prevented it all. In all his life as a pampered child, a directionless youth, a pleasure-seeking gentleman of leisure—Toby had never felt so utterly worthless.
“I don’t even know how he died,” his mother cried, her words muffled by the fabric of Miss Osborne’s sleeve. Reginald offered her a fresh handkerchief, which she accepted blindly.
“They say some kind of apoplexy, but the doctor won’t talk to me. Was it painful? Did he suffer? I can’t bear it, the thought of him dying here alone, in his bed …” She sobbed again.
“It’s too horrible to contemplate.”
“If it was apoplexy,” Miss Osborne said quietly, “and it happened in his sleep … he likely suffered no pain.”
“That’s kind of you to say, dear. But if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I would feel more assured if that came from his physician.”
“She is a physician,” Joss said.
“What Captain Grayson means to say,” Miss Osborne explained, sparing Joss only the briefest of glances, “is that I’ve received a great deal of medical training and experience by virtue of being a doctor’s daughter. But what I tell you now, I learned as a child. My mother suffered an apoplexy when I was a girl—a severe one. She survived, but the attack left her paralyzed and bedridden, unable to walk or speak. Over the next year, she suffered many spells.” She swallowed hard before continuing. “I always sat with her, you see, while my father was working. I would read aloud, work my lessons, spoon her tea and broth. Her fits were difficult to even recognize at first. It almost looked as though she were asleep, in the midst of a dream. She would tremble a bit. Her breathing went agitated, and her eyelids fluttered against her cheeks. Afterward, she would be weakened and perhaps a bit scared, but not in pain. Never in pain.”
No one spoke. Toby was certain it was because they were all thinking the same, unspeakable thing. Thank God Mr. Yorke had gone quickly and not remained clinging to life in a useless, wasting shell. What a tragedy that would have been—not just for Yorke to live through, but for his mother to witness. To imagine a young girl, forced to become caretaker to her own parent
No, no one had much to say to that.
“He didn’t suffer, then?” Lady Aldridge asked weakly. “You’re certain?”
“Yes,” Miss Osborne answered, her voice growing warm and soft. “I was there with my mother, when she died. She went peacefully.”
“I am glad of it, for her sake. And yours.”
“Mother.” A voice from the periphery pierced their bubble of silence. “Mother, I’m here.”
Heads lifted. Augusta had arrived, bringing with her a fresh reserve of womanly efficiency. Toby absorbed the accompanying wave of relief. He gratefully moved aside, offering his sister the seat beside their mother.
“Oh, Augusta.” The older woman slid from Miss Osborne’s shoulder to meet the waiting embrace of her daughter. “Augusta, I loved him.”
Augusta soothed her, with soft touches and soft words. Mumbling some excuse, Miss Osborne bolted from the room. A heartbeat later, Joss followed her, leaving Reginald and Jeremy to make strained conversation amongst themselves.
And Toby just stood there, alone.
Hetta lurched from the room, pausing in the foyer to borrow strength from the carved walnut banister. Clinging to it with both hands, she bowed her head to her sleeve and wept. Noisily. She wished she could have made it a bit further away before breaking down, rather than dissolving in tears six feet from the parlor door. She wished the emotion tearing her to pieces were a more altruistic empathy for Lady Aldridge in her time of mourning, or grief for her own long-dead mother—but it wasn’t. It was envy, mixed with fear. Envy for anyone who knew the comfort of lasting affection. Fear that she would live her whole life and grow into an old woman with no one to mourn.
And no one to mourn her.
Strong hands gripped her shoulders. Every muscle in her body tensed.
“Go away,” she choked out, without lifting her head from her sleeve. She didn’t need to look up. She knew who it was.
“No,” came the predictably contrarian reply. “No, you need to be held. I’m going to hold you.”
There was no fight left in her, no more pride in the way. A word, an embrace—whatever scrap of affection he offered her, she would gratefully accept. The strong hands turned her away from the banister, and then strong arms folded her into his chest.
She burrowed her face into his coat and sobbed. “Oh, Joss.”
“Shhh. It’s all right.”
His hand went to her hair, stroking and soothing. As no one had soothed her in a very long time, since before her mother took ill. He released her name as a deep, soulful sigh, and his whole body relaxed, making a soft place for her. She breathed deeply, too, inhaling the comforting scents of clean linen and masculine spice.
He murmured comforting words as she wept, and Hetta tried desperately to stem the flow of her tears, so she might hear them.
“What you said to Lady Aldridge … it was brave of you, Hetta. I know it wasn’t easy, but you gave her some peace.”
She sobbed again, and he held her tight.
“What an ass I’ve been,” he said. “I’ve treated you so ill. Can you ever forgive me? I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
“No, you were right,” she said, wiping at her eyes. She was only too glad to share the blame for their arguments. Perhaps now they could be friends. “I know I should be more feeling with my patients, with their families, but…” She made an impatient gesture with her hands, indicating her red, swollen eyes. “But it’s difficult. Just look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
He thrust a finger under her chin and tilted her face to his. Oh, how unfair that he should be so composed and handsome when she was a teary disgrace.
“I am looking at you,” he repeated, “and I can scarcely understand—how can this tiny, delicate woman possess so much strength, so much intelligence and courage?” His hand lifted to her cheek, brushing away a tear. “All this, and such lovely eyes.”
No. Surely he wouldn’t be so cruel as to tease her again.
His hand caught her chin. “No, don’t dare look away now. Do you know how those eyes have haunted me?”
Hetta shook her head, suddenly afraid to blink.
The corner of his mouth curved. “At first they annoyed me, no end. They were always staring at me, asking me questions I didn’t want to answer. Then I found myself wanting to stare back, ask questions of my own, and that irritated me even more. Then Bel recovered, and suddenly you weren’t coming around anymore, and I found myself”—he sighed heavily—“missing them. Intensely. That made me angriest of all.”
“Because you felt disloyal to her.”
“God, no.” His arm tightened around her waist. “Because I felt alive. Suddenly, painfully alive, when I’d invested so much time and effort, making myself dead to the world. Because I began to yearn for things I swore I’d never seek again. You can’t know how I resented you for it.”
She choked on a laugh. “I think I have some idea.”
“I’m sure you do, to my shame.”
“I never thought you a curiosity,” she told him, needing him to understand. “I tried not to stare at you, really I did. But you’re so handsome and attractive and … and I just couldn’t help it.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Hm.”
Hetta held her breath, waiting. Then she said, “I hate it when you say that, with that smug, enigmatic expression! I don’t know what it means, and—”
“Shh.” His thumb covered her lips, then brushed over them in a tender caress. “It means I’m going to kiss you now. All right?”
“All right.”
And he did. He kissed her gently, sweetly—and then Hetta kissed him back, with every ounce of passion she possessed. She felt uncertain and vulnerable and suspected she was doing everything wrong—but since she’d reached the age of three-and-twenty before receiving her first kiss, and since her first kiss stood an excellent chance of also being her last, she wasn’t about to hold anything back.
When his hand fisted in the back of her gown and a little growl rumbled through his chest, she hoped it meant she’d done something right.
And then it was over, and he held her in his arms again.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
“Yes. I’m afraid.”
He squeezed her tight. “Don’t be. I mean to marry you, Hetta.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Why? Don’t tell me you’re worried what people will say. I know it wouldn’t be easy, but we’re both of us accustomed to—”
“No. No, of course it’s not that.” Pulling away, she met his questioning gaze. “You’re very kind, Joss, but you don’t have to offer. I’m not expecting—”
“I’m not kind in the least. I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
“But…” Tears pricked at her eyes again. “But you can’t possibly want to marry me. I’ve no money, for one thing. I’m prickly and preoccupied, for another. I won’t give up medicine. I’d make a terrible wife. And you have a child …” She shook her head. “I’ve no idea what to do with a child, once the cord is cut. I’d make a horrid mother.”
He laughed.
“Why is it you only laugh when you’re laughing at me?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but you’d better marry me, Hetta. Or I may never laugh again.” He planted a quick kiss on her lips. “First, I couldn’t give two straws whether you have a dowry. I’d never ask you to give up medicine, or anything that meant so much to you. And I’m certain you would make a terrible housekeeper, and a perfectly horrid nursemaid. But I don’t need either of those. My son needs a mother who believes he can do anything, who won’t accept the restrictions society will place on him. And as for me … I hardly know how to put words to what I need, but I know I’m holding it here in my arms. I need not just a wife, but a partner. A strong, intelligent woman who expects no less of me than I expect of myself. I need to laugh, and often. And you need all those things, too.”
Hetta stared numbly at his cravat.
“I need to love,” he said quietly, gathering her to his chest. His heartbeat pounded against her cheek. “And be loved. Do you think you could love me, Hetta?”
“I think I already do.”
“Very good, then.” His chin settled on her head. “And now for the trickier part. Can you allow me to love you?”
She closed her eyes. “I think so. Yes.”
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, and she felt his wide smile. “There now,” he teased. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes. It was terrifying.”
He held her tight. “I know, my dear. I know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was nearly dark by the time Toby left Yorke’s townhouse. After seeing his mother into the keeping of Augusta and Reginald, playing impromptu host to a parade of mourners, and speaking with Yorke’s valet—about the waistcoat, among other arrangements—he finally made his way to the carriage.
“We’re for Wynterhall,” he told the driver before climbing in. It didn’t matter that it was late, or that he hadn’t any of his belongings packed. He’d send for them tomorrow. Perhaps he was a coward, but he just hadn’t the heart to go home and face Isabel again. Toby settled onto the seat of the gloomy carriage and immediately turned his gaze to the small window. He couldn’t abide the darkness right now, and he certainly couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her tear-streaked face, her pale expression of betrayal. That image would haunt him forever—as would the knowledge that he’d caused it. Staring out the carriage window thus, with his mind so filled with sorrow and regrets, it took him some moments to realize he was not alone. Not until the shadows across from him shifted in a stealthy, sinister way, drawing his eye. Toby’s heart began to pound in his chest. He held his breath.