eighteen

Love may come unexpectedly by getting to know someone different, or getting to know them differently.

~A scientist’s observations on love

The passageway was starkly quiet as Gabe Gresham slipped into it from the drawing room. He needed space, silence, and several feet of solid wall between himself and the rest of the family. Ever since the trip to Brighton, his brain was alive with questions, what-ifs, and bright, sparkling hope. Willa Duvall had said she loved him.

Well, in a way. She’d recited a silly poem while dancing and twirling around him like a ridiculous little woodland sprite. Unquenchable she was, and sort of a mystery.

Which was precisely why he adored her. It was a truth so ingrained in him he’d wear it to his grave. She drew out something primal in him, a visceral magnetism that awakened life. He was a black-and-white charcoal sketch turned full color when she was here.

Gabe stopped at a window to look up at the distant ruins, inhaling with the sweet aroma brought by memories of their times together. It was a delight having her back here. Perhaps it was time to tell her the truth about himself. She should know, if her feelings for him were changing even in the slightest. But after watching her with the doctor at dinner . . . now he was confused.

He returned to his original mission—Celeste—and the morning room where he heard voices. What could have upset her? Yet when he pushed open the doors, only Dr. Tillman stood there, staring down at a piece of paper with a look of utter bemusement. His gaze jerked up when Gabe stepped in. “Doctor. I trust it is not our family that has left you so unsettled.”

He blinked, looking back to the paper then up at Gabe. “I’m not certain what I am, to be honest.” He held up the paper. “This is from your sister. Or at least, I think it is. Here, see what you make of it. It doesn’t sound like her, but she’s just flung it at me with the greatest fit of passion. I’ve never seen the like.”

“She threw it?”

“Well, yes, after saying a great long string of nonsensical things. Something about what was between us, and then something about Miss Duvall. It left me feeling like quite a cad, and I’m certain I must be, but I cannot for the life of me understand why.”

Gabe accepted the letter and frowned as he read the unusual lines. The handwriting looked familiar, but he wasn’t certain if it belonged to Celeste or someone else.

Tillman’s face was grim. “Perhaps I should go sort this out. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Why not give her the night? Let us sort through it here, see if we can’t reason with her.”

Unguarded relief shone through the man’s face. “Perhaps that’s best.” The doctor slipped the note into a book and set it on the desk. “I’ll just . . .” He cleared his throat. “In case she asks for it.” Then he darted out as if through an escape hatch.

Gabe stared at the door, his mind plagued with questions and a strong sense of duty toward the hurting sister more delicate than she let on. If only he understood what to do for her. He was as lost concerning love as she was, though.

Perhaps Burke would have an idea. He was far better with people and words. Gabe found him in the study.

“Well, then. Come to help, have you?” Burke shuffled papers into a pile and set them aside. “I cannot seem to make head or tail of Father’s new venture, and I could use a second opinion on a few matters.”

“I’m more suited to the stables than the desk.”

“I’ve no idea if we’re to expect racers or sires or hunting steeds, or perhaps all they’ll be good for is renting out to the tenant farmers to pull a plow.”

“Labels are about as helpful for horses as they are people. Simply expect them to be horses and let them show you over time what they are.”

Burke grimaced. “Can’t you at least make a guess? We have some sketches here, and some possible bloodlines.” He dropped the messy stack on the desk before Gabe.

He didn’t touch them. “It’s not for us to know before they’re ready to reveal it.” How like these wild stallions Willa could be. Untamable, unpredictable, defying labels . . .

“I’m not asking you to read the creatures’ minds, Gabe. Simply look at their legs, their bearing. Make a guess as to what they might be.”

Oh, how her eyes twinkled. Her words so flippant yet intimate too. She didn’t speak of love with every man, of that he was certain. Yet she’d meant it in a friendly manner this time.

Right?

“Gabe.”

He shook himself free of his tangled thoughts—but too late.

Burke paused his paper shuffling to stare at him, as if truly noticing him for the first time. Something in his expression made Gabe painfully aware of himself and the tiny glimpses of his thoughts he’d let leak out onto his face. He was used to knowing all about the people around him, but not the reverse.

“Something troubling you?” Burke came around to stand in front of the desk. “Is it Celeste? Women are a confusing lot, I’ll grant you that. She’ll come around, though.”

Gabe stared.

“Something else. Is it woman troubles?”

Gabe’s jaw tensed.

“There is someone, isn’t there? Some woman has worked her way into Gabe Gresham’s solid heart and set up home there, at last.” His smile was mercifully solemn and brotherly, rather than the mocking expression he so often wore. “And now you are in a muddle about what to do with it all.”

“Merely attempting to understand.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Give up now. Take it from a married man—women are as confounding as they are lovely, and the moment you think you’ve untangled things, you see the knotted mess it truly is.”

“Hmm.” Uneasy, Gabe let the implications hang in the air and disintegrate. Of all the things people had divulged to him over the years, he didn’t care to feel like a bedroom eavesdropper.

“One word of advice—do your own choosing. Never let her interfere, no matter how hard she works to insert herself. She’s made more than one unhappy match, including her own. So when it comes time, make certain you choose your own person to love.”

Gabe looked down. For him, it was never a matter of who, but if. He had never considered himself, a true loner, fit for marriage. Unless it was to her. Willa Duvall had woven herself into his life as thoroughly as a golden thread running through a tapestry, never to be removed without a thorough unraveling.

He remembered the first time her smile had caught him off guard—he’d been following her up a path and she’d flung a bright, dimpled smile back over her shoulder. He stumbled and tried to feign a trip over the rocks. Her melodic laughter followed—never directed at him, but somehow coloring their encounters with joy. It was infectious.

Burke’s voice broke through his sweet memory. “I suppose I shouldn’t be speaking of her so, especially to you, but she drives you mad at times too, doesn’t she?”

Willa? No. Gabe blinked, circling back to their conversation. Mother. He’d been speaking of Mother. “She has my pity. My empathy.”

Burke eyed him. “You’re not a bad sort, Gabe, even if you don’t say much.” He returned to his chair behind the desk, blotting his pen and writing. “I suppose I’ll merely figure those horses in as sires until we have a look at them and know more. Any horse can be that much, at least. Here, take these bloodline papers with you. Once you’ve untangled the great mystery of these creatures, you let me know.”

“The horses?”

“Well, them too.” His smile was coy.

Gabe ignored the insinuation. “It’ll take time.”

“So be it. And Gabe.” He lowered the pen, his gaze direct. “Go on and ask her, whoever she is. It can’t hurt. The worst she can say is no.”

He was absolutely right—nothing could be worse than her saying no. And she’d had a fair bit of practice at it.

Burke watched Gabe’s broad back move through the doorway and disappear into the dark passageway beyond, his mind still simmering with thoughts of his wife. Perhaps Clara should have married someone like Gabe, who was as quiet and reclusive as her.

His gut gave a sickening lurch. Was it him? Had Gabe written the letter? He couldn’t recall just then what Gabe’s handwriting even looked like.

Where was Gabe going, anyway? Where was Clara?

Panic seized him once again, as it had of late, compelling him toward the hall. The stranglehold only released whenever he found his wife involved in some innocent task, without the company of a man, without a new letter. Candle leading the way, he slipped through the long, shadowed passageway until he heard her voice, low and solemn, in Celeste’s chamber.

“Perhaps there was a misunderstanding. That Willa Duvall has a habit of accumulating men without the intention of keeping them. Dr. Tillman may find you utterly appealing in her wake.”

What was this? He stood at the door, which was slightly ajar, and watched his wife in intimate conversation with a very unsettled Celeste, who was apparently pining over Tillman. All the pieces fitted into place with a gush of relief. Celeste and the good doctor—who knew?

Celeste sniffed. “That Dr. Tillman had to go and ruin everything. Now all I can think of is marriage and children and . . .”

“And now you’ll find someone far better, and much more dashing.”

What if Tillman was interested, though? The man would make his sister a fine match. Perhaps it was time to play a little chess himself—only, he’d unite the forlorn with the one she truly loved.

He let out his breath and turned to go, but something drew him back. They giggled together, then there was another sniff. How uncouth it was to spy this way, yet he was compelled to simply watch. Their conversation hummed in the background, but it was his wife’s face that drew him, sweet and charming in the midst of Celeste’s turmoil.

I’ve seen the strength and kindness you believe go unnoticed . . .

The lines of that fool letter had burned themselves into the back of his eyelids, and now they returned as he watched the woman for whom they were written. Kindness. Yes, that described her immensely. And in that kindness, he saw the strength her admirer noticed. Bent near to his bereft sister, her very posture exuded a powerful sisterly empathy for this woman who had once been quick to snub Clara when she entered their household. Clara had, in fact, been more accepting of any person in this entire house than they had been of her.

. . . breathless with wonder and profound respect for who you are.

How much that woman had shifted the atmosphere of that room, even in her quiet—from dinner to now, Celeste was completely changed. He’d never thought of Clara as especially accomplished or mature, but there was a settled look in her eyes, a look of patient intelligence. How utterly appealing.

You inspired in me a passion both bright and deep . . .

He blinked, unable to tear his gaze away from the lithe figure perched on the settee like a little gem of sweetness in this stale old house.

Burke pulled back and shook his head. What nonsense. It was only some primal territorial instinct brought out by this admirer that made him see her so. The unknown letter writer had nothing on him, anyway. Nothing. Burke was her husband. He gave her everything she had, including a family name and home. Even those paints she loved so much had come from him. What had this letter writer given her in comparison?

As if on cue, another sentence from the letter surfaced in his brain. Dearest, if only you could see yourself from where I stand—how brave and unstoppable you would become.

And now she did. Through that wretched letter, Clara had the benefit of seeing herself through the rosy, dewy-eyed lens he handed her, with all the pent-up passion and admiration a woman could want.

Yet that was foolish. Foolish! How could mere words outweigh everything he’d given her? This man was simply spouting off flattering turns of phrase to catch her attention.

Quite suddenly, pieces of the letter interrupted his little rant, thumping through his head with every pulse of his heart. Let me remind you that I’ve known you long enough to see it all . . . I’ve watched when you thought no one was looking, and observed what exists below the surface . . . I even know that secret you hoped to keep from everyone.

He stretched his neck and forced a swallow as fear and anger wrestled in his gut. Somehow that stranger knew something he did not. Burke stared with new intensity at the woman on the settee with one thought burning in his skull—he simply had to know that secret. If it took his whole life, his entire marriage, he would know that one part of his wife that she had not shared with him.