Page 10 of The Trouble With Titles
The impending loss of what could have been overwhelmed him. He was not ready. Reaching out, he caught her delicate hand in his. He was selfish—an utter bastard—but tomorrow he faced the gallows, and he was not quite ready to say goodbye.
“These are my last few hours of freedom. Would you … spend them with me? Perhaps we could speak openly as we did in our youth?”
He missed that simpler time shared with her, when he had been a bold youth without the weight of expectations weighing him down. When they had planned their lives together. How different things might be if he had not caused Nicholas’s accident.
Madeline cocked her head, considering his words until she relented and seated herself. “One last conversation before we say goodbye.”
His heart resumed beating in his chest, and Simon resolved to savor each second of their last night. He made a conscious effort to cast off the mantle of solemnity which was his character of late and, after an awkward start, they talked and laughed together about the mishaps of youth until well past midnight.
Finally, she checked the time. “I have work in the morning.” Her tone was regretful as they rose to their feet.
Simon raised a finger to brush back a lock of her silky hair, taking his time to view her features in the silvery light for the last time. Leaning down, he brushed his lips over her soft mouth. He should not have done it, but he could not help himself as he ended this chapter of his life. It was a token to hold in his memories as they bid farewell.
Stepping back, he gave a little bow. “Farewell, lovely Psyche.”
Madeline gave a tremulous smile, hesitating for just a moment, then headed toward the arch to disappear from sight.
Simon watched his goddess walk away, his thoughts bittersweet. He was losing his best friend to be an honorable husband to Olivia Boyle. To be fair to his future wife, he would have to do his best to find peace within his arranged marriage, but he could not help thinking he would never see Madeline naked upon his sheets, as he had often dreamed of during his years at Oxford, or feel her soft curves pressed against him.
He hoped she would find a good husband to appreciate her.
CHAPTER 2
“The pain of their separation was felt deeply by both, though neither could bridge the distance between them.”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
JULY 20, 1821
Their carriage drew up in front of Lord Boyle’s townhouse, and Isla made a sound of displeasure. In the afternoon light, Simon’s mother appeared almost supernaturally beauteous in her deep blue pelisse, her eyes strikingly vivid even in the dim interior.
“I know your father would be most pleased at the match you are making, and I am all for the improvement of our connections. If only it did not mean spending time with … them.”
Simon was aware that the odd noise, and complaining, were in lieu of frowning. Isla Scott did not frown. It marred the face with lines, and she would not tolerate such indignities.
“They are an influential family which ranks above us.”
“I am aware, and the match is most pleasing. The Boyle girl is the same age I was when I wed, and the family is known for producing progeny. She should provide strong, healthy heirs.” Isla contemplated this fortune with a contented look, which was hard to read, for she would not smile. Smiling was as ill-advised as frowning, she liked to say. “But … do they have to be so silly?”
Simon smiled despite himself. It was an accurate description, and he had lain awake at night thinking about the future with Olivia. The custom of married couples maintaining separate bedchambers, at least amongst the nobility, was something he appreciated given his circumstances. He would have somewhere to retreat to.
Duncan, their strapping head footman, knocked politely on the carriage door before opening it. He stepped aside so Roderick could attach the steps that would allow disembarkation. This was an important day for the Scotts, and John had insisted on pomp, instructing their senior footmen to accompany Simon and his mother.
The two servants stood on either side of the front door, Duncan lifting the knocker to bring it down with a resounding thud. Soon it opened, and Simon and Isla swept in to find Lord Boyle in a state of agitation in the entry hall.
Thin, tall, and attired in a champagne gold suit embroidered with frolicking cupids, Lord Boyle was quite a sight which caused Simon to grow giddy while he attempted to clear his vision of the monstrosity.
“Terrible, terrible news, I am afraid. I should have sent word to postpone our meeting, dear boy!”
Simon gritted his teeth, tearing his gaze away from the nauseating cupids swimming in front of his eyes. “Lord Boyle, allow me to accompany you to your study while my mother takes a moment to rest.”
Lord Boyle shook his head of shaggy gray-blond hair. “Of course, Lady Blackwood. Please, my footman will show you to the drawing room where the ladies are enjoying tea. Such terrible news! I am afraid everyone is most upset.”
Simon persevered through the sorrowful lamenting, steering Lord Boyle into his study. He might not have spent much time with Miss Boyle, but he had acquired considerable experience in managing her high-strung father over the past weeks during their negotiations. The truth was … Lord Boyle’s finances were not ideal. The nobleman had intended a very good match for his daughter, but when the time had come for her Season, the coffers had been a bit bare. Perhaps because he spent outrageous sums on his ostentatious garments.
Consequently, the lord was forced to allow a match inequitable in his estimation. The Scotts might be a rank lower, but they had proved excellent stewards for their holdings over the past two centuries. The coffers were overflowing, which Lord Boyle was in need of.
Thus, Simon had maintained his course through their numerous excruciating meetings. Finding the man in a state was not a welcome development.
