Page 17 of On a Midsummer Night
Not likely, he thought scornfully. Still, Henry nodded. “Of course.”
“It’s that . . .” She glanced at Beth and then returned her eyes to him. “I’m still quite young, and I feel as if there’s so much I don’t know and haven’t learned. And I would like to without such things being dictated to me by my husband. Does that make sense?”
Of course, it made sense, and Henry’s heart sank. Lucywasyoung, painfully so, and if he weren’t so desperate to secure his future with the railway, he would not have thought twice about her. So much about the past few years had been out of his control, and this was yet another disappointment to add to the pile. Still, the thought of offering her a life that would only leave her disappointed was not to be borne.
He could feel Beth’s gaze on him like an imprint, and Henry refused—refused—to let her see how much Lucy’s rejection stung.
So Henry straightened his spine and donned the impassive mask he’d fashioned after his father’s death. The mask that had earned him his ruthless reputation. The mask that reminded him that who he was underneath didn’t matter.
“It makes perfect sense,” he said, his lips stretching into a semblance of a smile.
“Lucy! Lucy!”
The trio turned to see a group of young ladies gathered farther down the walk. Henry recognized a few of them as her friends, but he certainly had no interest in making small talk with them about the weather when all he wanted to do was throw back a snifter of brandy.
“Please don’t let me stop you from saying hello to your friends.” He offered her a crisp bow. “I am available to escort you home at your leisure.”
A bright grin lit her face. “Thank you, Mr. Ramsgate,” she said before spinning about on her heel and dashing off toward the group.
Henry tore his gaze away from her retreating form to consider Beth, who silently lingered a few yards away. Her expression was carefully neutral, but Henry knew her thoughts were anything but.
“Did you put her up to that?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Her snort was dismissive. “No. Lucy confessed she felt too young and immature to marry, and I advised her to tell you. I didn’t think you’d want to continue your courtship if she was not amenable. If I have learned anything during my life, it’s the importance of communication.”
There was an unspoken censure in her statement, and the desire to step back, to shy away from the shame, was intense. But then he remembered his anger, and Henry clung to it with both hands.
“And has she told her parents?” He advanced on her a step. “I suspect Mr. and Mrs. Dalton will not much care that their daughter has no interest in marriage. Your uncle is determined to keep me loyal to Great Western, and I’m ready to prove my loyalty. And let’s not mention how Mrs. Dalton isadamantthat Lucy will secure a match this season.”
To his surprise, Beth dropped her chin to her chest. “I know. Lucy has a battle ahead of her, but I will support her as she seeks to exert some control over her own life.”
Henry growled and spun away, tapping his cane into the ground with agitated thunks.
Her soft footfalls hinted at her approach.
“Henry.” Her voice was nothing but a raspy whisper, and he clenched his eyes closed against the way it beckoned to him. “I understand your motivations, but why marriage? And why now? What scandal are you attempting to outrace?”
A hot spark of anger set his teeth on edge. “Why does it matter, Beth? You ruined the best chance I had to stave it off.”
“Marriage—especially marriage to my cousin—should not be conducted to stave off scandal.”
“And yet, it happens all the time.”
She sighed, and then her hand landed on his arm. “Maybe I can help.”
“Unless you hold sway over the board of directors,” he hissed, shooting his gaze down to meet hers, “there’s no way you can help me.”
Beth pressed her lips into a thin line as she peered up at him. Suddenly, a voice called her name. A male voice that sounded oddly familiar.
Glancing over his shoulder, Henry spied a man walking toward them with a smile on his handsome face. Chagrin and surprise collided in his chest as his mind registered the man’s identity.
“Good God, Oliver, I can’t believe you’re here,” Beth cried, dashing forward to throw her arms around her brother’s waist.
Oliver Dalton, his once good friend, looked at him now over his sister’s head, and if his expression were any indication, their reunion would not be cordial.
* * *
Beth’s chest felt full to bursting. She’d last seen Oliver more than a year prior, and it had been the longest the pair had ever been apart. With two years separating their ages, Oliver had been her constant friend as a child, and only he knew the secret pain they felt every time their father returned to the sea for months at a time. When Oliver went off to university, Beth had been bereft, but his once-a-month visits home had been a balm, and it was a practice he’d continued when he secured his first position with the Great Western railway.
