Page 87 of Yielding to Love

This, here now, was the man she had thought him to be.

“No. No, he wanted a son that much.” She hitched her shoulders. “I think he married me because I was with child.”

Crispin regarded her a long moment. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his face and hands. He stood and gave her his hand to help her stand. Gesturing to his knees, the pale-blue superfine now filthy, he said, sounding more like himself, “A little hard to explain. The black of your dress hides the dirt, fortunately.”

“I doubt anyone will be crass enough to say anything.”

“You don’t know Hazard.”

He toed the dirt from around one of the paving stones and wiggled it loose. “You’ll see,” he muttered. Then he used his handkerchief to brush his trouser legs as best he could before offering his arm to her. They took a few steps along the path, then he groaned. “What was he like? It is unfair of me, but I have so many questions.”

“I don’t mind speaking of him.” It kept his memory alive. “He was beautiful. He had your eyes. The brightest blue you ever saw.”

“Blond hair? Taverston blond?”

“No. He was bald.” Her voice caught. He would have been blond. She and Manfred were both dark. “He was so sweet. So precious. Looking into his eyes you could see an old soul.”

“How did he die? If it isn’t too painful…if you can say.”

“He couldn’t eat. Rather, he could not keep anything down.” His arm went limp, so her hand fell away from the crook of his elbow. Seeing his appalled expression, she said, “It was not that food bothered him. You mustn’t think that.” It was not a curse inherited from Crispin. “The doctor said that the outlet from his stomach was blocked. He said there was nothing I could have done. Babies with this always die. They don’t grow up to pass it down.”

The blood seemed to drain from his face. “How long did he live?”

“Four weeks. He died in my arms.”

He winced. “I’m sorry you had to bear that alone. You’ve borne so much. And this.” He gestured about, seeming to encompass the Stirlings’ home, her mourning dress, everything. “If I can do anything…”

She shook her head. “You can’t. I don’t want to court scandal. I skirted so close to ruin. I just want to live quietly.”

“I understand.” He puffed out a breath. “But I cannot simply walk away from the consequences of our folly.”

“Not our folly. The fault lies with me. You would never have—”

“No, Camellia. Trust me. I would not have lain with you if it was not something I wanted to do.”

Her neck and face warmed. It mortified her still, what she had done. “I truly thought,” her voice dropped, “that I had taken the right precautions. But I don’t regret—”

He dismissed that with a flick of his hand. “Where is he buried?”

“The churchyard in Tonbridge,” she whispered. “Next to Manfred.”

Crispin nodded, jaw clenched. They continued in silence to the side door of the house. They carried such a cloud of gloom, it seemed to dim the riotous colors of the garden.

“Would you mind if I went to see him?” he asked.

“Why would I mind?”

“I feel I have no right to claim…to claim grief.”

She halted. The poor man. Guilt radiated from him. “You have every right.”

“Would you like to come with me? I’ll borrow Jasper’s carriage again. We can go and come back in a day.”

Was that an offer or an entreaty? “Of course I would like to.” How like a man to think it a simple thing. “But people talk. I don’t dare.”

*

From the moment they reentered the parlor, Camellia could tell Crispin was himself again. Or his other self. He stood with a relaxed formality and addressed Philip directly.