Six months earlier
FiercewindwhippedupLudgate Hill and buffeted the crowd outside St. Paul’s Cathedral, nearly pulling Henry’s hat from his head. He shuddered and pulled his coat more tightly around his shoulders. He had never found solace in attending church, once joking he might burst into flamesupon crossing the threshold. But he couldn’t deny the magic of Christmas Eve, the excitement on children’s faces, the choral singing spilling into the street, the light dusting of snow still fresh, having not yet succumbed to the muck of central London.
Henry rolled his shoulders and his jacket protested, the fabric too tight. He would visit Gentleman Jackson’s as soon as the holiday ended and get in a few rounds to relieve the tension in his neck. Boxing and its intoxicating sense of release had replaced his vices of womanizing and boozing in the past year. While his head was clearer and his body stronger, he still felt…
Unsettled? Incomplete? What adjective captured the low hunger aching in his chest?
Perhaps the proverbial ax hanging over his head, dropping with every passing moment, kept him on edge. He expected his fiancée back in London before the new year, but he received word the Brightling family would require at least six more months in America before they would return. Henry reacted to the news like a doomed felon receiving a stay of execution. He had nothing personal against Miss Brightling; they had exchanged stilted letters every few months, and with the last one she included a photograph, suggesting he could put it on his mirror.
Miss Brightling was as he remembered; fair, delicate, with wide-set eyes and a kind smile. Her letters were pleasant, lengthy and…
Dull. Painfully, excruciatingly dull. Just as his life would be when he became her husband.
Henry wanted to kick himself for his foolish, impulsive decision to marry, wondering if there was some way he could call it off. Miss Brightling was not eager to fulfill the arrangement; according to her letters, she had not even begun planning the event. But her reputation would be ruined if he tossed her over, and Henry would not carry such guilt on his conscience. She had done nothing wrong and did not deserve to bear the burden of Henry’s inability to commit to anyone or anything.
With a heavy sigh, Henry began ascending the wide stairs when he heard the husky voice behind him.
“Lord Morley, is that you?”
Lady Eleanor, the Dowager Countess Ashby.His mother had told him Ellie had attended service last week, and his heart clattered in his chest for so long he wondered if it might explode. Henry struggled to comprehend how a woman like Eleanor, so young and full of life, could be a dowager.
“Lady Ashby,” he managed with a bow as she approached. She wore a black cloak completely enveloping her body, a gray and lavender hat with a crepe veil that obscured her face and covered her curls. With the streetlamps glowing behind her and soft snowfall dancing around her, she looked ethereal, otherworldly.
He hesitated before speaking again. “I am terribly sorry for your loss.”
Ellie lifted her veil and pressed her lips together. “He was in pain, so I suppose it was for the best.” She met his gaze, and he was temporarily stunned by the beauty of her eyes. The life that had been absent when he saw her a year ago had returned in part, a glowing ember where there had once been a roaring fire.
The news of Ashby’s death last February had taken some time to reach Henry in Paris, where he claimed to be studying French poetry. In reality was partaking in most—but not all—of the delights the European capital offered wealthy British aristocrats, particularly the luxury brothels. He didn’t enjoy the carnal offerings, novel as they were. His appetite for female companionship had ceased in the past year. For so long, the connection, the praise, the attention itself from a lover satisfied him more than the physical act itself. But in the end, he felt hollow, emptier than he had before the encounter.
A friend from school had brought him to watch an erotic tea ceremony in the Japanese room at Le Chabanais. Halfway through the demonstration, his friend mentioned Ashby’s death in passing. Henry dropped his cup and barely registered its shattering on the floor because of the pounding of his pulse. Henry left the brothel without a backwards glance, practically flying to his apartment in Paris and packing his bags as adrenaline coursed through his body. Only when he reached the train station at Gare du Nord did he stop to ask himself what he was doing.
He returned to London but stayed in his rooms, too cowardly to call on her, choosing instead to send a pitifully impersonal letter before embarking for his country estate. A letter she had not returned.
“I understand congratulations are in order.” Her lips pulled into a smile. “I'm certain you and Miss Brightling will be very happy together.”
“Yes, thank you,” he said, the words falling flat between them.
“Have you set a date yet?” He couldn’t miss the tension around her mouth as she asked.
“Not yet. She wants to wait until her family is back in England to stay, and for me to be ready to begin work for her father.” He winked at her, but the gesture was hollow. “So perhaps we will never marry.”
“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “You can do whatever you wish to.”
He shook his head, unable to admit he already knew he would fail. He didn’t deserve Ellie’s kindness, her steadfast belief in him when he had only everbeen a failure.
“You look well,” she said, a faint blush appearing high on her cheeks.
Henry gave her a half-smile. “Boxing is far better for the system than drinking, it seems.”
She blinked. “Boxing? My goodness. Have you given up on talking your way out of arguments?”
“Funny enough, I’m better at that too, since I’ve become a stranger to whiskey.”
He eyes warmed. “I’m happy to hear it.”
“And you,” he deflected, suddenly uncomfortable being the center of attention. “How are you?”
Her eyes darted towards the street before meeting his again. “Not well, Henry. I never gave him an heir. There is no place for me now that mourning is almost over.” She hesitated. “It’s hard to believe you didn’t know.”
