“If you are trying to scare me, you will have to do better than that, Archer.” Lydia’s heart thundered in her chest, but her voice was steady even as some part of her screamed for her to run, to hide.I am done hiding.
Archer was panting, his eyes flashing. Every muscle was coiled tight, like a trap ready to be sprung. Lydia decided it was time to roll the dice. She closed the distance between them, placing a hand on Archer’s chest.
“Our flaws do not make us unworthy of love, Archer. Our actions do.”Please, do not do this.She was not sure if it was her heart beat she could feel or his. “If anything between us was real, if I ever meant anything to you, if you care for me at all, you will not walk out that door.”
For a moment, they stayed, eyes fixed on each other. Archer breathing as though he had run a marathon, Lydia staring up at him, her eyes searching his face desperately.
“I do care for you, Lydia. There is something between us.” Archer’s voice was soft, the anger was gone, but what replacedit stole the wind from Lydia’s lungs: resignation. “But it is not worth the risk.”
I am not worth the risk.She paused, letting his words wash over her. She moved wordlessly away from him, the world fading into the background.
“Where are you going?” Archer reached for her, and she avoided his touch.
“The dowager cottage.”
“It will be freezing. There will be no fires lit, no servants—nothing.”
“I will manage. The refurbishments may make things a little tricky, but I think it will be for the best.” She looked into her husband’s eyes. “Goodbye, Archer.”
“Lydia…” Hope blazed in her heart. For a moment, she was sure he would ask her to stay. That he would tell her that it was all a mistake, but then the light faded from his eyes, and he handed her a lantern.
“You should take this. It will be hard to see in this weather.” His fingers brushed hers as he gave her the lamp.
“Thank you.” Lydia took it and left without another word.
She did not remember how she reached the dowager cottage, only that she did. She barely remembered lighting a fire, crawling into one of the new beds, and curling into herself.
The sound of the wind outside hid the sobs that wracked her body, stealing them into the night with the pieces of her broken heart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Lydia,” Archer cried out, rolling over, his hand only finding air.
He tumbled and landed on the cold hard floor. He blinked blearily around him. His head pounded. His mouth felt as though it were full of cotton. He shook his head.
“That was a mistake.” He clutched the sturdy desk behind him so tightly his knuckles went white as he fought to keep his stomach from emptying its contents. “Not that there can be much in there.”
He heard the gentle chink of glass, and a moment later, light streamed into the room. The familiar big eyes of Iris peered at him, her nose wrinkled.
“Uncle, you need a bath.” Iris prodded at him. “You reek like that time I fell into the pigsty at Uncle Rupert’s—do you remember that, Uncle? Everyone was yelling and fussing, and the piggieswere going oink and screeeee and snuffling and rootling, and one of them tried to bite me, and you said we should make it into bacon, and then I said?—”
“Not now, Iris.” He tried to keep his voice light and breezy as he cut off Iris’s stream, but it was difficult with his head pounding with the beat of a thousand drums.
His niece gave him an affronted look. “I was just trying to help. You say it is not polite to tell people things that are not nice but that sometimes it is kind. Aunty Lydia isn’t going to want to hug you if you smell like this.”
She gave him a thoughtful look. “I don’t even want to hug you, Uncle Dash, and I love you this much.” She held her arms as far apart as she could, her face showing the strain of her stretch.
On another day, the sight might have made him laugh, but not today. “I need a drink.”
“I don’t think you do, brother.” Juliet’s voice sounded far away, and he heard a scuffle and sensed that his sister had summoned his niece to her.
“What do you know?” Archer scowled at her and pulled himself to his feet with difficulty.
The world swam around him, and he stumbled, leaning heaving against the desk for support. The wood creaked ominously beneath his hands.
“Is Uncle Dash sick?” Iris sounded worried, and it tugged at some part of Archer. Or at least it would have if he had not doused it in several bottles of merlot and two thirds of a bottle of scotch.
“No, sweetheart. He’s just hungover,” Juliet explained.
