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Later that afternoon
Colin hadn’t spoken to either of his companions since that opening conversation. As the hours had trudged by, he’d feigned sleep, spending the time instead contemplating Lucy’s words.
Had he truly not changed since those long-ago days when he’d believed in the charm and the magic of Christmas? He’d grown and matured, of course. That part of life was inevitable, but had his attitude about the holiday changed?
Perhaps. Did it matter? He was who he was. If the prudish widow still didn’t like that, it wasn’t a concern of his. Plenty of women delighted in the sort of man he’d become. He certainly had no problems convincing them to warm his bed. Yet, as he frowned out the window at the passing countryside, bare and ready for winter in the late afternoon light, he couldn’t help but continue his thoughts. Bed sport was everything wonderful, yet there was something to be said for companionship, of having a woman nearby for conversation and to simply share experiences, to look across the breakfast table and give a smile because she was his for more than a fleeting affair.
At one time, he’d assumed he’d have that with Lucy. So many Christmastide days were spent contemplating their future, looking forward to being adults and having lives of their own, of setting their own traditions for celebrating the holiday—of love. Colin stirred on his bench as restlessness descended upon him. Bah. Love. That emotion had the power to betray, to make things seem different than they truly were.
When that dream had died, and he’d married his wife a year later, he once more assumed he’d have the companionship he sorely desired. After a fashion he did, but what he’d had in common with Adelaide hadn’t carried past the bedchamber. They’d both made efforts over the course of their union; none had stuck, for when a relationship had begun out of obligation, there had been no time for growth.
And when it had ended over something born of desperation, well...
He glowered out the window. Even his thoughts provided no refuge. Of course, it didn’t help that his head pounded like the devil’s own drums on the march, but there was no hope for it.
“Why are you full of thunderclouds, Father?” The sound of Ellen’s voice, as well as her question, cut into his musings and scattered those maudlin bits.
Colin cringed and jerked his head in her direction, which only made the ache intensify. Damn the handful of drinks he’d indulged in after lunch while waiting for the ladies to refresh themselves to resume the journey. But brandy made him—at least temporarily—forget the man he’d turned into.
“Why should I smile on this endless trip?” he finally responded, and when he glanced at Lucy, who sat demurely reading her novel, he almost asked for her help in finding what he’d forgotten about himself, but he quelled the urge. There was nothing left between them except heartache. He bounced his attention back to his daughter. “I despise traveling.”
Ellen snorted. “It is only the first day, and while travel might be inconvenient, it takes us to exciting destinations. Just think of all the adventure waiting for us.” It was said with all of the innocent naiveté and spirit that only fifteen could bring.
“Family is on the other end of the trip, my dear. That is not cause of celebration.” He raked a hand through his hair and wished he were anywhere else.
“I get to see my cousins, and that is exciting to me,” she maintained.
He huffed. “I am not in the mood for joyous reunions or gentle recriminations on why I’ve been absent.”
In fact, he wasn’t in the mood for any of it. Why the devil had he agreed to the trip? Certainly a racehorse and an estate weren’t a fit payment for what else waited for him, especially if it meant dredging through unsavory memories of golden times past.
His daughter, never one to pamper or coddle him, blew out a breath of frustration. Her expression took on severe lines, as if she were much older than she was. But then, she’d done more than her fair share of looking after him. Because I am still that immature young man in many ways. Bitterness flooded him. “Perhaps you’d enjoy your days more if you wouldn’t drink so much.” She narrowed her gaze when he started. “Oh yes. Don’t think I didn’t know what you were about before we departed following lunch. I saw you order three drinks from the barkeep in quick succession.” She sighed, and her expression softened. “I worry for you.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. The book lay abandoned upon her lap, the ivory linen cover stark against her blue skirts. “Does he indulge in drink often?”
“Only when he’s in a brown study. Which is often enough.” Ellen peered at the woman next to her, her eyes nearly caramel-colored in the light of the afternoon sun. “It concerns me.”
“I can understand that.” Briefly, Lucy covered one of the girl’s hands with her own, patted it in solidarity. “There are many vices these days for people to indulge, to hide in.”
“Yes.” Ellen looked again at him. “I refuse to lose another parent.” To his mortification, her eyes misted with tears. “Life isn’t so terrible with me, is it? Is that one of the reasons you’re never without your spirits?”
Damnation. Just when he thought it couldn’t be worse. Colin’s chest tightened as cold guilt poured in. He hadn’t done the best by her, his only child. “No, dearest. While it’s true you aren’t exactly the most docile of girls, I wouldn’t trade you for anyone.”
“Oh, Papa.” Ellen launched herself from her seat and into his arms. “I wouldn’t trade you either, but the both of us must do better. We’re broken, but together we can heal.”
“Agreed.” His heart squeezed as he hugged her, the girl so much like her mother, the woman who’d been merely a mistress—the fiery, fourth daughter of an earl—until the pregnancy became known, and his father and hers demanded he do the honorable thing. As Ellen pulled away and resumed her seat, he said, “When I drink, I forget I have you in my life, that I should make more of an effort to make you proud.” That was true enough; she didn’t need to know what else he attempted to drink away.
Across the narrow aisle, Lucy wiped at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. Was he so pathetic that she cried in sympathy? Or perhaps it was relief that she’d escaped such a life with him. “Your daughter is quite correct, my lord,” she said in a quiet voice that immediately promoted calm. “Now is not the time to give up on living. Miss Rowley is on the cusp of womanhood and will do great things if given the proper training and encouragement.”
“Please, call me Ellen,” his daughter implored with a smile that didn’t reflect guile or mischief. Was it possible that simply paying attention to her could correct her behavior? It would seem he hadn’t learned anything about being a parent in fifteen years.
“I will.” Lucy returned the smile, and for the first time since she entered his carriage, the gesture reflected in her eyes, giving life to her face and returning at least five years to her countenance. “You may call me Lucy.”
He raised a startled gaze to hers. How could she act so differently with Ellen than with him? “I am not trying to die, Mrs. Ashbrook.”
“Then what?” She leveled her gaze upon him and he resisted the urge to squirm. She’d always had the capacity to look past the veneer he pulled over himself and see the stark truth he never wished anyone to see—that he feared being alone above all else. “What do you hope to achieve?”
There was nowhere to run in the coach, and he couldn’t very well escape the conversation, not after the tiny breakthrough with his daughter. “A cessation of memories,” he ground out, not caring that it bordered on God’s honest truth.
“Why?”
What the devil was with her incessant questions?
“Do you have regrets, my lord?” Interest hung on her voice and lit her eyes.
Annoyance flashed through him to banish the blue devils. “You know my name, damn it. Make use of it,” he demanded instead of answering.
Ellen’s eyes rounded, and he vowed to use vulgarity less. So many rules when one had an impressionable young person underfoot. How had he never assumed the mantle of responsibility long ago? He grimaced. Because, in the pursuit of pleasure, nothing else had mattered.
Now, it suddenly did, and all due to the woman sitting across from him, challenging him.
Lucy struggled to keep a grin from forming. “You could have asked politely.”
“I did earlier today, if you’ll recall,” he shot off, pleased when her cheeks colored.
Silence brewed between them for long moments as the coach rolled on.
“Why are you going home?” The sound of her voice rasped through his consciousness and brought him out of further wool-gathering. “It isn’t tradition, for my family and I have attended festivities at Lancaster Hall every year and never once have you been there.”
Ellen snorted. “Father hasn’t seen Grandpapa since Mother died.”
Ah, even longer than that, poppet. Since my mother died. Aloud, he said, “It is my father’s tradition. But no, I have not returned home since Christmas became lost to me.”
“Is that true, Colin?”
He jolted at her use of his given name. Had it always sounded so sweet? “Yes.” The word was pulled from him. “There was no point in going home throughout the years. London holds everything I wish to pursue.”
“Even happiness?” A frown tugged at her lips, and despite his best intentions, he dropped his gaze to her mouth and remembered what she’d felt like in his arms, her lips against his. What would she feel like with experience and time on her side now, and a woman’s body?
“That is irrelevant.” Colin snapped his focus away from the temptation she offered. It was better that way. They were strangers. Nothing more. Beside her, his daughter yawned, laid her head against the side of the coach and closed her eyes. Good, for he now wished to make Lucy squirm beneath questions. It was time for him to claim the upper hand. “Are you happy, Lucy?” Would it break his heart further to know that she was?
She stared at him, her features carefully blank before answering. “At times, though if you talk to my family, they would say I’ve lost the Christmas spirit over the years.” She shrugged and tapped a slender forefinger on her book. “I miss Jacob. It tempers my affection for things I once loved.”
Did that include him? He was too much a coward to ask. Perhaps he didn’t wish to know. Colin rested an ankle on a knee, striving for the picture of nonchalance. “You truly loved him?”
“Of course I did.” One of her eyebrows rose. “You doubt this?”
It was his turn to shrug as he leaned back against the squabs. “I assumed you married him to make me jealous.” Once he’d heard the news they’d been well and truly wed, he’d resolved to live his life in such a manner that he’d never again think of Lucy.
It had worked up to a point, but banishing her from his memories was much like attempting to part with a limb.
“You were beyond my reach.” She dropped her gaze to the book on her lap. “You made your choice. There was nothing left for us.” The words lacked emotion, as if she’d rehearsed them for years.
He snorted. “You took that choice from me.”
Lucy didn’t respond to the goad.
Once more silence reigned in the coach for another handful of miles while Colin kept his attention at the window, as did she.
“Jacob and I were good together.” The soft-spoken announcement yanked his regard back to her face, and her eyes clouded with a trace of happiness as she remembered. “He toiled for the Home Office, but stayed in Town, which is how we ended up in London. His limp prevented him from going into the field. He didn’t mind, for he adored his work.” Her smile sent shards of jealousy through Colin’s chest for the man—his best friend—who’d won her. “We raised a family. He loved Christmas. Always told stories of our early years together.” She landed her gaze on him, sadness now reflected in those ice-blue depths. “He mourned your loss.”
What was there to say? That they’d both betrayed him? That he couldn’t believe after all he and she had shared that she preferred Jacob to build a life with? That he’d wished things had been different? Knowing she wanted an answer, Colin said, “Christmas changed, for all of us. The charm it once had is gone, and there’s no going back.”
“Yes, I agree the holiday has changed, but you haven’t.”
“It’s the one constant,” he said with a fair amount of flippancy in his tone.
“So is the magic of Christmas,” she reminded him.
“Not anymore.” He narrowed his eyes. “You, of all people, should know the holiday holds no more magic.”
“Mayhap.” She held his gaze, but he couldn’t read the emotions clouding those depths. “You could find that again, Colin. For your daughter. Repair the damage between you. It’s the season of miracles.”
Did she truly believe that, or did she give him nothing but lip service? “Perhaps I don’t believe in it any longer. Christmas is for children. Nothing more.”
The light died from her expression and faded from her eyes. “That is quite sad.”
He hated that, once more, he’d caused her to become a lesser version of herself. “It doesn’t have to be.” Straightening his posture, he nudged her foot with his while darting a glance at his daughter to make certain she slept. “Flirtation passes the time, and that is most certainly not for children.” Then he winked. “So does kissing.”
A furious blush raged in her cheeks, which amused him, for she was a widow and a mother. “That is impossible.”
“Once, you didn’t think so.” Ah, it had always been such fun to banter with her, almost as lovely as holding her in his arms, sharing embraces, and the kisses he’d stolen, complete with his young man’s fumblings. They’d explored each other together when given moments alone, lost in their innocent love.
“Before the world and reality intruded.” Her chin trembled, the only outward sign she remembered, too. “That was another time, and we were different people.”
Colin frowned, and once more the blue devils poked at the edges of his consciousness. “Perhaps. More’s the pity.”
Lucy sighed. She shifted position on her bench, and her book slipped from her lap to the floorboards, unheeded. “It’s time to move forward and make this the best Christmas we can.”
“Why?” He leaned down and retrieved the slim volume. When he offered the book to her, a tiny smile tugged at one corner of her mouth as she accepted it from him.
“Jacob’s savings are gone, and the rest of his stipend I mean to have go to the children when they become of age.” She clutched at her book with tight fingers. “I’m afraid our pockets are to let. Once the holiday is over, I will be forced to go home. London isn’t our future any longer.”
Shock rocked him, and he sat back with a thump. No longer would he have a slim chance to glimpse her on the streets or in the shops or perhaps at a ton event. “I’m sorry to hear this.” At least that was the truth.
“So am I.” Her chin quivered once more, and he despised that tell of her emotions. Rarely had he had cause to see it when they were younger, but when he did, he’d always strove to make things right, to make her smile again. “I must find new happiness.” Tears filled her eyes, and she took refuge behind dabbing at them with her handkerchief. “Again, life is changing and... it scares me, for I’d never imagined myself at this crossroads.”
He nodded, looked away to give her the semblance of privacy. “For the children, then, we shall strive for normalcy.” But damnation if the news wasn’t enough to make him crave refuge in the bottom of a brandy bottle.