Page 86 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Michael crossed his arms. “The hell we will.”
Anne, who had been in the act of spreading butter on a slice of bread, glanced up at him. Seeing his expression, she gave an exasperated sigh. “Not this overprotective nonsense again.”
Nonsense? He didn’t want the woman he loved to die, and she called it nonsense? “It’s not nonsense.”
“Lambeth isn’t such a bad neighborhood. The Coade Stone manufactory is just a little ways upriver from Vauxhall, and absolutely everyone goes there.”
“Still, there’s no need for you to go—”
“Of course there is!” Anne set aside her plate and stood, her eyebrow twitching. “Were you paying no attention this afternoon? Nick has been kidnapped. I will leave no stone unturned.”
“I will go. Alone,” Michael said in his Voice that Brooked No Argument.
Apparently Anne was proof against the Voice that Brooked No Argument, because she shot back, “If you think I’m going to cower in my drawing room and leave the important work to the menfolk, then you don’t remember me at all.”
“I’m not asking you to cower—”
“We were equal partners growing up, Michael. Equal.” Her hands were clenched into fists, and she was blinking back tears. “We did everything together. I took every rail you took. I climbed every tree. I’ve jumped that gap in the battlements of Cranfield Castle a thousand times. You never suggested I was less capable than you just because I’m a girl.” She rubbed at her cheek with the back of one hand. “It’s what I like about you. Or maybe I should say liked. Because clearly you don’t feel that way anymore.”
It was like a knife to the heart, to hear her say that. And she wasn’t wrong, regarding their childhood. But the boy she had taken those fences with was gone. Experiencing the agony of losing her had scarred him. He couldn’t just snap his fingers and go back to those carefree days before he knew what it was to have to live without her.
Michael crossed the room in two strides and stroked a hand along her cheek. “I know how capable you are, Anne. But Gladstone and whatever henchmen he’s employing… they’re dangerous. They killed Smithers, and they would kill again to save themselves. I just don’t want to watch the only woman I’ve ever loved get stabbed to death in front of my eyes.”
“How is it any different if you go alone? Do you not think I would worry just as much about you?”
Michael locked his jaw. “That’s different. That’s completely different.”
“I should like to know how!”
Michael groaned. Whereas he would very much prefer not to explain. Discussing your inner scars, your fears—this was not something an Englishman did. It went against every tenet by which his father had raised him. “It just is.”
“Don’t you give me that, Michael Cranfield.” She jabbed one finger into his chest. “I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, trying to assume my best friend, the person who respects me, is still in there somewhere. I get glimpses of him every now and then, like when you were telling off Mr. Hewitt. But half an hour later, you’re the one dismissing me, insisting that I need to hide in my parlor and leave the important work to you. I don’t know what to think.”
He tilted his head back all the way toward the ceiling and squeezed his eyes shut. When he dared to peer down at Anne, he found her looking at him expectantly. “You’re not really going to make me say it, are you?”
“Apparently I am, because I have absolutely no idea what ‘it’ is.”
Michael swallowed, fixing his eyes on the wall behind Anne. “My… my mother died, Anne. She died, and—” He broke off.
He felt her take one of his hands and squeeze it. “I remember, Michael. I remember how awful it was for you.”
“It was awful for me, but I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about my father.”
He chanced a glance down at her and saw that the anger had gone out of her, that there was nothing but sympathy in her eyes.
He looked away. It was going to be hard enough for him to get through this. “It was like half his soul had died. My mother was his world. He loved her the exact same way I love you. The Cranfield way, it would seem. And a man is supposed to protect his wife. But he… he just had to sit there and hold her hand while she bled to death.” He swallowed. “He’s never really recovered. I doubt he ever will.”
At some point during his speech, Anne had wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her head against his chest.
“That’s why I can’t risk you, Anne. Because I never thought that would happen to me. But then, I… I lost you, Anne.” His voice broke, and he had to stop for a moment. “Or at least, I thought I did. When you married Wynters. And I—” He broke off, trying to push back the gulf of blackness that accompanied that particular memory. When he spoke again, his voice shook. “I can’t do that again. I can’t. Please don’t ask me to. There wasn’t anything my father could do to save my mother. But this, we can prevent.”
He caressed her beautiful face. “My not wanting you to go has nothing to do with thinking you incapable, and everything to do with my inability to live without you. I’ll go look for Nick. I’ll do it gladly. I don’t care if I die, as long as I don’t have to live without you. Please, Anne, let me go alone. Please just let me protect you.”
“Oh, Michael.” Anne rubbed his back, and they stood that way for a moment, just holding each other.
Anne leaned back and met his eye. “Just to be clear, your position is that I shouldn’t go to Lambeth tonight, even in your company, because it’s too dangerous.”
“Correct.”
