Page 45 of No Match for Love (Regency Love Stories)

Lucas stood at the foot of the bed in Marietta’s old room, hands fisted in a physical attempt to hold back the surge of emotion he felt.

He’d come to her room seeking answers. Seeking help. Not more pain.

He should have known that he would find nothing but anguish here in this shrine to his sister. The damask paper on the wall, the plush chair by the window, the dark writing desk in the corner—none of it had changed since the last day she’d stayed here.

She had not actually spent much time in this room when they were in London for the Season.

Most nights, she had managed to sneak out and join Lucas in his room, curling into a ball on the couch at the foot of his bed.

He remembered putting up a big fuss. After all, he’d been a teenage boy, and he didn’t need his twin sister getting in the way of his sleep.

But ultimately, he’d always given in. She was his sister, and she did not like being alone.

Lucas leaned forward, grasping the frame of the bed with both hands. Knowing that about his sister—knowing that she hated being alone—he’d agreed to accompany her to that house party. He had told his parents that he would handle all. After all, he was old enough, no need to send extra footmen.

Then he’d pushed them farther that first night of travel, thinking to get them to their destination more quickly. Pushed the coachman to drive just another mile or two in the dark.

A robbery gone wrong, they’d called it. But Lucas knew better. He knew that it was the result of him not being careful enough and not being able to protect his own sister.

His knuckles tightened.

Would that she were still here. Would that he had been a better man back then. Would that she could tell him what to do now , when his perfectly crafted existence seemed to be falling apart.

His emotions were all over the place. His club and its purpose—founded for Marietta—was causing more harm than good. He was falling in love, and he was terrified—absolutely terrified—by what that meant for his future.

He did not deserve love when Marietta would never have it. But even more than that, he could not afford to add another loved one to his circle. He was already failing at protecting those within it; he could not handle the pain of failing anyone else.

That vision of a disappointed Marietta flitted in his mind again. He groaned, dropping his head. “Mari... please. What am I to do?” he pushed the words out between clenched teeth.

She didn’t answer, of course, but still, he could not wipe her disappointed look from his mind. His stomach clenched. “What am I doing wrong? How can I fix this?” He would do anything to regain the control he’d had.

But regaining control would mean losing Lydia.

The thought hardly seemed his own, but it was in his mind nonetheless. Would he cut Miss Faraday from his life if it meant he could regain the grasp on his sanity?

He wanted to say yes, but then he thought of her laugh, her smile, her focused determination as she did her doctoring, her kindness as she spoke with the children. Dash it all. Could he not have both? His control and Miss Faraday?

No.

But you want one more than the other.

Heat surged into his eyes. He wanted Miss Faraday. In the moment she’d said she was considering marriage, he’d wanted to sweep her up and take her to the nearest church, but his dashed control had held him back—his belief that he did not deserve happiness.

That was what he truly wanted: to be free of this burden of guilt. But how?

A drop of moisture fell onto Marietta’s bed. Another fell beside it. He hadn’t cried in years, but now the light pink of the bedding was turning dark with his tears. A strangled sob escaped his throat as he tightened his fists.

The door behind him squeaked. His head jerked toward the sound.

Miss Faraday took a step backward, surprise on her face. “I am so sorry. I did not know anyone was here. I just saw the open door.”

He tried to wipe the emotion from his mind and expression but was struggling with the collision of his current form of anguish and his history of it. Miss Faraday was so like his sister—except in how he felt about her. So prone to getting into scrapes. So desirous to help others. So headstrong.

Dash it all. He loved her.

“Lu—Lord Berkeley?” She stepped toward him. “Are you well?”

He shook his head, lifting his hand to stop her advance.

She ignored him, coming closer. “Are you hurt?” She grasped his raised hand around the wrist and looked him over, seeking a wound.

His was not visible, but it was there.

Then her eyes met his, and something in the way her face softened told him she knew.

“What is wrong?” she asked again, softer this time.

He shook his head again. “Nothing. I... I find it hard to be in her room.”

Her gaze swept the chamber then returned to him. “Marietta’s?”

He nodded.

She did not tease him for the action. She only stared at him, eyes full of emotion. “After all this time, you still feel such pain?” she whispered.

He swallowed. “Not always.” That was not true.

“Certain memories can be more potent than others,” she offered.

He nodded again. Again, she did not tease him.

Tell her . This time, the voice carried the distinct cadence of Marietta’s stern demands. He rebelled against the thought, but it pushed harder. Every time he’d revealed something about himself to Miss Faraday, he’d felt relieved of a burden. Could she help him here?

“I am the reason she died.”

She did not gasp or back away. Her eyes still searched his. Her hand still circled his wrist. “Why?”

“I made a series of poor decisions that kept us on the road past dark. Highwaymen attacked. Marietta followed me out of the carriage to see what was the matter, and after they knocked me out, they did the same to her. Except she did not wake.” His voice broke when he said not .

“You could not have known.”

“I should have.”

She shook her head. “No.” Her voice was firm. “No one could have, and you did not hurt your sister. The highwaymen did.”

He said nothing. Could say nothing. She did not understand. Yet that voice inside whispered that perhaps she understood better than he did.

The grip on his wrist tightened. “I see the guilt you are carrying. I see it, and I do not want to diminish your pain, but you have to let the guilt go.”

Her words mirrored his thoughts from before, but still, he did not know how. How did one remove a burden carried so long that it had become a part of oneself?

“I do not know how.” He looked away, staring out the window to the fading light of day beyond. If only the grief would fade like the sun. But like the sun, it never really went away.

She shifted so that they were shoulder to shoulder, looking at the view together.

“I am not sure there is a manual for such a thing, but every small thing you can manage will help. Perhaps if you start by thinking of what Marietta would want for you. Would she want you to feel this pain? To continually blame yourself for what is not truly your fault?”

Of course not. She could never bear to see someone in pain. The words settled on his heart with a sort of rightness. They made sense to him. They felt correct. But how could he take that knowledge and apply it?

He gathered himself, blinking to erase any more emotion from his eyes. This was not Miss Faraday’s burden to carry; it was his. But he would think on what she said. He would try to find some way to lessen his guilt. If it were possible.

“I am glad you are here,” he said, looking down at her. Her eyes came up to meet his. “I had planned to seek you out this evening.” His voice was a bit scratchy, but he cleared his throat.

“What for?”

“To continue our conversation from Mr. Sperry’s. I assumed you did not want to speak in front of your maid.”

She did not protest the change of subject. “You assumed correctly.”

He nodded then waited for her to continue. He did not want to pressure her, but a part of him needed to know the details of her considering marriage.

After a breath, her hand released his wrist, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “I never thought that I would be able to control my own future, but here I am, with this possibility given to me.”

He nodded. As he’d come to know her—come to love her—he’d wanted freedom for her just as greatly as she wanted it herself. He hated how stifled she was. He would do anything to help her.

“It almost seems unfair—and I do realize how ridiculous that is for me to say when practically being handed a fortune—but it feels unfair that the potential to finally be in charge of myself can only come through means dictated by another.”

Lucas nodded. “I am sorry.”

She dropped her hands, letting out another frustrated breath. “I apologize. I should not be unburdening my troubles on you now.”

Whatever he was feeling in that moment, it was not annoyance. “Did I not do just the same? I do not mind in the least. After all, we are friends, are we not?” The word left a strange taste in his mouth.

“Yes,” she said, staring at a design in the carpet. “Friends.” Her next breath was audible, though her face was not visible. “Lord Berkeley, I have a confession.”

He said nothing, only waited. And the interim seemed impossibly long before she spoke again.

“I do believe I might have made a mistake.”

“How?” he murmured.

Another audible breath then her eyes lifted, flicking between both of his, searching for something. “I... I believe I’ve fallen in love with you.”

His heart, which moments before had been hammering against his chest, froze entirely. His mind whirred, but no thought came. Love.

Love. It was only a word but dash it—it was far more than that. It was perfection personified. It was everything he wanted just in reach. But it went against everything he’d planned for. It went against every part of himself that he’d been so precisely training—so perfectly controlling.

Dash it all. Speak, man!