Page 30 of A Lady of Means (Roses and Rakes #1)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Could it be that our Lady Marina is taking some time to lick her wounds after the play written about her (or wasn’t it)? Or… has someone turned her head?

* * *

Not one of their family members had been altogether surprised to hear that Moria and Devyn had gotten engaged the night of the play.

They’d not been able to hold it in the moment they’d entered Clairville’s carriage.

When Devyn had taken her home and spoken to her elder brother with her in the room, Jasper was a little put out that Devyn hadn’t spoken to him first; but he’d conceded that Moria was four and twenty, and her own woman.

Moria had wanted to kiss Devyn for not sending her out of the room for the conversation.

And then her whole family was rushing in, Olivia just returned from a ball in a flowery dress yelling: “My sister’s going to be a bride! Finally!” making everyone laugh.

Every congratulations, every hug, each champagne toast to the couple’s happiness from all the loved ones who truly cared, in her family home, felt like everything she had waited for.

But even with all their support, she’d found sleep hard to greet that night.

Be happy, her inner voice berated as she tossed and turned.

Why does it feel like being happy is only delaying the inevitable? That in my happy delirium, I won’t feel the other shoe getting ready to drop?

Devyn was expected back at her family home in London at any moment, committed to spending all the time he could with Moria until he deployed.

Moria left the breakfast table intent on taking her correspondence upstairs to her desk, contemplating how she’d spill the news that she was engaged, and not to The Duke.

But as soon as she turned the corner, her feet nearly collapsed from beneath her the moment the calendar on her desk caught her attention.

She might have forgotten to take the page off a few too many days in a row, she had to rip a few pages to find the correct date.

The bother was, she’d been so happy, her darkest days hadn’t been on her mind.

“Ella?” she called, trying and failing to hide the strain in her voice.

Ella returned with a bundle of fabric over her arm. “Yes, my lady?”

“What day is it?”

“Friday? The 6th, I believe.”

Moria’s stomach dropped, her heart fell down a flight of stairs. How could she have forgotten? Her own daughter’s birthday was tomorrow and she’d celebrated in Brookevale the last two years, but somehow she was here. In London.

“Pack a bag, we’re going to Brookevale,” she said, walking toward her closet.

“My lady? Is everything alright?” Ella asked, placing a hand on her arm.

Moria wanted her to leave. She felt a sob tearing its way through her chest, trying to escape through her mouth. Her eyes burned with tears pushing to break free. Her throat burned as she choked down a sob.

“Perfectly fine,” she said, wiping at her eyes.

She wasn’t perfectly fine. Rose was there, alone, in a graveyard, with no one to celebrate that she’d existed.

Moria felt the cold wood floor meet her as she slid down her door.

The hem of her lavender morning dress tore as her foot collided with it.

Her hair fell from her coiffure as she buried her head in her arms. The glint of her ring, Devyn’s mother’s ring on her finger, caught her gaze. The tears fell harder.

“My lady,” Ella cooed.

Moria’s throat was starting to feel raw and her head was starting to hurt. Moria didn’t care, she let arms pull her into an embrace, resting her arm on a shoulder.

“There, love. It’s going to be alright. I’m here.”

But it wasn’t Ella’s voice. It was a masculine voice. She opened her eyes and pulled back. She had been so distraught, she hadn’t heard him enter.

“Devyn, you’re here,” she tried to coax her voice into an even tone as the words came out, but they sounded choked and pained even to her own ears.

“Yes, love. What can I do for you?” His hands were so gentle and warm as he pushed her tear-soaked hair from her face and traced her cheek.

“I need. To pack. A trunk.” She could feel how swollen her eyes were as she forced them to meet his.

“Where are we going?” he asked with the most steadying voice she’d ever heard. She didn’t miss the ‘we’ in his voice. Her ears caught it, nestled it into her conscience, counted her heartbeats in its cadence.

“The church.”

He nodded, never taking his eyes off hers. “Where is this church?”

“Brookevale,” she said, biting her lip to stop it from trembling.

“And it will make you feel better if we get to this church?”

“I have to,” she hated how the conviction and determination she felt in that moment didn’t register in her voice. She followed his eyes as he noted the way her fist was curled around the lapel of his jacket.

“Is it alright if I leave you for just a moment to have the carriage sent for?”

Relief washed over every muscle and sinew. She sagged against the door and sucked in the first full, cleansing breath in minutes. She could only nod. She sat, curled up against the back of the door to her antechamber, unable to speak until he returned.

“Ella has your trunk packed. Mrs. Brierley packed us a picnic basket for the drive. They’ve all agreed to cover for you for 48 hours. The carriage is out front. Can you walk or shall I carry you, my lady?”

He’d arranged all of this in the span of a few minutes after seeing her in tears and asking only a few questions. She wanted to say all the things that this did to her, but she could only show him. She held out a hand and let him help her to her feet.

And then, she buried her head in his chest, both arms clenching his waist like a buoy in changing tides. When she’d felt like she was drowning in her own tears and grief, he’d been solid and steady. When he curled his spine to place his head atop hers, she took in another large breath.

“I can walk,” she said against his chest.

“I figured you’d say that,” She tucked the hint of a smile in his voice into the pocket of her being for later remembrance. “But if you change your mind, I am only a step behind.”

I love you.

Three words standing on the edge of her tongue.

Three words she didn’t have the courage to say.

Yet.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning back to speak them into his eyes, into the small cracks between their bodies.

And he did as promised. He was one step behind her, a stalwart soldier sworn to protect her against all her own demons and pain and pride, as they walked down the stairs and into the mews. He handed her into the carriage and then sat across from her.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked once the carriage turned onto another street.

“If I said I’d be more comfortable next to you?”

“I’d happen to agree.”

When he pulled a small laugh out of her, a few stray tears made it out in its wake. She didn’t know why those four words affected her, but having someone understand, reciprocate even, to want to hold her as much as she wanted to be held was a luxury she hadn’t always been afforded.

His strong, gentle arms pulled her across the seat.

They tucked her into his side. They curled around her shoulder and her waist. She placed a hand atop his, tracing a vein from the back of his hand to his forearm.

He briefly closed his eyes at the contact, settling them both deeper into the carriage seat.

Surely, he wants to know what sent me into a crying fit?

“Why don’t you rest your eyes and I’ll let you know if we make any stops.”

She looked up at him, into the starry night of his eyes. “What about you?”

“I’m holding you. Don’t you think I’m perfectly content right now?”

Then he must have read her mind, either that or he saw the way her eyes fell to the full, pouty pillow of his bottom lip.

He placed her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipped her face up to his.

The light in his eyes became darkness, taking in the bow of her lips seconds before he set his mouth to hers.

The press of his lips against hers, one lip circling another, one lip succumbing to the invitation of another.

She could taste the mint of his breath and the salt of her own tears.

Her hands grasped the back of his head, twining in his dark locks.

A torturously pleasurable groan escaped from him, she chased it into her own mouth. She wanted to taste his sounds. It blocked out the taste of her tears. He blocked out everything else, holding her against him as he said, “You should rest for a while. I’ll be here.”

* * *

When Moria closed her eyes, she saw the same dream she’d seen before countless times.

Her brothers supported Marcus’ weight on either side in the kitchens of Brookevale, his arms slung over their shoulders.

“Moria,” Marcus called, reaching for her with a bloody hand. The sound of her name on his lips sounded differently than it had any other time in the past. Moria placed a palm against the nearby doorway to steady herself at the sight of him, a trail of blood in his wake.

“Sister, we need you, go and get your sewing kit,” Lawrence called over a shoulder as their eldest sibling, Jasper, the heir, laid Marcus on the emptied table in the kitchen.

Moria choked on a sob. “My…sewing kit?” she asked, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“The Marquess was shot,” Jasper explained without meeting her eyes. “We’ve sent for a doctor, but he’s losing so much blood he’ll never make it if we wait. I’ll do my best to remove the bullet, but you’ve the steadier hand with a needle.”

Marcus’ turquoise eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. It was evident her brothers still didn’t know about her and Marcus. That hadn’t been her doing, Marcus had been the one who insisted they wait before telling anyone, which she hadn’t understood before was wrong; but now she did.

She wanted to run to him, to take his hand in hers, to run her fingers through his gold hair…

“Moria!” Lawrence snapped.