I really cannot be certain about this.”
Mrs. Lundie drew out a voile dress, the color closely matching an early budding red rose. “Ye dinnae need to be certain of anything, Miss Woodhart. His lordship said ye were to come, so ye are.”
“But I do not think Miss Tilbury—”
“Miss Tilbury is nae lady here yet, noo is she?”
Yet. The word thudded against Ella’s chest. “I dare to venture she never will be. Now”—she tugged the dress from Mrs. Lundie’s hands—”this will not do at all. If I am to go, I shall not attend looking like an ape-leader in this old thing.”
“But Miss Woodhart—”
“Never mind your fuss.” Ella flew to her selection of gowns and reached for a handful of golden silk. She drew it out. “I have something more fitting for the occasion. What do you think?”
With eyes widening and a tentative smile, Mrs. Lundie finally nodded. “I think ye’ll be the loveliest thing I hae e’er seen.”
The guests entered through the ballroom doors, some in pairs, others in small, clustered groups. Their eyes skidded to Henry. Careful, curious, amused. Then, one by one, they filed toward him.
The gentlemen tipped their hats and made general complaints on matters of war. The ladies took turns curtsying and smiling, but the moment they strolled away, whispers flew behind ivory fans.
Repulsion needled through him. Could they not delay their murmurs until they were out of his sight? He half wondered what they said of him. And if they thought so ill of him, why did they compete for his attentions with their coy glances and practiced smiles?
“Well, you look pink of the ton.” Sir Charles Rutledge appeared, having already helped himself to a glass of lemonade. “I rather thought Lady Rutledge had lost her senses when she told me of your invitation.”
“It was not my invitation.”
“Oh?”
Henry grimaced as a large ostrich feather rose above the others. “The culprit approaches,” he murmured. Then, with a slight bow, “Miss Tilbury.”
“Lord Sedgewick.” Auburn curls wound tightly against her powdered face. “Forgive me for not arriving sooner. The maid provided me is less than nimble, I fear, and sorely lacking in the ability of arranging hair.” A dimple appeared. “Do you think my hair tolerable?”
Henry frowned, silent.
“Er—I find it quite stunning, miss,” Sir Charles supplied. “Do you care for a glass of lemonade?”
She bestowed a faltering smile upon him. “How kind, sir, but I must decline.”
“Then perhaps I can persuade you to join the set with me? I am certain my wife can have no objection.”
Miss Tilbury’s lips pursed, but if she had planned another excuse, it must not have come to her fast enough. She allowed Sir Charles to escort her toward the others already beginning to form in lines.
Henry made his way to the other side of the room, where he lingered by a large plant whose leaves offered him a bit of seclusion.
Only then did he see her.
Miss Woodhart stood across the room, the silk of her golden gown catching the light of the chandeliers. In her hair, she wore a chaplet. Sweet little ringlets dangled along her cheeks, ending at her jawline where a smile was already forming. Was she looking at him?
He couldn’t be sure in the distance, but it hardly mattered. Two young Corinthians from the village approached—one handing her a glass of lemonade, the other kissing her gloved knuckles. Moments later, she was swept into the dance.
The music made a vicious pound at Henry’s temples. He hadn’t desired to dance in so many years. Perhaps never. There had never been a reason to tempt him.
He swallowed hard and kept his eyes away from Miss Woodhart. For half an hour he managed to avoid the supposed pleasantries of conversation, though at one point he’d been forced to change locations, for the two Creassey sisters had been approaching.
He diverted himself with wafers and a piece of cake.
“I must say, Lord Sedgewick,” said Lady Rutledge, with her own plate of cake in hand, “I am rather mortified to see a certain individual in attendance.”
Henry’s eyes roamed back to the dance, where he caught a flash of gold. “I can think of no one present who might offend you, my lady.”
“Oh, do not be daft with me, my lord! You know very well of whom I speak.”
“Granted, but I am afraid there is nothing I can do to alleviate your discomfort.”
“Well.” Lady Rutledge leaned closer. “I have never seen a governess in my life dress like that.”
“Like what, my lady?”
“So … modish, you know.”
“If her dress is envied, my lady, perhaps I can direct you to her seamstress.”
“Envied?” She scoffed. “Hardly so. I am merely at sixes and sevens as to why she would be here in the first place.”
“Ponder the matter no further, my lady. I required it.”
A gasp. “Well, that is rather shocking.”
Henry froze.
Movement across the room, a dull shock of brown hair …
“One would think, after the disaster of her last social outing, you would keep the little chit under lock and key until company has departed.”
Henry’s stomach roiled. “Excuse me, Lady Rutledge.”
“Well!”
Leaving behind his plate, he weaved through a group of ladies. “Pardon me.”
“Oh, Lord Sedgewick,” said a woman, “you must allow me to introduce you to—”
“Another time, I’m afraid.” Henry slipped away farther. Panic made a slow rise through his chest. Please, God …
Half hidden in a dark corner, the figure turned. Luminous eyes caught his and held.
Henry halted close enough to be heard. “Ewan, what are you doing here?”
“If you do not let me dance with her, we shall only slip away later,” came the whisper. “You cannot prevent us.”
“Dance with who?”
“Lucy.”
“She is not here.”
“But I see her.”
“Ewan, she—”
“There.” Ewan’s thin, pale hand lifted to the dancers. “See how beautiful she looks? Her dress … her dress is golden like her hair …”
Blood rushed cold through Henry’s veins and he seized his brother’s arm before he had time to think.
Glances stole their way. More tongues to waggle.
“Ewan, this is not the place. We shall discuss the matter upstairs.”
“My prison … you cannot hide me forever.”
“Ewan—”
“Go to the devil, Henry!” Ripping away from him, Ewan cursed and flew from the room.
More eyes drifted toward Henry. Even Miss Woodhart stared his way until the dance forced her attention back to her partner.
He exited with all their dashed gazes following him. There was nothing left of his reputation anyway. He was a blackguard to all of them, to himself, to the wife he had killed.
He ran up the stairs and found the door to Miss Woodhart’s room swung open. “Ewan.”
His brother stood by the window, tears wetting his cheeks, fists at his sides. “She is dead.”
“I know.”
“Yes.” Sobbing. “Of course, you know. You killed her!”
“Ewan—”
He flung forward and sprang a fist into Henry’s mouth. Then another.
Henry caught his arm. “Not here,” he rasped. “I’ll take you to your chamber—”
“No, no, no!” Ewan collapsed, pressing his hands over his ears. “No, no, no … I won’t go back into my prison …”
“You have no choice.” Henry dragged him to his feet. Blood stung his lip. “Do you hear me, Ewan? You have no choice.”
“One day.” Ewan staggered. Fury spun in his eyes, slipping out into his voice, “One day I shall be free, and the one in chains shall be you, Brother.”
Henry yanked him from Miss Woodhart’s chamber.
“I shall see you suffer.”
Up the stairs.
“I shall watch you ache, as I have ached.”
Henry kicked open Ewan’s door and shoved him inside.
“Lucy had it planned all along.” Ewan stumbled back to his bed with more tears. “And now we’ll watch you die together.”
“No one is going to die.” Henry started from the room but paused. “And Ewan?”
His brother lifted miserable eyes.
“If you ever invade Miss Woodhart’s chamber again, God forgive me for what I shall do.”
His brother only turned his face into a pillow and spoke not a word.
“My.” Miss Tilbury fluttered her face with a fan, her smile not quite reaching her brooding eyes. “You look most exquisite, Miss Woodhart.”
“Thank you.”
“And your dress is quite the masterpiece. Silk?”
“Yes.” Ella turned to an approaching gentleman.
With a bow, he offered a quick smile to Miss Tilbury before his eyes turned to Ella. “You are quite the dancing creature, if I may be so bold, miss. Whoever was your caper merchant?”
“A—”
“Oh, I am certain she cannot answer, sir, for she is only but a governess. Certainly she could not afford the pleasures of a dancing master,” said Miss Tilbury.
The gentleman glanced to Ella in question.
“Yes,” she said. “Miss Tilbury is correct.” Excusing herself, Ella made a quick departure toward the other side of the room. She approached the plant, the place she had spotted Lord Sedgewick hiding only an hour before.
It was empty. Where had he gone? And why had his brother appeared in dusty clothes, evidence that he had been kept away for so long?
As soon as Lord Sedgewick left, murmurs had filled the room, dulled only by the sounds of the orchestra. How unfair of them to speculate, to judge him—
“One usually does not linger here unless intending to avoid.”
Strange, that she should know his voice so well, that it should evoke such a fluster inside. She turned to greet him. “You sound as if you have made use of the place often.”
“Quite.”
She studied his face, the handsome curve of his jaw, the pale shades of his eyes. Then his lips. She lingered there without meaning to, her stomach twisting. “You are hurt.”
He glanced away.
“You have learned a great deal in the time I was absent. What more have they told you of me?”
“I did not share in their whispers.”
“Why not?”
“Because nothing they have to say could be of interest to me.” She paused. “Only your words matter.”
He met her eyes then, his gaze warm and sad, until finally a smile broke through. “Let us speak of my brother no further, Miss Woodhart.” He opened his hand. “I believe I would rather dance, if it’s all the same to you.”
Stay in his prison, they screamed at him. He was tired of listening. He was tired of hearing them scream. He couldn’t stay in his demon chambers any more than he could have stayed away from Lucy’s love.
He was iniquitous. He always had been. Perhaps that’s why she left … his mother. Couldn’t have been Henry. No, Henry had never been unruly, never raised his voice too loud or run about the house.
Even in later years, when she’d already gone, Henry had never gambled and imbibed brandy. That was the reason, no doubt, why their father had turned his back on Ewan too. They all despised him.
Henry only provided for him because of the will. As long as Wyckhorn belonged to Henry, he was to care for his wicked younger brother, the one they’d all rather do without.
Ewan had tried to oblige them.
If only he could die.
But Lucy had loved him. She had kissed him, held him, whispered warm words to him. The first balm his bleeding soul had ever known … and now she was gone.
Ewan’s steps were silent as he slipped back down the stairs for the second time. Music rose from below. Was his brother dancing, laughing? Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be laughing forever.
The nursery door had been unnoticed for so long. Only wicked memories lived inside. Another prison.
He pushed the knob without sound and slipped inside.
Under the window stood the little bed, where a sleeping figure lay without movement. Small, slow breathing filled the room.
Ewan crept closer. He dared not touch the child, not yet. He only stared into a face he had never really looked at before.
Lucy’s face.
His own face.