Page 41 of Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

E dward’s breath misted on the windowpane. He rubbed the spot with his sleeve and peered out to see a moonlit landscape beneath a clear, star-strewn sky. His mind went back, briefly, to his childhood, when he’d spent nights wrapped in a blanket on this same window seat, watching for shooting stars. He didn’t feel like watching for such things tonight. Unable to sleep, he was merely passing time till the sun rose.

He dropped his gaze to the steps below—the steps Harriet had climbed that morning. Then he shifted his gaze to the south, toward Hawksworth. He couldn’t see the village, of course, but he knew, generally, where it lay. Harriet was there still, staying at the village inn, likely asleep at this hour.

She’d be leaving in the morning, no doubt wondering why he hadn’t gone to see her or even responded to her message. Her arrival at Goshawk had been a total shock. He’d almost capitulated and allowed her entry. Indeed, he’d have been obliged to do so if the carriage hadn’t been waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

He’d thanked God for the carriage.

One could be forgiven for thinking that the discovery of Julia’s deception had given him absolution. That life could now go on, free from guilt and remorse. Well, not quite. Humiliation had a sour taste, and he could not simply close the door on years of self-recrimination. Learning of Julia’s betrayal had summoned up new demons, such as anger and resentment. And he found himself mourning the loss of a child for the second time. For he had mourned her before, more deeply than he’d realized.

And now he’d lost her again.

She was no longer his.

She had never been his.

Edward knew it would take time to come to terms with everything, and he refused to set an agenda. Such an undertaking could not happen in the space of a day, or a week, or even a month. He would allow himself as much time as needed. Alone, with only his trusted servants around him, he could cope with his current despondency. They trod quietly, saw to his needs, and didn’t pester him. He’d been careful with himself too. Sleep eluded him most nights, but he suppressed the urge to find solace through drink, day or night. He was determined to fight his demons bare-knuckle.

If he’d let Harriet in that morning, seen the love in her eyes and heard the concern in her voice, he’d have risked undermining his emotional defenses. His loathing of weakness remained. He hated the thought of exposing his fragile state to anyone outside Goshawk. He’d come close to baring his soul to Ambrose the day he’d left London, but had held back.

As for Harriet, he had much to say to her, but he wasn’t yet ready to say it. She would never know that she’d managed to undermine his fortitude that day without even setting foot in Goshawk. Surely a man should not weep the way he had wept that morning. He had sobbed uncontrollably—hard hiccups of sorrow that had made his chest ache. And he hadn’t even been sure why he’d wept.

Oddly, he’d felt better afterward, though he’d been utterly appalled at himself.

Shivering, he moved away from the window, closed the curtains, and went over to his desk, where the catalyst of his recent emotional collapse lay.

Harriet’s letter.

He picked it up and read it again.

My dear Edward (I make no apology for the use of your Christian name. For me, you have always been, and will always be, Edward),

Given the opportunity, I would have preferred to have spoken these words to you personally. If you are reading this, it is because that opportunity did not present itself. The words are few, but they originated in my heart a long time ago. They have been with me since childhood, and they will be with me till I die.

I love you.

I have faith in you.

And I believe you are bound to do great things.

Yours always,

Harriet

The next morning at precisely eleven o’clock, the carriage departed the Rose and Crown and headed south. Harriet gazed out of the window, her sad reflection in the glass looking back at her. She had almost gone back to Goshawk that morning to try again.

Almost.

It would be a long ride back to London.