Page 21 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

T he sun had slipped just below the hedgerows, leaving the sky streaked with dusky gold and purple, and the crickets began their chorus in the fields as a bat flitted overhead, barely more than a blur against the fading light.

The grass edging the lane whispered with every swish of her hem, and the earth beneath her feet was dry and uneven, beaten down by cart wheels and foot traffic over countless seasons.

Tessa folded her arms tightly against her ribs, more to contain the roiling within her than to brace against the evening chill, and she hurried along, desperate for the refuge of her bedchamber.

Dragging in a breath as she scurried down the lane, she held it for several long moments before letting it seep from her nose.

But it did no good.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as her thoughts circled back to that wretched exchange.

How effortlessly Mr. Vaughn had stirred her up.

How smug he’d been, how quick to pass judgment.

And worst of all, how easily she had fallen into old patterns—snapping, bristling, defending with too much heat and not enough grace.

The path narrowed as Tessa reached the village proper, the lane hemmed in by the storefronts and houses. Lamps were lit up and down the row, their light flickering through the edges of the shutters, and the inn’s chimney puffed steadily in the distance, a faint haze curling above the slate roofs.

Tessa forced her steps to slow, though the frustration hadn’t drained from her limbs. Instead, it simmered low, threatening to rise again.

She hated this. Hated feeling like she was unraveling.

She was stronger than that sharp-tongued girl, who bristled at slights and lashed out when cornered.

She’d worked so hard to soften those edges—to respond with composure and grace—but every time she spoke to Mr. Vaughn, Tessa fell right back into those old habits.

Rising to the bait. Snapping when she ought to walk away.

Losing her temper. Lashing out, not in defense but because she yearned to win the argument.

All it had taken was one man with a sharp tongue and a colder stare, and Tessa regressed to that creature she despised. The version of herself she’d tempered and contained. That pigheaded woman who had done her level best to destroy her marriage.

Pausing at a street corner, Tessa gazed heavenward to see the first stars of the night. She pressed her hands to her face, willing herself to calm. This wasn’t who she wanted to be. Not anymore. Not ever again. But here she was, heart pounding, teeth clenched, and fury burning holes in her stomach.

The years fell away, and Tessa felt as though she had stepped into the past. To that moment where her stubbornness had finally crumbled to dust, allowing her to rebuild her broken heart.

That vulnerable moment, after she’d lost everyone and everything, finally recognizing the pit she’d dug for herself.

The darkness had been so thick that she could finally see that pinprick of light shining above her like the first stars that glimmer in the night’s sky.

The climb out hadn’t been easy, but she’d managed it.

Only to be undone by the man determined to keep Rodney’s spite alive.

Gritting her teeth, Tessa chided herself as she continued her journey. Accepting responsibility for one’s own actions was paramount to gaining control over oneself. No matter what anyone else did or did not do, one could always maintain control. In theory, at least.

Tessa sighed to herself and reviewed her conversation with Mr. Vaughn. His opinion mattered only because it stood between her and her children; all else was immaterial. And her pride needed to remember that before she found herself cut off once more.

The scent of roasting meat met her as she turned the last bend, the glow of lanterns spilling across the packed earth outside the inn. A pair of stable lads loitered by the hitching post, voices low, while a dog nosed about the stoop, tail thumping lazily against the worn stone step.

And then she saw him.

A lone figure stood beside the inn’s front wall, half in shadow, half lit by the flickering lantern overhead.

Tall and lithe, Tessa knew that silhouette.

For the briefest moment, she thought some mistake must have been made: Rodney was standing there.

But then he shifted. Turned his face slightly. And her breath caught.

Clark.

Tessa slowed, her pulse hammering in her throat as she tried to warm her icy hands. He’d always taken after his father, but the round face he’d inherited from his mother had faded as age had transformed him from a child to a young man.

Her son didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, his expression unreadable in the gathering dark, the space between them stretching taut and brittle.

“You’ve grown.” Such a silly statement, but Tessa couldn’t help it. Six years had turned the lad she’d known into a young man, complete with frock coat and hat. A gentleman.

Clark strode toward her, his hand outstretched, and Tessa rushed forward, her arms wide; tears blurred her vision as her mind rushed ahead, imagining the feel of her son in her embrace once more.

But his hand remained wedged between them, keeping her at a distance as he shoved several objects at her.

Tessa fumbled to keep them all in hand, hardly able to recognize the sack of marbles and silver penknife for what they were.

“We do not want anything from you,” he said, and every muscle within her clenched. Hands trembling, she struggled to keep a hold of the gifts, and it felt as though she were standing on the front drive once more as Rodney cast her luggage out onto the gravel.

“They were gifts. That is all,” she whispered.

“We both know that isn’t true,” he replied, lifting his other hand, which held the remnants of the pocket watch she’d given him. The metal was twisted and the glass shattered, as though he’d taken a hammer to the thing.

“That was your grandfather’s. He wanted you to have it.

” Tessa didn’t know how she managed to speak evenly, but seeing her father’s beloved pocket watch mangled and her son’s face distorted by fury broke something within her.

Like a spring wound too tightly, it snapped.

But rather than heat and fire surging forward, Tessa felt the strength seeping from her.

“I do not want it, you jezebel,” he snapped. Though Rodney had called her that name often enough, hearing it from the same voice that had once called her Mummy and asked for lullabies cut as sharply as a knife.

“You broke my father’s heart, and I want nothing to do with you. None of us do,” he added. “I know Daphne said as much when you arrived, but clearly, you refuse to listen. So, I will tell you one more time.”

Clark stepped closer until he was all she could see, fury vibrating through him, his eyes burning with a fire that made Tessa clutch the gifts closer to her.

He wouldn’t strike her. She knew that. No matter her husband’s faults, he hadn’t been a violent man, nor would he abide his son treating a woman poorly.

Harlot or not. Yet no matter how much she tried to assure herself, her muscles strained as though bracing for a blow.

“We do not want you here. We disown you. Leave us be,” he said through gritted teeth.

Spinning on his heel, Clark strode away, and only once he was out of sight could Tessa breathe once more.

Where had her sweet little boy gone?

Clinging to the gifts in her arms, Tessa lowered her head and prayed—not for the first time, and certainly not the last—for forgiveness.

That she could receive pardon for the damage she and her husband had done to those dear little souls that had been given into their care.

Though the action gave no concrete sense of peace or lightening of her spirits, Tessa prayed all the same. And she begged for wisdom.

Ignoring the stableboys and ostlers who pretended that they hadn’t been eagerly listening to every morsel, Tessa moved through the yard and into the inn.

No doubt this would only serve as more kindling for Mr. Vaughn’s ire.

Somehow, the blame would be laid on her doorstep.

How long would she be made to bear the burden of her and Rodney’s mistakes on her own?

That thought had her feet faltering as she climbed the stairs to her room. Only once she was safely tucked away from prying eyes did Tessa allow the tears to gather—yet they wouldn’t fall.

Surely a broken heart was simply an idiom.

Delicate though the organ may be, one couldn’t truly destroy it.

Yet as Clark’s words echoed in her thoughts, Tessa felt detached from it all.

Not apathetic, for the pain hovered just out of reach, and a prickle in the deepest recesses of her soul warned that she would feel this all the more later.

But her heart felt wrapped in cotton. Muted.

For the first time since hearing of Rodney’s passing, Tessa truly wondered if she’d made a mistake coming to Thornsby.

Who was she to force herself upon her children?

If they did not want her, she ought to respect their wishes.

Yet so much of their enmity sprang from half-truths and twisted tales; surely if they knew all, they would welcome her back.

As she sank onto her bed, Tessa’s arms sagged, dropping the bits and bobs onto her lap.

How could she make them understand without doing further damage? They already knew far too much of their parents’ troubles. Must she tarnish their father’s memory in the hopes of winning their compassion and forgiveness? Ought she to ignore their wishes and force her company upon them?

Would she cause them so much pain for her own benefit?

Lungs jerking, the tears broke free, and Tessa crumpled into the pillows.