“Ye cannae put her oot in the middle of the night,” Duncan said again to his mother. “Colonel Draven will come for her in a day or so.”
Ines took a step back, as though she had been punched. Emmeline could imagine it felt as though she had been.
“Ines,” Emmeline said, and reached out her hand. “Come with me. You may stay in my chamber tonight.”
Lady Charlotte might throw them both out, but Emmeline couldn’t leave Ines to fend for herself. And if Duncan was willing to abandon her, as he just had, he should be drawn and quartered.
“Fine,” Lady Charlotte said, seeming to crumple a bit. Was she too disappointed? “She is your responsibility, Miss Wellesley. If I find her fornicating with my stable hands, I shall hold you responsible.” Lady Charlotte looked at her son. Had the comment been a last effort to provoke him?
Emmeline glanced at Duncan. Surely he would not allow that comment to go unchallenged. He seemed ready to say something, but his mouth did not open. Ines ran to Emmeline and buried her face in Emmeline’s shoulder. Emmeline wrapped an arm about Ines’s slim shoulders and guided her back to Emmeline’s room. When they passed Stratford’s door, it was closed.
Once inside, Emmeline seated Ines by the fire and built it up as Ines was shivering. She knelt before the chair where she’d put the other woman and took her hands. “I wish I had some wine to offer you,” she said. “You’re shivering. Here.” Emmeline removed the blanket from her shoulders and draped it over Ines.
“I thought he loved me,” Ines said, staring into the fire.
Emmeline squeezed her hands. “He does love you. Anyone with eyes can see that. Even his mother.”
Ines looked away from the fire, tears glittering on her eyelashes. She looked so pretty. Of course, she did. When Emmeline cried her face turned red and her eyes became puffy and snot poured from her nose.
“Not enough,” Ines said.
Emmeline hugged her. “I believe this is the sort of situation where one says, It’s complicated.”
Ines pulled back and shook her head. “Lace designs are complicated. That horrid game you English play, whist, is complicated. Love is not complicated.”
Emmeline opened her mouth to argue that sometimes it was complicated, but then she closed her mouth again. Ines was correct. Murray either loved Ines enough to fight for her, to sacrifice for her, or he did not. The equation was actually very simple.
“You’re right,” Emmeline said. “Murray has no excuse.” And then to herself she murmured, “Stratford has no excuse.”
He either loved her enough to believe that she could love him back, that he deserved to be loved back, or he did not. She had laid her feelings bare. She had done that one thing she had sworn she would not do—give her heart to a man. It had taken most of her childhood to pry her heart away from her mother and cushion and wrap it so her mother could no longer cause her pain. Now she’d been fool enough to offer her tender, bruised heart to Stratford. Whereupon, he had looked at her gift and returned it.
Stratford might not believe he was worthy of Emmeline, and if he would not fight for her, even if that fight was within himself, then that assessment was all too correct. He didn’t deserve her.
STRATFORD
Stratford waited until all the noise and voices quieted and the house was still once more. Then he took the bottle of whisky he had slipped in his coat at dinner and went across the hall to knock on Duncan’s door.
“Go away,” Duncan said.
Stratford tried the latch, found it open, and walked in. Duncan was lying on his bed, dressed in loose shirt and trousers, staring up at the ceiling. When Stratford entered, he half-rose, his eyes looking ready for murder. Stratford paused until Duncan saw who it was and plopped back down. “Och, it’s ye.”
“Good God, man. That bed is huge.” It was one of those massive, carved beds with four posts and half a forest’s worth of wood, which had been whittled into elaborate Celtic symbols.
“I’m nae a wee man,” Duncan said.
But even for a man of Duncan’s proportions, the bed was generous. “Where did it come from?”
Duncan waved a hand. “Some ancestor or other. Why are ye here? Did Miss Wellesley send ye to flay me?”
Stratford held up the whisky bottle. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
Duncan sat. “Ye thought right. Where are my manners?” He climbed out of the bed and indicated two chairs near the hearth. The hearth was easily large enough for a child to stand in, perhaps two children.
“You never had any manners,” Stratford said, taking a seat, then accepting the glass Duncan offered him. He poured them both three fingers, but Duncan stared at the offered glass until Stratford filled it to the top.
“Now that’s a drink,” Duncan said, taking it. He lifted it in salute to Stratford then drank half it down. Stratford blinked and sipped his own drink. The whisky was strong and burned his throat. He winced, knowing it would burn less the more he drank. And he would feel less as well.
“Did ye come tae tell me what an idjit I am?” Duncan asked.
Stratford shook his head. “It would be hypocritical as I’m also an idiot.” He drank again, winced.
“Ye finally realized ye love Miss Wellesley? Ye mooned over the lass the whole time we were in London.”
“Yes, well, nothing has changed since we were in London,” Stratford said. It was true. Emmeline had never treated him any differently than the other members of his family. He’d thought that meant she didn’t care for him. But perhaps it was because she had cared for him. And now she loved him. “She loves me,” he said. “And I managed to ruin it.”
Duncan held out his glass for more whisky. Stratford looked at it with wonder then poured his friend another glass. “So fix it,” Duncan said.
“If only I could, but that would require traveling back in time and preventing my conception.”
Duncan furrowed his brow. “One thing I dinnae miss aboot England is how ye English never make any sense. If ye love the lass, then marry her.”
Stratford waited just a beat for Duncan to hear his own words through the whisky haze and knew the moment he had when he drank again. “You do know what I am about to say?”
“Nae need tae say it.” Duncan ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “I shouldnae have taken her tae bed. I dinnae ken where my heid was.” He lifted the glass and studied the liquid in the flickering light from the fire. “I kent my mother would never accept her. I kent Draven would kill me. And I couldnae stop myself.” He looked at Stratford. “And I would do it the same way again.”
“Then do the right thing and marry her.”
Duncan shook his head, and Stratford lifted a hand. “You will be happy, your mother will be happy once she has grandchildren to spoil, and Draven—well, he will never forgive you.”
Duncan laughed then looked serious. “My father’s death is my fault.” He pointed at Stratford when he tried to argue. “I dinnae shoot the pistol, but my father wouldnae have been in the line of fire if nae for me. It wasnae easy, but my mother forgave me. My brother forgave me. My sister—I dinnae think she can ever forgive me. And all these years, I have tried to make it up tae my mother, and she has never once asked me for anything. Until now.”