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Chapter 15
When Baldwin reappeared outside, he found Ewan still seated in the garden, his eyes straight ahead. In all Baldwin’s years of knowing Ewan, he’d never seen him look so utterly serious. Ordinarily, he was mere seconds from a joke.
What had got into him? He’d been quiet like this most of the day, since his arrival to Baldwin’s estate that morning. They’d fallen into old patterns, both of them leaping atop horseback and stretching out across the moors, pausing several times to watch a bubbling brook or eat spare berries and nuts.
“Shall we go?” Baldwin asked Ewan.
Ewan nearly leapt from his skin. He blinked up at him, seemingly in shock, then returned his face to its normal composition.
“Certainly. Did you find the book you needed?”
“Yes. Thank you again.”
Ewan was the sort of man who could see through nearly every situation. This left Baldwin utterly perplexed about the reasoning for why Ewan had announced Marta’s beginning-courtship with none other than Lewis Remington, whom Baldwin had detested throughout much of his life. He’d said it as though he relished announcing it.
As though Ewan had longed to cause Baldwin some sort of pain.
Now, as they traced the path back toward the carriage to collect their horses, Baldwin slid his tongue across his lower lip and contemplated what to say. In truth, his current thought process brought him back to the same conclusion: he couldn’t allow Marta to attend the Regent’s party without him.
“Lewis is monstrous,” Baldwin said suddenly. Immediately, he regretted it. Perhaps he should have started a bit lighter.
Ewan clucked his tongue. “I assumed you’d be enraged.”
“Quite,” Baldwin continued.
“At least it isn’t you, forced to attend such an affair,” Ewan continued. His eyes flashed with good humour, finally restored. “I suppose it’ll be Marta and I, throughout the season, from one party to the next.”
“I’ve done a great deal of thinking on the subject,” Baldwin began, “And I would like you to bring me along.”
Ewan’s smile dropped. At first, Baldwin felt oddly perturbed at his own decision. But with the stakes this high, he felt he needed to take a stand.
“Marta is a free-spirited girl,” he began. “A girl who can’t possibly know the sort of madness she’s getting herself into. I have a feeling—nay, know for certain—that Englishmen such as Lewis and his friends are much less proper than the Austrian boys she’s accustomed to. Should anyone call Lewis a gentleman, know that they’re entirely incorrect.”
“I assume you know all of this for a fact,” Ewan said. He collected the reins of the horse together in his hand and led the enormous black mare out of the stables and into the light. Once outside, he turned to show an injured face, the eyes a bit smaller than usual.
Baldwin had always marvelled at the ease it took to injure Ewan’s feelings. He normally never saw it coming until it was upon him: proof that something else was amiss between himself and Ewan.
Something that could cause Ewan to act out of uncertain jealousy.
It was nothing Baldwin would ever point out to him. He would never demand an answer. Baldwin wasn’t entirely certain he could muster the courage to listen to whatever the answer would be.
No. In his mind, Ewan would only ever be a brother, a best friend. Nothing more.
He only hoped this wouldn’t tear through Ewan’s soul.
“I know all of this for a fact, yes,” Baldwin affirmed, remembering just a few moments too late to answer. “Won’t you allow me to journey with you, then?”
“Baldwin Terrence. Desirous of nothing at all in this world except for the thing he hates the most: parties. Balls.”
“I think it necessary that I attend,” Baldwin said. His voice sounded louder, more domineering. “It’s only that Marta is clearly out of her element, so far from home. It’s essential that we both take care of her. I could imagine her getting wrapped up in this strange world of English wealth, of titles, of… of other people’s expectations.”
“You feel that just because your dear friend Lewis has invited her, she’ll be taken advantage of?” Ewan asked.
Baldwin didn’t have the strength to answer. He felt a joke, lurking just beyond what Ewan spoke. Perhaps he seemed ridiculous. Perhaps Ewan only wished to point to this facet of the conversation, rather than dwell on the real topic at-hand: that which simmered in the belly of Ewan’s emotional mind.
“Of course, you can come with us,” Ewan said then. He seemed willing to backtrack, downplay the awkwardness, find a way back to normality. “As long as you dress appropriately. You know how my mother is. And who knows? Perhaps if you dress accordingly, you’ll find a woman to call your own.”
Ah. Ewan knew precisely what he was doing. Baldwin arched his brow, gave him a look of unbearable sarcasm, and said, “Perhaps. Perhaps we’ll all get what we want out of this.”
“Oh, dear Baldwin, you speak with such optimism. I can’t say that I’ve felt anything similar in many years,” Ewan returned.
