We have finally arrived in New York! And not a moment too soon. We traveled via ship from Rhode Island, and once again Edward proved himself a ghastly sailor. I have told him it is only fair; he is appallingly good at everything else he does.
Ah, he glares at me now. I have the bad habit of saying my words aloud as I write them, and he does not appreciate my description. But do not fret. He is also appallingly good-natured, and he does not hold a grudge.
But he glares! He glares!
I might kill your brother.
—from Thomas Harcourt (and Edward Rokesby) to Cecilia Harcourt
Cecilia walked back to the Devil’s Head in a daze.
Thomas was dead.
He was dead.
She’d thought she’d prepared herself for this. As the weeks had passed without a word, she had known that the chances of Thomas being found alive were growing slim. And yet, now . . . with the proof of his signet ring in her pocket . . .
She was wrecked.
She could not even visit his grave. Edward had said that it was too far outside of Manhattan, too close to General Washington and his colonial forces.
A braver woman might go. A more reckless spirit might toss her hair and stamp her foot and insist that she must lay flowers at her brother’s final resting place.
Billie Bridgerton would do it.
Cecilia closed her eyes for a moment and cursed under her breath. She had to stop thinking about bloody Billie Bridgerton. It was becoming an obsession.
But who could blame her? Edward talked about her all the time.
Very well, maybe not all the time, but more than twice. More than . . . Well, enough that Cecilia felt she knew quite enough about Lord Bridgerton’s eldest daughter, thank you very much. Edward probably didn’t realize it but she came up in almost every story he told of growing up in Kent. Billie Bridgerton managed her father’s lands. She hunted with the men. And when Cecilia had asked Edward what she looked like, he’d replied, “She’s actually rather pretty. Not that I noticed for so many years. I don’t think I even realized she was a girl until I was eight.”
And Cecilia’s reply?
“Oh.”
Paragon of everything articulate and insightful she was. That was her eloquent response. But Cecilia could hardly tell him that after all of his tales of the amazing, superhuman Billie I-Can-Ride-a-Horse-Backwards Bridgerton, she’d pictured her as a six-foot Amazon with large hands, a mannish neck, and crooked teeth.
Not that the crooked teeth were in any way relevant to Edward’s descriptions, but Cecilia had long since accepted that a little portion of her heart was petty and vengeful, and, blast it all, she wanted to imagine Billie Bridgerton with crooked teeth.
And a mannish neck.
But no, Billie Bridgerton was pretty, and Billie Bridgerton was strong, and if Billie Bridgerton’s brother had died, she would have traveled into enemy lands to make sure his grave had a proper marker.
But not Cecilia. Whatever courage she possessed had been all used up when she’d stepped on the Lady Miranda and watched England disappear over the eastern horizon. And if there was one thing she’d learned about herself over the past few months, it was that she was not the sort of woman to venture into a nonmetaphorical foreign territory unless someone’s very life hung in the balance.
All there was to do now was . . .
Go home.
She didn’t belong here in New York, that much she knew. And she didn’t belong to Edward, either. Nor he to her. There was only one thing that might truly bind them together . . .
She went still, and her hand went to the flat plane of her belly, just over her womb.
She could be with child. It was unlikely, but it was possible.
And suddenly it felt real. She knew she probably wasn’t pregnant, but her heart seemed to recognize this new person—a miraculous miniature of Edward, and maybe of her, too, but in her imagination the baby was all him, with a dusting of dark hair, and eyes so blue they rivaled the sky.
“Miss?”
Cecilia looked up and blinked, only then realizing that she had come to a stop in the middle of the street. An older woman in a starched white bonnet was looking at her with a kind, concerned expression.
“Are you all right, miss?”
Cecilia nodded as she lurched into motion. “I beg your pardon,” she said, moving to the side of the street. Her mind was foggish, and she couldn’t quite focus properly on the Good Samaritan in front of her. “I just . . . I had some bad news.”
The woman looked down to where Cecilia’s hand rested on her abdomen. Her ringless hand. When she met Cecilia’s eyes again, her own were filled with a hideous blend of compassion and pity.
“I have to go,” Cecilia blurted out, and she practically ran the rest of the way back to the Devil’s Head and up the stairs to her room. She threw herself onto the bed, and this time when she cried, her tears were equal parts frustration and grief.
That woman had thought that Cecilia was pregnant. Unmarried and pregnant. She’d looked at Cecilia’s bare finger and made a judgment, and oh God, there had to be some sort of irony there.
Edward had wanted to get her a ring. A ring for a marriage that didn’t exist.
Cecilia laughed. Right there in the middle of her tears, in the middle of her bed, she laughed.
It was an awful sound.
If she was pregnant, at least the baby’s father thought they were married. Everyone did.
Except for that woman on the street.
In an instant Cecilia had gone from a young lady in need of kindness to a fallen harlot who would soon be relegated to the fringes of society.
She supposed that was an awful lot to read into a stranger’s expression, but she knew how the world worked. If she was pregnant, her life would be ruined. She would never be accepted in polite society. If her friends back home wished to remain in contact, they would have to do so clandestinely, lest their own good names be tarnished.
There had been a girl in Matlock a few years earlier who had found herself with child. Her name was Verity Markham, and Cecilia had only known her a little. Not much more than her name, really. No one knew who the father was, but it mattered not. As soon as word of Verity’s condition got out, Cecilia’s father had forbidden her to make contact. Cecilia had been startled by his vehemence; her father never followed local gossip. But this, apparently, was an exception.
She had not defied his order. It had never occurred to her even to question it. But now she had to wonder—if Verity had been a friend, or even something slightly more than an acquaintance—would Cecilia have been brave enough to disobey her father? She’d like to think she would, but she knew in her heart Verity would have had to have been a very close friend indeed for her to have done so. It wasn’t that Cecilia was unkind; she just wouldn’t have thought to behave differently.
Society had its dictates for a reason, or at least she’d always thought so. Perhaps it was more correct to say that she’d never really thought about the dictates of society. She’d simply followed them.
But now, faced with the specter of being that fallen girl . . .
She wished she had been kinder. She wished she had gone to Verity Markham’s house and held her hand in friendship. She wished she had made a public show of support. Verity had long since left the village; her parents told everyone she was living with her great-aunt in Cornwall, but there wasn’t a soul in Matlock who believed it. Cecilia had no idea where Verity had gone, or even if she’d been allowed to keep her child.
A sob burst from Cecilia’s throat, so surprising and harsh that she had to block her mouth with her fist just to hold it in. She could bear this—maybe—if she were the only one affected. But there would be a child. Her child. She did not know what it was to be a mother. She barely even knew what it was to have one. But she knew one thing: She could not subject her child to a life of illegitimacy if it was within her power to do otherwise.
She had already stolen so much from Edward—his trust, his very name. She could not steal his child, too. It would be the ultimate cruelty. He would be a good father. Nay, he would be a great father. And he would love being one.
If there was a child . . . he must be told.
She made herself a vow. If she was pregnant, she would stay. She would tell Edward everything, and she would accept the consequences for the sake of their child.
But if she was not pregnant—and if her courses followed their usual schedule she would know within a week—then she would leave. Edward deserved to have his life back, the one he had planned for, not the one she’d thrust upon him.
She would tell him everything, but she’d do it in a letter.
If this made her a coward, so be it. She doubted even Billie Bridgerton would be brave enough to deliver such news face-to-face.
It took several hours, but eventually Edward felt in sufficient control of himself to return to the Devil’s Head.
To Cecilia.
Who wasn’t his wife.
He’d long since stopped drinking, so he was sober, or nearly so. He’d had plenty of time to tell himself that he wasn’t going to think about her today. Today was about Thomas. It had to be. If Edward’s life was going to fall apart in a single day, he was damn well going to deal with his disasters one at a time.
He wasn’t going to stew over what Cecilia had done or what she had said, and he definitely wasn’t going to devote his energy to what she hadn’t said. He wasn’t going to think about that. He wasn’t thinking about it.
He wasn’t.
He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her and then beg her to tell him why.
He wanted to wash his hands of her forever.
He wanted to bind her to him for eternity.
He wanted to bloody not think about this today.
Today he was going to mourn his friend. And he was going to help the woman who wasn’t his wife mourn her brother. Because that was the kind of man he was.
Damn it.
He reached room twelve, took a breath, and wrapped his fingers around the door handle.
Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to comfort Cecilia the way he ought, but at least he could give her the gift of a few days before he questioned her about her lies. He had never lost anyone so close to him; Thomas was a dear friend, but they weren’t brothers, and Edward knew his grief could not possibly compare to Cecilia’s. But he could imagine. If something happened to Andrew . . . or Mary . . . or even George or Nicholas to whom he was not nearly so close . . .
He’d be decimated.
Besides, he had a lot to figure out. Cecilia wasn’t going anywhere; nothing but foolishness lay in the path of rash decisions.
He opened the door, blinking against the sunlight that streamed out into the dim hall. Every time, he thought stupidly. Every time he opened this damned door he was surprised by the sunlight.
“You’re back,” Cecilia said. She was sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard with her legs stretched in front of her. She was still wearing her blue frock, which he supposed made sense, since it wasn’t even yet time for dinner.
He’d have to leave the room when she decided to change into that nunnish white cotton nightgown of hers. Surely she’d prefer privacy to disrobe.
Since she wasn’t really his wife.
There had been no proxy wedding ceremony. He had signed no papers. Cecilia was the sister of a dear friend and nothing more.
But what did she have to gain by claiming that she was his wife? It made no sense. She couldn’t have known that he would lose his memory. She could tell the world she was married to an unconscious man, but she had to have been aware that when he woke up her lies would be exposed.
Unless she’d been taking a gamble . . . betting her future on the likelihood that he wouldn’t wake up. If he died while all the world thought they were married . . .
It wasn’t such a bad thing to be a Rokesby wife.
His parents would have welcomed her when she returned to England. They knew of his friendship with Thomas. Hell, they’d met Thomas. Had him for Christmas supper, even. They would have no reason to doubt Cecilia’s word if she showed up claiming to have married their son.
But all of that was so calculating. It wasn’t like her to be that way.
Was it?
He shut the door behind him, giving her a small nod before sitting down in their one chair so that he could remove his boots.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
“No,” he said, then looked down before he could see her swallow. That was what she did at times like these, when she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. He used to love watching her, the delicate line of her throat, the graceful curve of her shoulder. Her lips pressed together when she swallowed—not quite like a kiss, but close enough that he always wanted to lean forward and transform it into one.
He didn’t want to watch this tonight.
“I—”
He looked up sharply at the sound of her voice. “What is it?”
But she just shook her head. “Never mind.”
He held her gaze, and he was glad that the light had gone flat with the approach of nightfall. If it was too dark to see her eyes, he couldn’t lose himself in them. He could pretend they weren’t the color of a shallow sea, or—when the light was still tinged with the orange stripes of dawn—of the first unfurled leaf of spring.
He worked off his boots, then rose to place them neatly in the space next to his trunk. The room was heavy with silence, and he could feel Cecilia watching him as he went about his usual movements. Normally, he would be chatting with her, asking idle questions about her afternoon, or, if they had spent the day together, commenting about what they’d seen and done. She might recall something that had amused her, and he would laugh, and then, when he turned away to hang his coat in the wardrobe, he’d wonder about the odd tingle that fluttered through his body.
But he’d only wonder for a moment. Because it was obvious what it was.
Happiness.
Love.
Thank God he’d never told her.
“I—”
He looked up. There she was again, starting a sentence with a halting pronoun. “What is it, Cecilia?”
She blinked at his tone. He had not been unkind, but he had been brusque. “I don’t know what to do with Thomas’s ring,” she said quietly.
Ah. So that was what she’d been about to say. He shrugged. “You could put it on a chain, wear it as a necklace.”
She fingered the threadbare blanket beneath her. “I suppose.”
“You could save it for your children.”
Your children, he realized he’d said. Not our children.
Had she noticed the slip of his tongue? He didn’t think so. Her expression had not changed. She still looked pale, and numb, and exactly how one would expect a woman who’d just been informed of a beloved brother’s death would look.
Whatever Cecilia had lied about, it had not included her devotion to Thomas. That he knew was true.
All of a sudden he felt like the worst kind of heel. She was grieving. She hurt.
He wanted to hate her. And maybe he would in time. But for now, he could do nothing but try to absorb her pain.
With a soul-weary sigh, he walked over to the bed and sat beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders.
Her body did not soften right away. She was stiff with grief and probably with confusion, too. He had not been playing the part of a loving husband, and Lord knew, that was what he’d been until his meeting with Colonel Stubbs that morning.
He tried to think of what might have happened if the news of Thomas’s death had not been accompanied by the revelation of Cecilia’s deception.
What would he have done? How would he have reacted?
He would have put his own grief aside.
He would have comforted her, soothed her.
He would have held her until she slept, until all her tears were gone, and then he would have laid a whispered kiss on her brow before pulling the blankets over her.
“How can I help you?” he asked roughly. It took everything in him to form the words, and at the same time, it was the only thing he knew how to say.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was muffled; she’d turned her face into the crook of his shoulder. “Can you just . . . stay here? Sit next to me?”
He nodded. He could do that. It hurt somewhere deep in his heart, but he could do that.
They sat that way for hours. Edward had a tray brought up for supper, but neither of them ate. He left the room so she could change for bed, and she turned to face the wall when he did the same.
It was as if their single night of passion had never happened.
All the fire, all the wonder . . . it was gone.
Suddenly he thought about how much he hated opening the door to the room, how he never seemed to be prepared for the burst of light.
What a fool he’d been. What a damned fool.