Page 70 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“I used to come up here, when tensions with my mother, sister and aunt would thicken, or when the helpless feelings of not being able to do anything to help my tenants would grow to be too much.”
He eyed the vase of dried flowers on the mantel and the copy ofAckerman’s Repositoryon the table, then raised a brow at his friend.
Tensford flushed. “Hope and I do occasionally come up here, but you don’t need to know about that.” He set the basket on the table. “Here is food and drink. I’ll be back to check on you. It’s a long walk back to the house, but if you decide to come, just follow the path through the woods. It will drop you onto the road that follows the river.”
Keswick started when his friend put both hands on his shoulders. Tensford looked him in the eye. “Sort it all out in your head, man. We’ll support you, no matter which way you come down.”
Tensford drove off and Keswick sank onto the edge of the bed. He rubbed his temples and let his head droop down. There was too much noise in there. Too many clashes of wants and needs and desperate rationales—and no resolution to be found.
Unable to sit still, he got up and went outside. A stack of shortened logs had been dumped haphazardly nearby. After a rummage in the lean–to, he found an axe. Breathing deeply, he rolled up his sleeves, fetched the first log and started in.
Hours later, the forest around him had gone dim. The logs were gone and the pile of split wood loomed high. He tossed the axe back and went inside. It was dark, but he didn’t bother to search out a candle. He found the basket, fumbled inside for a bottle of cold tea and drank it all down. With difficulty, he managed to get his boots off himself and then stretched out on the bed.
When he woke, daylight showed around the door and tried to shine through the one grimy window. He had no inkling how long he’d slept, but his brood was over.
The chaos had gone quiet. Only the truth was left. He’d been indulging himself, pretending that there might be an answer to be found.
Stretching and frowning, he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. How had he allowed things to go this far? First, Glory turned him inside out—asking for things that made his hollow places echo with loneliness. Then, somehow, that innocent slip of a girl had squeezed in past his defenses and starting busily spreading laughter, secrets and lust like plaster. Handily, she’d searched out the cracks inside of him and started filling them in.
It had to stop. There were reasons he held himself apart. Real motives for spreading himself out and indulging only in the shallowest of dealings with most people, but especially women. The recollection of the agony that followed when he abandoned his rakish role and allowed himself to need anyone—that was only part of it. He must also remember that Glory was as much at risk for grief and shame as he.
He sighed, knowing it was too late for him. It was going to hurt. He’d begun to think about her entirely too much. He’d spent—hours? days?—trying to think of a way to allow himself to feel for her.
There wasn’t one. There was only one thing to do now. He had to leave her behind. He must go—back to the house and then back to London.
* * *
“There isn’tenough light in here for this fine work.”
The nasal complaint set Glory’s teeth on edge. The sun shone bright here in Hope’s parlor. Miss Vernon was only being difficult.
Again.
The other girl threw her embroidery down with disgust. “I don’t have the right colors with me to finish this piece, in any case.”
“Then perhaps you should have joined the countess and the others on their shopping expedition,” Miss Munroe suggested.
Most of the ladies had gone down to the village. Glory had gone down herself, but only to place a special order at the mercantile. She’d returned early to join those few who had decided to stay at Greystone, where they had gathered in the parlor for a bit of sewing and gossip.
“Shopping?” Miss Vernon scoffed. “I’ve driven through that village. If you think there is any sort of acceptable shopping to be had there, you are sorely mistaken.”
She continued on, extolling the virtues and superiority of London’s shops, but Glory barely heard her. She was busy wondering where Keswick had gone. She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him since he’d left her side the night before last. As far as she could tell, no one had seen him since then. Except, perhaps, for Tensford. He’d had a curious look on his face when Hope had asked about his friend—and he’d answered her in a tone that no one else could hear.
Honestly, Keswick had to stop disappearing every time they had a physical encounter. He was going to make her think she’d done something wrong—except, she knew she hadn’t. He might not have had the same . . . completion . . . that she had, but he had been entirely involved and pleased to be so. She knew that much, at least. He’d just escaped before she could suggest any sort of reciprocation.
In fact, she had begun to wonder if this was a new strategy he’d adopted to keep her at bay—all give and no take. He said he would agree to their bargain. He’d given her exactly what she had requested. But he had not accepted anything in return—no sort of physical or emotional connection or intimacy at all. That wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t partnership.
It would not do.
“How long can one afternoon last?” Miss Vernon exclaimed. “This one seems interminable. Why have we not planned more activities with the gentlemen?” She sighed. “I wish that we might have gone to watch them shoot. That would have made the time pass quickly.”
“We did have their company yesterday. They might have gone fishing or they might have chosen some other activity away from the house when their shooting was delayed,” Miss Munroe reminded her.
“It does seem an odd sort of thing—to have someone try to destroy Tensford’s hunting blinds,” Miss Myland remarked.
“I suspect someone in the area has a sympathy for the birds,” answered Miss Munroe.
“That’s all very well, but they should leave Tensford’s birds to him.”
