen it in her face with such stark clarity that it was almost as if he’d been looking into a mirror. He wanted to save her from the pain that would come from loving someone too much. After all, he knew too well that love was like a plague on some hearts, slowly devouring and destroying.
When Holt had come here this evening and boldly told him that he could offer Winnifred nothing but love, Julian feared that her fate would be similar to his own. After all, he’d once married for love.
He would rather see his daughter strong and self-assured in her position in society than be crippled by a romantic heart.
Julian stood and straightened his waistcoat, walking around his desk to face the wife who’d unknowingly brought him to his knees too many times to count.
“Imogene, our daughter is going to be a duchess. As her father, it is up to me to ensure that she has everything. Winnifred deserves . . .” He cleared his throat and said, “All the things I never had the chance to give our other children.”
They grew still, staring at each other, the air quiet aside from the barest crackle of embers from the hearth. The faint tick of the clock on the mantel.
“This isn’t about her becoming a duchess, is it?”
“Winnifred is all I have.”
Imogene flinched. Lines drew taut above the bridge of her delicate nose, breaking through the typically flawless perfection of her face. “Don’t forget about your countess.”
“She is a friend, a dear friend, and nothing more. After you and I lost our last son”—he paused when her breath hitched, feeling the tightness of it in his own lungs—“you withdrew from me. You didn’t even look at me, let alone speak to me, and I needed someone to confide in.”
“I needed someone, too. I was in agony.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I blamed myself for it every single moment of every day.”
She stared at him in confusion, eyes wide. “But I thought . . . you blamed me. That I had failed you as a wife.”
He shook his head and took a step toward the barrier between them. “I was certain it was my fault. It was as though the Fates had decided that one man could not have it all. That he had to endure unendurable pain to deserve what he’d already been given. And because of my selfish desire to have wealth, happiness, and a house filled with our children, I might have lost everything.”
Imogene took a step forward, too, anger and anguish in the flash of her eyes. “You could have told me your fears instead of distancing yourself from me. I am your wife, after all. The countess is not.” She poked him in the pocket. “‘For Julian, and the love that was lost but can always be rekindled . . . if you but speak the word. Your countess.’ Explain that!”
“Don’t you understand? That engraving is about you and I. Yet, I knew that if we had consoled each other, you’d have been carrying my child again before your body and heart had healed. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk losing you.” On the admission, he uncurled the fists at his sides and reached out for her, cupping his hands over the slender curve of her shoulders and feeling a tremor roll through her. “I’d rather there be coldness between us as we pass in the halls than never pass you in the hall again.”
“You stupid, stubborn man,” she said, swatting at his chest, tears glistening in her eyes. “I hate you.”
He dared to draw her into his arms. A rush of pure joy shuddered through him when her body yielded against his in an achingly familiar embrace. “I know.”
Her cheek rested above the hopeful beating of his heart. “‘. . . if you but speak the word.’ What is that word, Julian?”
“Genie,” he said softly. It was the name he’d called her so long ago, back when pulling her into his embrace hadn’t been such a hard-fought battle.
A sudden sob wracked her body. She clung to him, crying in his arms as he pressed kisses over her hair, her temple, her cheeks.
Then finally, after so many years of wanting, he eased his mouth over hers.