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“It’s not that I didn’t want to see you,” he said.
Love had been plucked from her heart by the roots, allowed to whither then laid to rest. To hear even the slightest remorse or encouragement in that regard would be like watering a long dormant seed in a presumed barren garden.
“Don’t.” She shook her head. The need to cry, about oh-so-many things, welled in her breast. “I’m sure you need to see Bathurst before you leave.” They must talk of something else. Not about Papa and Mama. Not about unrequited love. Or how once again, Roman would be off, gallivanting around the world, discovering treacherous plots and quelling dissent.
“Naturally. He is expecting me. I am going to send a note to my mother and my sister. You shouldn’t be alone. Not now. Please promise me you’ll stay with them for a time?”
“I’ll be fine. I have plenty to keep me busy.”
“Nevertheless, you can expect a visit from my family instead.” He plucked at his pocket watch. “Well then. I should be going.” With every word spoken, there were hundreds that should be said but they both knew better. He straightened then bowed. “You have my condolences for your mother’s passing. And I will pray every night that we find your father in perfect health. And Oliver, of course.”
“Then I must join you in such devotions. Thank you, Roman. For what you’ve done and what you will do.”
He stepped toward her, reaching and brushing lightly over her tightly drawn hair. He kissed her forehead.
You know I love you, Shelene.
He’d said those words when they’d parted in Spain, two years ago. He did not renew those sentiments, and she could not stop what surely was the same sorrowful expression. The only reason they were not married was because she’d made the firm decision to live a life without the grief of continual partings and the fear of the unknown.
And here she was again, feeling the grief of his imminent departure and so, so fearful of the unknown circumstance surrounding her father’s whereabouts and that of Oliver Forrester.I don’t believe it. He can’t be dead.
But there was nobility in his desire to find his brother. Roman wasn’t a man to accept the news at face value. He would have to see it himself, talk to the last person to talk to Oliver, see the broken boards of the ship. Touch his brother’s brow, if possible.
Roman would do no less for her father.
She walked with Roman to the door, drawn to him as before. Nothing had changed between them, not really.
Two footmen still remained in the household. One of them opened the front door and hurried to collect Roman’s horse; the other handed over Roman’s hat and gloves.
His hands were so strong and powerful. She stared as he slipped on the leather gloves and flexed his fingers. She wanted to clutch his hand and kiss those blessed fingers.
This blessed man. So devoted and so daring.
And so alone.
Maybe he had reached out of his darkness and found her—and she’d rejected him. She’d rejected all his most commendable qualities. All that made him so faultless.
She glanced up to see that he stared at her, penetrating her cold façade to see the want and need inside her. His determined expression softened.
Shelene walked beside him toward his horse.
“Don’t worry. I will be back soon.”
“Please let me know what you learn. And don’t delay,” she said.
He mounted Bronte, the saddle creaking with his weight. She patted the horse’s neck. A chill breeze rushed down the street, and she shivered.
“Go inside, Shelene.”
She forced a quick smile. Hetchickedhis tongue to spur his horse, and Bronte moved away with a steady gait.
Folding her arms across her chest, she thought not of her mother or her father. She thought of Roman, and the words that so often followed:There he goes.
