Page 6 of The Viscount’s Second Chance (The Lovers’ Arch: Later in Life)

London, Fall of 1823

T he house was unbearably silent.

Too drained by grief to move, Nora could only stand in the center of the cozy library and stare unseeingly at the memories it possessed. She’d known returning to London following the funeral would be difficult, but she hadn’t anticipated the wall of grief that slammed into her as soon as she’d set foot inside the familiar foyer. The awful truth was, the Townhouse no longer felt like home without Beth there to light it with her smiles and fill it with her laughter.

The two of them had called this dainty Townhouse home for nearly a decade after both their mothers had finally agreed that they were well and truly on-the-shelf spinsters and available to savor the freedoms that status entailed. The Townhouse was procured and a household was established for them. They filled the rooms with an eclectic collection of both their tastes—Beth’s penchant for dusty antiques only ferreted out in the most obscure of shops somehow meshed well with Nora’s flair for more modern textiles and papering. Their pride and joy became the refurbished library. What had once been the long, narrow dining room was converted to house their extensive and varied collection of books. Custom bookshelves were installed and rapidly filled through their many visits to shops like London’s renowned Thorpe one was hardly ever without the other.

Beth never was presented at court, nor did she ever have her Season. For her part, Nora completed her one and only Season in London at her mother’s demand, but her heart was still so battered and bruised from the loss of Thomas that she hardly remembered any of it. She was relieved to return to Essex at the end of it and curl up with Beth once more in the library’s picture window where they could discuss their books.

Nora must have made an impression on Society despite her melancholic aura, however, because more than a handful of men called upon her at her family’s London home that year. To her utter shock and confusion, she’d even received two proposals of marriage. She’d asked herself if most men were that dense, or did they prefer their women practically silent and morose?

Of course, those men were gently turned away, much to her mother’s dismay.

“Evelyn and Diana both have weddings in the coming year,” Nora had said to her mother by way of consolation. “You have more than enough with which to concern yourself without me getting in the way of it all.” And the matter was dropped and never revisited with any seriousness. The years passed and Nora set herself on the shelf beside Beth before anyone realized what was happening. There were some benefits to being the youngest child in such a large family.

Tears stung Nora’s eyes all over again at the memory of their first day in their home. Beth had been so excited to be out from beneath her mother’s overly cautious gaze. Nora had been thrilled to be back in the bustle of London and all the exciting amusements that entailed, and she couldn’t wait to share them with her friend.

“Nora?”

She nearly shrieked, immediately spinning around at the sound of the voice behind her. She pressed her hand to her chest to keep her heart from bursting free.

She’d never believed in ghosts or apparitions, but it was difficult when confronted with one…for that was the only reason Thomas Bexton was standing in her home.

Thomas’s first glimpse of Nora up close in years was like a knife to the gut. He could actually feel the coolness of the blade contrasting sharply with the heat of his lifeblood as it spilled at his feet. He’d avoided this moment as long as he could precisely because he knew it would be this painful, still, it struck him with such surprising force that it took his breath away.

Her heart-shaped face was puffy from crying, tracks of tears marred her cheeks, and her eyes glittered even more than usual. The years had granted her limbs and posture grace and poise, but he’d heard enough news over the years to say with certainty that she’d maintained her penchant for mischief. Both his mother and Beth had made sure over the years to always mention Nora in their letters to him.

Beth…

A fresh wave of pain crashed over him, so large that it overtook the ache he felt from seeing Nora once more.

The news of his sister’s sudden passing had reached him while he was on a winning streak at his favorite Covent Garden gaming hell. One of his servants had tracked him down knowing it was where he’d intended to spend the evening. As soon as he’d read the letter, the room spun perilously and he’d lurched to his feet. His chair had clattered to the floor with a loud bang and he’d been deaf to all the questions and calls following in his wake. He’d thought only of finding somewhere private and promptly locked himself into one of the establishment’s private rooms. He had immediately lost the contents of his stomach in the chamber pot and cried and raged until his voice was hoarse and his body begged for him to cease. Only when he’d collapsed in a heaving heap in the middle of the floor hours later, his knuckles bloodied and his face mottled from his anger and sticky with his tears, did the door creak open.

His longtime friend, Preston Bailey—known simply as “Duke” to everyone who frequented his exclusive establishment—stood in the dimly lit hallway. He, apparently, had been the only man brave enough to enter. He’d released a long, low whistle. “Bleedin’ Christ…” he’d whispered, more than a hint of his unpolished accent slipping through when he saw the utter destruction Thomas had wreaked.

“I’ll pay for the damages,” Thomas had replied, his throat raw from railing against the cruel hand of fate. He hadn’t bothered removing burning his eyes from the ceiling.

“You know I’m not worried about that.” Duke had taken a step into the room, his eyes scanning Thomas’s prone form surrounded by the detritus of what had once been a well-appointed room outfitted on the chance that one of the members would rather sleep here than go home and face their families after a gambling binge. Now, it would be lucky if anything was salvageable. “What happened?”

“Beth,” he had croaked before his words were strangled by another wave of emotion.

“Your sister?” Duke had asked, striding over to where Thomas lay and crouching beside him.

“She is dead.”

His mind bouncing back to the present, Thomas shook his head, determined not to allow his emotions to get the better of him.

Following that incident at Duke’s, he’d remained dry-eyed throughout the funeral preparations, been the stoic rock his mother needed him to be, and held himself steady as Beth was interred in the family plot on their country estate. The gathering had been small, so it had been impossible to miss Nora’s chestnut hair and lithe form, even garbed as she was in unadorned black and a matching veil. She stood with her parents and gaggle of siblings, propped up by their arms and shoulders. Still, her presence called to him like a siren’s song despite the inappropriateness of the setting.

At the somber reception following the funeral, he’d practically had to hold himself in the armchair so he did not go to her, his fingers digging into the brocade upholstery until there was real concern that the fabric might split. Instead, he’d fled the room like a coward and escaped to Town, immediately demanding Duke’s assistance in getting rip-roaring drunk.

Back in London, Thomas’s stomach and his head regretted that night of wallowing. Gone were the days when he’d been able to rebound from a night of debauchery—that day had died about fifteen years prior. It had taken him a solid four hours before he hadn’t felt like death and he regretted surviving all over again when he was on the doorstep of the Townhouse Beth and Nora had once shared.

Aside from the actual funeral, this was one of the moments he’d dreaded most. It had been years since he’d been face-to-face with Nora Allen. Their social circles intersected very little, and he could always rely upon his mother to let slip whether Nora would be in attendance at a particular family function, thus making his own decision of whether or not to attend much simpler.

Following Nora’s declination to continue their relationship, he’d thrown himself into finishing his studies at University, graduated, and promptly left on his Grand Tour. Months turned into years as he spent his time exploring the world and hoping each new adventure would be the one that made his heart ache just a little bit less. In the end, it was futile. He’d returned to England a few years older, more worldly, fluent in several additional languages, tanned from the sun, and no less heartsick.

It became a dance for him when he visited Beth, carefully coordinating his calls for the times when Nora was out or otherwise occupied. It was damned difficult and he’d even had to sneak out through the back garden a couple of times when Nora returned home earlier than expected. The last time, mere weeks before Beth’s death, she’d laid her slim, pale hand on his arm and paused his flight out onto the small garden and the alley behind them.

“Why must you run?” she’d asked, so much fatigue in her wide eyes.

“Beth,” he’d groaned. Even at forty years of age, she knew she had him wrapped around her finger. “Please don’t do this.”

“You and Nora were once so close; now I can hardly recall the last time I saw you two in the same room.”

“It is complicated,” he said lamely, glancing at the door and calculating how long he had until Nora discovered him with Beth.

“Complicated?” She’d wrinkled her nose at him.

“Remarkably so.” Thomas had never held ill feelings toward Beth for his separation from Nora. It was not her fault that her friend loved and cherished her so much that she’d forgone marriage to him in order to remain by her side. He had vowed long ago that she would never know it from his lips either, because to place that guilt upon Beth’s shoulders was a grave injustice. She had more than her share with which to contend. Even at that moment, she’d looked thinner, paler, more exhausted than Thomas had ever seen her. She’d been weakened by her episodes and her health was in decline.

“Well,” she’d finally said after a prolonged skeptical silence; “whatever the reason may be, I hope it is resolved in due time. Not having my two favorite people together has been a hardship.”

Thomas had leaned in and placed a kiss on his sister’s temple before slipping out of the room. That had been the last time he’d spoken to her.

Thomas had to clear the emotion from his throat before he could speak to Nora directly for the first time in years. “How are you faring?”

Her achingly beautiful face softened from shock to wariness. It pained him more than he’d thought possible to see her looking at him thusly. “About as poorly as can be expected,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. It struck Thomas at his very core to see her so distraught. He wanted nothing but to enfold her in his arms and make everything right. “And you?” she asked, effectively stopping his pulse.

“Poorly,” he answered with a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. He was suddenly transported back into the body of his twenty-two-year-old self with an undercurrent of insecurity and nerves flowing through his every word and action. How could a woman do this to him? He was far more worldly than he had been eighteen years ago…so why did she set him on his back foot? The deepest, least-visited part of his soul knew why, and Thomas didn’t care for it.

Nora still had an unbreakable hold on him.

He’d done his best to ignore it for nearly two decades, but there had been a fluttering reminder of it each time he’d happened to be in her vicinity. Each glimpse of Nora caused his heart to leap uncontrollably; every snippet of her laughter made his muscles clench with remembered joy and passion.

Thomas heaved an exhausted sigh.

“What can I do for you, Lord Bexton.”

He nearly reared back at her formal use of his title. “There has never been such stiltedness between us, Nora, and I see no need to start now. Especially not under these circumstances.”

She merely crossed her hands before simple black skirts and her lips formed a taut, immovable line. It made Thomas squirm uncomfortably.

He cleared his throat to dissipate the sensation.

“I knocked, but there was no answer. I could see you standing in the window and…the door was unlocked.” He shouldn’t have entered her home, he knew that—no matter who technically owned the building. This was her sanctuary with Beth and he’d intruded upon it.

Invaded it.

Somehow feeling guiltier than before, he strode toward Nora, reached into the inner pocket sewn into his black superfine coat, and held out the sealed letter he’d carried with him from the solicitor’s office.

“What is that?”

“It’s for you. From Beth.”