How to answer?
“But never mind that. What say you to a smoke and game of chess after dinner?”
“Fine.” Felton swallowed a bite, then washed it down with a drink of water. “How fares the servant girl?”
“The same.”
“It has been nearly two days.”
“You think I have not counted?” Lord Gillingham uncorked the decanter of Madeira. He poured a glass with bandaged hands. “Eliza will not leave her side. She just sits there beside the child…strokes her brow, reads to her, even keeps the dog present in hopes the animal’s noises will bring Minney back.”
“Maybe they will.”
“Maybe not.” Silence fell. Lord Gillingham leaned back in his chair, swished his goblet of wine, and stared into the liquid as if answers might be found in the swirl.
Tension made Felton’s food hard to swallow. Eliza couldn’t be right. ’Twas impossible. Of any other man, any other place, Felton might have trusted the instinct of Eliza Gillingham.
But not him.
This was a man who had laughed with Felton, so hard sometimes they were both wiping tears. Had taught him the difference between a bishop and a knight. Had read with him for hours by the library hearth.
Not that Felton had ever enjoyed the books. He’d rather run or ride or fight than read words from a page. But he’d come anyway, sat beside the older man, and read through volume after volume because Lord Gillingham was his friend.
Hisonlyfriend.
Despite the suspicion of Felton’s father. Despite what people whispered. Despite the hurt and loss of what he’d endured. Despite everything.
Lord Gillingham had believed in Felton. In all the Northwoods. He’d never turned his back on them. He’d been true and honest and infinitely good to them—and when something plagued Felton’s mind, it was not his mother or father he ran to.
It was Lord Gillingham.
Even now, glancing up from his wine, the older man seemed to sense something. “It is her, isn’t it?”
“My lord?”
“Eliza. She is the reason you have stayed away.”
“That is not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“My lord—”
“ ’Tis no great shame, Northwood. It is not some mark against your manhood or dishonor upon your strength to fall for the heart of a woman.”
“I have not fallen anywhere.”
“No?”
“No.” Felton scooted from his chair. “You know my desires were always set upon Miss Haverfield.”
“Those were a boy’s desires.”
“And I suppose this is not?”
“No.” Deep, slow. The older man’s eyes held his. “No, Northwood. It is not.”
“Well, I am certainly glad to hear you know so very much about it.” Felton ripped the napkin from his collar and flung it on the table. “Excuse me, my lord, but I fear I shall not be able to stay for the game of chess. Duties await me at home.”
