Because I’ve been in love with you since I was ten years old.
Thrust off his normally-grounded axis, like an arrogant arse, Cort shoved his chair back and surged to his feet. His head swam, a milky haze coloring his vision. He grasped the edge of the block and released a tight breath. Unless he pitched to the ground at her feet, he was leaving this dwelling right bloody now. Even if they had to tie him to his mount to keep him in the saddle.
Alexandra was at his side immediately, her arm slipping around his waist as she eased him into the chair. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Perhaps this fit of pique is related to your injury. I’ll ask the doctor when he returns tomorrow morning.”
Cort rested his spectacles on his brow and scoured his fist across his eyes. He wanted to laugh. Knox would have. Fit of pique. Men did not have fits of pique. They suffered violent outbursts and engaged in drunken brawls. They did not sulk or pout.
Ignoring his hysteria, his torment went about preparing tea, the rattle of a cup and saucer when she delivered the beverage sounding before him.
“Drink,” she said, settling across from him.
He blinked to find her gaze fixed upon him, the bouquet resting by her side. Her eyes were an unforgettable color, a dusky violet he’d never encountered on another living soul. So light he’d often imagined he could see through them and into her soul. A place he’d wanted to access so badly he could taste it. Those immature fancies where one supposed strong sentiments must, simply must, be returned. Cort knew better. Because one felt an emotion didn’t mean the emotion was actually there. He’d love to tell her that his childhood obsession had evaporated like morning mist the moment he’d left this place. Even if it wasn’t true.
Gathering his strength, he rested back, cradling the cup in his hands. English to his core, the tea—chamomile, he determined from a sniff—calmed him as he sipped. Even as the daring chit across from him made his pulse race.
“I sent a missive to your brother so he wouldn’t worry.” Alexandra reached for a lemon scone she’d brought with the tea and bit into it with relish. He wasn’t going to think about the crumbs clinging to her bottom lip. He wasn’t.
Smiling, she nudged the plate his way.
He grabbed one, the taste of citrus hitting his tongue with a burst. Hmm…they were bloody good. “I wish you hadn’t. He takes the elder brother routine seriously, and then some. A few minutes older, though he values it as three hundred years.” Reaching, he took another scone and polished it off in two bites, chewing as he added, “He’ll send his personal physician if he thinks I’m not getting appropriate care. I’m warning you now, lest they knock on your door in the middle of the night.”
She licked a morsel from the edge of her mouth, pitching his stomach to his knees. “What sent you from your mount and into that ditch? You were the most capable rider in Hampstead at one time, able to handle any horse Seamus put before you. I assumed it was the storm.”
He sipped, eyeing her over the rim, shocked she’d noticed a damned thing about him back then. “It wasn’t the storm.” She wanted honesty, did she? Well, Cort didn’t like to give and not get. His negotiating expertise in the military had been legendary. “What do I receive in return for cooperating with this line of questioning?”
She frowned, a charming dent, almost deep enough to be called a dimple, winking from the plump curve of her cheek. “Are you proposing a trade?”
She was fearless, he’d hand her that, another trick of memory coming to him about the girl. She’d not once backed down that he recollected. “I must be mad-bored, my mind still muddled from the accident, but I suppose I am. I offer this, your honesty for my own. But I want an admission you wouldn’t share with anyone else. Top shelf details or it’s no deal.”
Her pupils flared, curiosity and a spark of something he couldn’t define making them shine like agate. “Is that what you’ll give? Something no one else knows?”
He dipped his chin in agreement, wondering if the blow to his head had truly rendered him senseless. “I will.”
“Why?”
He reached for another of her delightful scones and tore into it. “For the same reason I do most things, because I want to.”
“That must be nice,” she whispered, so softly she thought he hadn’t heard.
“Isn’t that the way it is for you? Freedom, now that you’re widowed?”
“Freedom for a woman in this world?” She laughed and plucked at her posy as petals drifted to the floor. “You must be joking. We’re bound by society’s dictates until the day we die.”
He raised a brow, chewing slowly. “I assume you want me to go first.”
Charmingly discomfited, she shifted on her chair. “It was your idea.”
“Indeed, it was.” He laughed, a tad rusty but real. His amusement of late had been as thin as lace, punched through with thousands of tiny holes. Nerves were present, he’d admit, swirling in his belly. He’d not told anyone about the episodes, not even Knox. His brother worried enough already.
Picking up a balance wheel, Cort spun it between his fingers, focusing on the tarnished metal rather than the keen glimmer in her eyes. “Someone was hunting in the parklands I was passing through. That lonesome stretch before you reach the village. Rain had begun to fall but it was light, not hard enough to muck up the roads yet. I’d picked up speed to get to the estate before the downpour when there was the discharge of a rifle somewhere off to my left.”
He paused, his heartbeat kicking, the piquant scent of blood washing through him. Memories, Cort, they’re only memories. Swallowing, he prayed his voice sounded composed before the lone person with the probable power to bring him to his knees. “Certain sounds have the ability to send me back to the battlefield. Unfortunately, a carriage wheel thumping over a cobble or glass shattering upon ballroom marble deliver me directly to Waterloo. It’s been a challenge to return to normal life when my life is no longer normal.”
He glanced at her then, drawn and repelled by the sympathy in her gaze, but hardened enough from a turbulent past to withstand both. “So, my little secret, the storm had nothing to do with my being tossed from my mount. It was the gunshot that spooked the rider, not the horse.”
Silence became a living thing, roaming the kitchen like a viscous fog. Cort exhaled too noisily for comfort and sank back. There, he thought, he’d told someone and survived the telling. The next time, with Knox, would be easier. It was on his list when he could muster the courage.
Alexandra fiddled with a hydrangea bloom. “They say you’re attached to Countess Rashford.”
