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“Perhaps you won’t go at all. We’ll see. Now be careful and be kind. And send letters. Lots of letters.”
Cynthia was still crying hard as Jackson closed up the carriage with a curious look at her messy face. But strangely enough, as they rolled past the distant vista of Oak Hall, her tears dried and she stared emotionlessly out at her old home.
Chapter 18
Nick’s face was blue in the twilight glow of the sky. Blue as if he were dying.
They’d eaten their dinner long before, and though the sun was setting, they still faced another hour’s drive before descending, unannounced, upon a ducal household. Up to that moment, Cynthia had spent the hours staring rapt at the passing countryside. She’d never been so far from home and could hear her own excitement expressed in the rapid chatter that floated down from Adam’s seat above.
But it was darker now, and they were all tired. And she couldn’t stop staring at Nick’s twilight face.
Had he tried to kill himself? If he had, she couldn’t leave him as she planned, not if he really thought himself in love with her.
His eyes closed, adding to the morbid vignette. When his head fell to rest against the seat, the darkness of the scar peeked above his collar.
A burn. But how did one burn one’s whole neck?
Her stomach clenched at the obvious answer.
The scent of approaching rain filled the carriage, somehow adding to the pressure in her head. She couldn’t stop the words that swelled in her throat and couldn’t think of any way to soften them. “Did you hang yourself, Nick?”
His eyes opened and looked at the ceiling of the coach before sliding slowly down to meet hers. “Pardon me?”
Cynthia touched her own neck, troubled by the delicacy of the skin there. “Did you try to kill yourself?”
The warm brown of his eyes cooled to the color of frozen dirt. “Why in the world would you ask me that?”
“Because you have a scar that circles your neck. Because you never came home after your trip when you were meant to. Because servants talk and they say…they say that you hung yourself, Nick.”
“It’s not true.” He leaned back again and closed his eyes, as if the conversation were over.
“How did you get that scar?” she demanded.
“I already told you. It was a burn.”
“A burn from what? A cravat soaked in boiling oil?”
His mouth actually twitched up in a smile, and Cynthia knew he wasn’t really Nick at that point. He was Lord Lancaster, who could smile through a discussion of his own brush with death.
“Tell me the truth,” she pleaded, and the smile dropped away. “Something changed you, Nick. And we were friends, and I have a right to know what happened.”
He met her gaze again, glaring. “You have no right to ask me. It was a decade ago. And I do not discuss it. Ever.”
“You will discuss it with me, damn you.”
When he sat forward the tendons on his neck tightened with anger. “I’ve told you I didn’t try to kill myself.
” His voice rose to a shout. “Is my word not good enough for you? Do you think I’m lying? Telling falsehoods to cover up perversion and weakness and cowardice?”
“I…” She’d never been afraid of Nick. Never imagined that she could be. But for a brief moment she saw something flicker behind his eyes. Something dark and powerful with rage. “Of course not,” she whispered. “Why would I think that?”
Shaking his head, he ran a rough hand over his face. “Why would you not?”
“Nick…I only want to know what—”
“I’ve got to get out of here.” He banged a fist on the roof, and the carriage, already driving much slower, eased to a stop.
“Wait!” she cried as he launched himself out the door. “Where are you going?” By the time she’d stuck her head out, he was disappearing into the dim, heels crunching on the lane. She watched until she couldn’t hear his steps, then glanced up to the coachman’s box to find two faces staring down at her. Adam’s eyes were wide with trepidation.
