Wearing a frock the colour of yesterday’s porridge, she looked stunning, standing in the doorway, biting her lip.
Hell. He must be strong.
“Tamsyn, lovey. Have you a bottle of brandy I can take with me? Eight days in the coach with Miggens and I’ll go straight to Bedlam once in London.”
A smile broke over her beautiful features but he sternly told himself not to waver.
He would never be constant; no Winterbourne ever had.
“There are two bottles of Napoleon’s finest under the seat.”
“Good. Thank you, erm…” He wandered over, grasped her hand, turned it over, traced the faint lines with his finger. Had to say something. “I will visit, Tamsyn. I…care for you, deeply. It’s just… I must report back to Whitehall…and meet with my man of affairs regarding the estate’s yields. My shipping interests require attention…and I have to arrange for the carriage to be re-sprung and then I have Lord Rainham’s autumn ball which I promised to attend.”
Her lips still smiled but her blue eyes became grave.
Lud, he was wittering again and he swallowed, could read in her face that she didn’t believe any of it, didn’t believe he’d ever be back.
Yet no words of censure spilled from her, and it should have been easy to turn and walk away.
Nothing had ever been more difficult.
Tamsyn had known this day would come for some while and maintained a curve to her lips even as Jack rambled on.
This handsome rogue belonged in a city not the Cornish countryside where the winter kept you inside for days on end, where you had to order a carriage to visit the tailors, where the silent barren moors would drive a sociable marquess insane.
She would survive Jack, as she had done everything else, but Penrose Manor would never be quite the same. His laughter, his smile, his sheer enthusiasm for life and people had aided her spirit, and she would miss him dreadfully.
Not too long ago, she’d thought him a fribble, a useless dandy with no concern but for waistcoats. How foolish; how very prejudiced.
But she would take solace from his words and seek the joy in life. ’Twas not always easy; she knew that truth well enough. Pain, fear and regret could cloud many a sun-filled day, but one had to try.
He’d given new meaning to her cursed scar, portrayed it as part of a beautiful whole, and now she would always think of him, of their wonderful night, of her exquisite Feathered Thorn, darting wild and free with its paper wings.
La Chauve-Sourishad been turned to dust.
“I’ve brought you a present.” And she handed over a concise volume:Moths of the South-West. “I know you are not an avid reader, but I hope you will peruse the pictures and think of me. Our Marbled Green and Feathered Thorn are in there.”
“Oh, Tam.”
And all of a sudden, she was engulfed in his tight embrace, their lips meeting, desperate and fierce. She drew breath and caressed his cheek, brushed his soft cravat and stroked his elegant puce waistcoat, vowing to memorise his perfect form.
“I have to leave, Tam. I cannot hurt you.”
She shook her head, tears blurring, inhaled his citrus scent, never wanting to breathe out.
How could a man so protective, so chivalrous ever think he could hurt her?
It was unfathomable but no words she could utter would sway his self-opinion, no actions would influence his view. In the end, no one but Jack could realise who he truly was.
“Safe journey, my rogue.” And she wrenched away, leaving the small book in his hands.
“If you are ever in Town, Mr Mason, please call upon me.” And Jack shook his hand firmly.
The chap no longer peered but looked more at ease, although shadows still loomed – perchance they always would.
“Thank you, my lord, but I like Cornwall very much and thought I might stay awhile in Treloor.”
A group had gathered in the hall and Jack gave his farewells, accepting an odd-looking silver charm from Mrs Mildern and exchanging a hearty hug with the professor.
