Page 9 of The Reckless Love of an Heir (The Marlow Family Secrets #4)

While they were eating breakfast, each time a footman walked in, Alethea looked towards the door, but none of the footmen entered carrying a letter.

Once the pot of chocolate had been emptied for the second time, Alethea looked at their mother and proposed a trip into York to look for the ribbons, material and bonnet dressings she and Susan had discussed the night before.

Susan’s mother agreed and joined them, indulging herself too.

It was a pleasant day, but all the time at the back of Susan’s mind there was an image of Henry standing beside the chair in his dressing gown, with half his upper body bare and covered in dark bruising.

She was worried about him. She had never felt sorry for him before, but she did feel sorry for him now, and the feeling was her constant companion no matter how she sought to distract herself from it.

If he was no longer taking laudanum, as Aunt Jane had said, then he would be in considerable pain.

When they ate breakfast the following morning the awaited letter from Farnborough arrived, addressed to Alethea.

She read it, then looked at Susan. ‘Henry says he is feeling a little better, and we might visit tomorrow if we wish.’ Alethea looked at their father.

‘Aunt Jane and Uncle Robert have also extended an invitation for us to join them as a family for dinner in four days.’

‘I shall write back, accepting the invitation,’ their mother said. ‘Will you go tomorrow?’

‘Of course,’ Alethea answered.

She had not given up on Henry yet, then, and perhaps the invitation for them to dine as a family might be to celebrate a happy occasion and Alethea would not need to give up on Henry.

When the carriage turned into Farnborough’s courtyard the next day, Henry walked out from the doorway to greet them, with Samson beside him. He must have been watching for the carriage.

If he had been awaiting the carriage it implied the sentiment Alethea feared lacking was there.

His arm was once more in its sling but he was still not wearing his morning coat, nor his waistcoat, yet a short black, stock neckcloth held his shirt closed. His good hand idly played with Samson’s ear as the carriage drew to a halt.

He stepped forward and opened the carriage door. ‘Hello, ladies.’

Alethea took his offered hand and climbed down. ‘Hello. How are you, truly?’

‘Well enough. I promise. I think the journey here just took it out of me, and I did not give my shoulder time to recover. All it needs is rest and time.’

‘And he was consuming too much laudanum and drinking brandy to kill the pain. Aunt Jane said it made a sickly cocktail,’ Susan added as she held the carriage’s handle and climbed down, not allowing Henry time to release Alethea and help her.

His gaze caught hold of hers and the hard directness in his brown eyes said – rebellious, anomaly .

She turned towards the house, turning away from the memories in her mind’s eye, of Henry lying on the sofa in the library and standing in only his dressing gown covered in mottled, awful bruising.

Hateful empathy. ‘I will leave you two to gossip and recover from your days of separation. I am going to paint.’ She did not look back nor await an answer but walked briskly into the house, seeking the sanctuary of the library.

If he intended to propose he would not wish for an audience.

The clock chimed twelve times, and almost immediately afterwards there was a hard knock on the library door.

‘Come in!’

Henry opened it and walked into the room, his shadow, Samson, behind him. On this occasion the door remained ajar.

She rested her brush in the bowl of water and straightened. Her hand lifted so her fingers could push her spectacles further up the bridge of her nose.

Henry smiled and walked towards her. ‘I have come to fetch you. They are serving luncheon. You are like a mole buried away in here, Susan.’

Rebellious… A mole was far more like the names she expected him to call her. ‘The other day you called me rebellious. I cannot think of two greater extremes. I cannot imagine a rebellious mole.’ She picked up the rag and took the brush out of the water to wipe it.

‘You have been considering that, haven’t you?

I mean, you have been thinking about the word rebellious.

’ His voice mocked her, but then he smiled.

‘I said it because you like to hide in corners and pretend compliance when really you will walk away from what is expected of you at every chance and hole up somewhere. You always have. So you see, the two are very compatible when they are combined in you.’

She had never thought walking away rebellious. She looked back down at her painting. ‘I will come.’

She expected him to acknowledge her answer and turn away, instead he leaned over the desk, as Samson nudged at her hip for attention. ‘Very pretty,’ he said.

His proximity sent discomfort spinning out into her nerves. The awkwardness it engendered pressured her to continue talking. ‘It is not rebellious to walk away or leave a room, though I admit to having little patience with conversations that do not interest me or?—’

‘People,’ he finished, as he straightened up.

She met his gaze, still wiping her brush although it must be clean. ‘People?’

‘Or people who do not interest you.’ One eyebrow rose, his implication saying, people like me…

Warmth touched her cheeks.

She looked away, concentrating on putting her paintbrush away and tidying the paints in her paintbox.

He leaned lower, studying her picture. ‘This is actually rather good.’

She glanced at him. ‘Thank you for such exuberant praise.’

His lips split into a smile. ‘There, see, you are a secret hellion. You taunt me horrendously.’

She made an intolerant, impatient face and shook her head at him. ‘I am hardly a hellion. I am painting orchids, not racing curricles. You are speaking of yourself.’ She closed her paintbox.

‘I have never hidden my nature. But you… You and I have more in common than you think. I would gamble high odds that Uncle Casper despairs of you as much as my father despairs of me. You do not behave in the ways expected of women. The only re ason you do not race curricles is that a woman is not given one to be able to race. If you were a man you would race.’

‘I am not like you. I would not race. There is a vast chasm of difference between us. For a start, I think of others not just myself. I would not race because I would not wish to harm another traveller on the road.’

He huffed at her, dismissing her argument.

It riled her more. ‘And I do not behave in unacceptable ways.’

‘You are not sitting in the drawing room, sewing and talking with the others.’

‘I like doing different things, that is all.’

‘Rebellious.’ He taunted.

She would have walked around him, but he moved in front of her.

She could not win the argument. Her hand lifted instinctively and swiped out at him as her frustration became anger. She struck his poorly arm. ‘Oh, Henry!’ She regretted it immediately as he winced with pain.

‘Bloody hell!’ He covered his arm and pulled away. Then more calmly, ‘You damned hellion.’ Even in pain he was mocking her.

‘I am sorry.’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘I do not think I am.’

She did not understand the jest. ‘Stop teasing me, Henry.’

He laughed. ‘It is quite inspiring to see you in a temper.’

Her hand lifted once more. He stepped back with his good hand still protecting his injured arm.

‘Did I say you are a match for any man with verbal fencing? I might be persuaded to include physical fencing. Please, no more violence, Miss Forth. You will have people think my bruises were delivered by your hand, and God forbid my friends heard such a rumour.’

He stepped forward again, looked down at her work and at the book to compare it. ‘In all seriousness, you are certainly capturing it. It is a charming flower…’ He straightened and threw her another smile. ‘Which is something I cannot say for the painter.’

She stuck her tongue out at him as she would have done as a child. He was infuriating, it was his own fault she lost her temper and struck him.

His eyes opened wide, expressing mocked shock. Then his smile broadened and illuminated the brown in his eyes.

When her tongue slipped back into her mouth, the glint in his eyes became a glow with a greater depth, making his brown eyes as rich in colour as polished mahogany.

He was very close. She could see every detail of his eyelashes and every shade within his brown eyes.

As the scent of his expensive London cologne enveloped her, awkwardness prodded her to speak again. ‘I hope you are feeling better.’

‘I am feeling better than I was the day you came to my room, thank you.’ His voice held a dry note that sought to highlight again how inappropriate her behaviour had been that day.

Rebellious . She heard the word in his voice, as it had been said a moment ago when he’d leaned to her ear. Perhaps she was – just a little.

‘You could have said do not come in, you know?’

‘I thought it was the footman come to take away the tea tray.’

‘You knew it was me when I entered.’

‘And perhaps then it was more amusing to not send you away.’ His voice had lost its mocking edge and dropped into a low pitch. ‘The lesson was better taught by leaving you to discover what your rebellious nature led you into.’

‘Sayeth Lord Henry Marlow, the prodigal son. He who has recently been thrown from his curricle in a race and nearly broken his neck and admitted he has probably learned no lessons at all.’

His eyes seemed to fill with questions as his gaze travelled across her face, studying her as closely as he had studied her painting. Then, he said, ‘Quite,’ and turned and walked away, with Samson in his wake.

‘I truly am sorry you were so badly hurt, Henry!’ Susan called after him. She needed to say something to turn whatever had just happened back into something tangible that she could understand. ‘But I do not agree that anything I do compares!’