Page 37 of Atone, Adonis

“No? Far be it from me to be unfair to a Countess.”

His voice rose before it broke into a violent fit of coughing. He bent forward, shoulders shaking, one hand pressed hard against his lips. When he drew it away there was a dark stain upon his palm. All she could do was hand him a handkerchief and watch as he wiped his lifeblood from his hands.

“You see?” he went on when he could speak again. “I have not much time left. And you would spend what remains with him instead of with me. When I need you most.”

“You must not say such things, Tom. You know very well why I married Fred and it wasn’t for the coronet. You wanted to do this for me and I let you. You cannot be angry at it now. You know you cannot.”

“What I know is that he is meant to be your husband in name only. Protect yourself from him, Julianna, before it’s too late. I beg it of you.”

She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t certain Fred was the man Tom thought he was. That he might be a very different person entirely from who they’d believed him to be this last decade. But she wasn’t certain how to do that, not with Tom so ill and raging this morning.

What she eventually said was, “We have all changed, Thomas. Even Fred.” Which had been nearly his exact words to her when he’d been trying to convince her to marry Fred.

Now he said, “No one has changed that much. Although it’s not me you’re trying to convince, is it?” He gave a soft, incredulous laugh that turned into a wheeze. “Don’t be so gullible again, Julianna. Promise me you will not be alone with him. And that you will not let him into your heart. I can’t bear to see him sully you as he’s done everything else.”

Julianna squinted at her brother, trying to understand the words coming out of his mouth. They both knew it was not Fred who had sullied her—that honor had belonged to Robert Rothchild, despite how little she thought of the term sullied.

She closed her eyes. He’s dying, she reminded herself. He’s dying and he’s afraid and that would make even the most stalwart of us angry and petulant.

“I love you, Thomas,” was what she said, instead of: How dare you? Or, I will make no such promise.

His expression changed then. The feverish brightness remained, but something colder she’d never seen before settled beneath it. “Prove your love by promising me.”

“No. That’s not how love works, which you would know well enough if you weren’t so fever-sick.” She stepped back from the bed. “I am going for a walk now but I will be back before your luncheon and we’ll talk again. Get some rest. It will do you good.”

Fred woke slumped at his desk in the study, neck stiff, mouth dry, a half-burned candle dripping wax onto the scattered pages before him. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or why he was there, until the crack of sunlight that came through the gap in his curtains reminded him and the last two days came flooding back.

He was not in his bedchamber. Nor in any chamber. He was still sleeping in his study, with Thomas in the master bed and Julianna in the other habitable room.

He felt like utter hell and Gilbert’s knock on the door, The Poisoned Quill in hand, only made him feel worse. His jaw tightened as the words of the paper swam before his eyes. A bit of ludicrously glowing coverage about the Hawthornes, per usual. A paragraph on the renovations of St. Oswald’s and a smattering of gossip from the rest of Dorsetshire. And, of course, another article on him and Julianna.

The cursed column was again exposing the most private humiliations of his household and airing them for all to read, as it seemed to do every week now: a Manor scarcely habitable … the master bedchamber surrendered … the invalid brother still the excuse for an unconsummated marriage…

Christ. How did they know? Who had been whispering? The servants? Gilbert?

He’d think it some meddling cousin if he had one, but he didn’t. Someone, though, was whispering their secrets out into the world. And the thought that Dorset had sharpened its collective tongue against his private household, against Julianna, made his temples pound.

He’d barely slept a wink. Self-loathing and lust made brutal bedfellows. He had stared at the fire in his hearth for the entirety of those two nights and thought about how he’d almost kissed her—he’d come so close to shoving his tongue into her mouth like a ravenous beast, he could hardly believe himself.

Nor could he countenance how he’d been hard as stone the entire time he’d had to listen to her undress by that fire, and for hours after. What was worse, though, was later that night in the kitchen. How warm and comforting—nearly domestic—it had felt to stand there with her by the hearth. Her hair loose and her feet bare, her head tilted at him curiously.

It made him want things he could not have. Made him truly consider devoting his entire life to becoming a mad scientist who could construct the time contrivance they’d spoken of. Anything that might allow him to turn back the clock and become some different person entirely than the man he’d been at ten and eight years of age. A man who noticed more; a man who acted better. But he knew he couldn’t go back in time and be that man.

He was not even that man now. He was a churlish, cold celibate who had no business developing feelings, much less sexual appetites, for a woman who would never forgive him. Not a damned decade after the incident that had ruined all their lives.

Fred shoved back from the desk with a snarl, sending the chair legs scraping against the floorboards. He couldn’t breathe in here, couldn’t remain inside this house another moment. The walls were closing in on him, The Quill’s vile words still ringing in his ears.

He peered out the window. At least the snow had stopped. In fact, the world beyond the mullioned windows of Sedgewick Manor shone with the blinding brilliance of sun on ice. The lawns and hedgerows were blanketed in white, the woods beyond heavy with drifts.

It was an unblemished world. He might as well go out and tarnish it as he did everything else.

It was too cold to ride but a long walk in the woods might release the restless, overworked fury of his mind. Maybe—if he put enough distance between himself and the house, and the things he’d nearly done inside it—he’d be able to look himself in the eye again when he returned.

He tugged on his greatcoat and strode out into the brilliance of the morning. The cold air struck him breathless and he welcomed the feeling. He was greedy for the pain, greedy for the chance to feel anything other than lust and longing and shame. He trudged down across the pristine lawns, boots crunching through the unbroken crust, his breath rising in small, angry clouds.

He ducked under branches heavy with snow, icicles glittering like spears, and let the paths of memory guide him. It was impossible to find the actual trails through the woods now but he didn’t need them. He could navigate with his eyes closed if he needed to. He had, in fact, on many occasions, depending on whichever game they’d been playing as children.

The images came without mercy then. Julianna at eight, playing with a doll he’d given her after he and Tom had ruined the one she’d had. Tom at fifteen, boasting about his stolen kiss with the baker’s daughter until his sister pelted him with pine cones. Fred, bent double with laughter. Julianna, trailing after them through the snow, her boots swallowed by drifts, launching snowballs at them both because their teasing that morning had been too much.