Page 66 of The Viscount's Promise
To Malcolm’s frustration, instead of taking offense at the blatantly rude words, Willbridge seemed to grow more concerned. “You think to insult me. You forget, I’ve seen you do this before, Morley.”
“Do what?” Malcolm demanded gruffly.
“You are pushing me away, hoping I let you go so you may wallow in your solitude and self-pity. I’ve not let you do it before, my friend. I will certainly not let you do it now.”
The quiet compassion in Willbridge’s voice nearly undid him. In that moment, Malcolm could see it clearly. Willbridge would not let him go easily. He would persist, and goad, and make his life hell.
Unable to breathe, knowing he had to do anything to get out of there, he turned to Willbridge and looked him in the eye.
His friend sucked in his breath sharply. “Morley?” he whispered.
“Let me go,” Malcolm begged. “Please.”
Willbridge’s eyes scoured his face for a long moment. Malcolm stood still under the scrutiny, fighting every urge in him to look away. Finally his friend’s shoulders slumped.
“Very well,” he said. “I release you from your promises to me.”
Relief—and a pain so heavy he thought he might drown in it—filled Malcolm. He nodded, beyond words. Striding to his bag, he opened it to begin a swift packing of his things for the ride back to town. “I’ll only take what I can carry,” he said, all business now, as he moved about the room. “I can get back faster on horseback. You will send my valet and the rest of my things on tomorrow with Tristan, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Willbridge said, his voice sober. He moved for the door. As he was about to leave, Malcolm heard him stop.
“I’m sorry, Morley,” Willbridge said. “I am so sorry for my selfishness in asking so much of you. It was never my intention to cause you grief. If I could go back in time and change things, I would.”
Stunned, Malcolm listened as his friend walked out the door, closing it softly behind him. He stared down at his open bag, frozen. Faced with the devastating knowledge that, even if he could, he would not change the past weeks with Emily for anything.
• • •
Within the hour, Malcolm was off, hurrying through the house to the side door that would lead to the stables and freedom. As before, when he had made to escape the confines of the great house the morning of Willbridge’s wedding, his hand was on the handle when he heard it.
Music.
There was no doubt in his mind this time as to the source. He felt in his heart Emily’s influence behind the notes, could hear her soul in every strain. And as before, he found his steps taking him against his will down that long hallway to the open door of the music room.
He stood quietly for a time, with maids and footmen rushing to and fro around him in their preparations for the great ball that evening. Even though he was surrounded by busy humanity, he felt alone and adrift, enveloped by the plaintive tune coming from Emily’s instrument. There was nothing but sorrow played out under her fingertips today, a swelling grief that let him know, more than any words could, the state of her mind.
The minutes passed, the time ticking mercilessly on toward evening. He must leave soon, he knew, to get as many hours of daylight as possible before darkness made the roads impossible to navigate. Emily’s music, however, was like a chain binding him to the spot. As he was about to turn away, there was a movement at the door, and a pale head came into view.
“Bach,” Malcolm whispered.
The dog peered at him somberly before padding out into the hall. He stopped a short distance from him, eyeing him with canine worry before letting loose a low whine.
“I know,” Malcolm murmured, coming closer to the animal and kneeling down before him. He ran his free hand over Bach’s head. “And I am sorry for it. More than you know.”
The dog gave a soft woof, nosing his chest.
“Yes, it does hurt,” Malcolm agreed. “But that is neither here nor there. For I must leave. Just promise me something, will you? You will look after her for me?” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “Look after her and give her all the love she needs.”
Bach looked at him with that one brown eye, an eye that seemed to see straight through to his very soul. Unable to take the scrutiny—of an animal, no less—Malcolm rose. Instead of leaving, however, he took the few steps necessary to peer into the music room. One more look, he thought a bit desperately. One more view to warm him for the rest of his days.
She was there, a vision in pale blue, her hair a bright flame, beckoning him. Her face was too pale, he noted, the smudges under her eyes prominent. His heart ached at this proof of her sleepless nights. For one bright, golden moment he was nearly overcome with the need to go to her, to take her in his arms and erase all the grief that tightened her features.
His fingers gripped tight to his satchel, the one solid thing still tethering him to reality. He had made mistakes in the whole debacle, he knew. Yet she hadn’t cared for him enough to give him another chance.
But the pain was growing too great. He had to leave, before his heart—and his peace of mind—was lost forever. Turning, he strode off without another glance.
Chapter 24
There were so many people. Emily hadn’t thought there were this many people in the world, much less just in this small part of Northamptonshire. This was no mere country dance, but a ball of the finest order.
