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Chapter Ten
December 22, 1818
After midnight
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nable to sleep due to his mind tumbling over like a pinwheel, Stephen had taken to prowling the halls. What had occurred between Lynette and her mother after he left them earlier that night? He wasn’t given the opportunity to talk with her, for she’d retired upstairs shortly after and had refused to leave her bedchamber even after he’d had a maid deliver a note asking for a quick meeting.
After the ball had concluded, he’d brooded in the drawing room with his brother over brandy, but neither of them felt much like talking. Stephen had appreciated the companionship, nonetheless. Finally, they’d gone upstairs, but sleep was elusive. He didn’t like how possessive Lady Ruddick was with Lynette, and he abhorred her trying to drive a wedge between them, for he’d wager the contents of his bank account the baroness would attempt to dissuade Lynette’s plans. But those machinations had cleared his vision: if he wanted a future with Lynette, then he needed to secure it with alacrity, opposition be damned.
Everything would find a solution, for nothing mattered except winning her heart. There was no other option, and he refused to contemplate a life without her.
And still, anxiety roved through his veins rendering relaxation impossible. Since he’d yet to undress from the ball, he listlessly made silent rounds through the corridors of Ivy Castle. It was both creepy and comforting walking the halls in the dark, and perhaps the old pile would provide the answers he sought, for generations of Ivy men had no doubt done the same at one time or another. The problems he faced weren’t unique to him.
The faint flicker of candlelight caught his attention. It came from a small, unused parlor on the second floor that overlooked the winter bare rear gardens. Back in his childhood, it had been a favorite escape of his mother’s, but since then, it remained largely forgotten. Curious, he deviated from his course and entered the room, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Lynette, lying on one of the sofas of ivory and gold brocade, her face buried in a throw pillow and soft sobs issuing from her.
“Lynette?” Anemic light from an oil lamp resting upon the top of a pianoforte cast a faint yellow pool whose edges barely reached her sofa. Immediately, concern tugged at his chest. “Are you well?” She hadn’t changed from her ballgown, but nearby lay her silk stockings as well as her slippers.
“That’s a difficult question to answer,” she responded as she raised her head and looked at him. The silvery tracks of her tears were evident in the dim light.
“What are you doing here?”
“Thinking.” She pushed herself into a sitting position, apparently without a care to how her twisted skirts would put hopeless wrinkles and creases in the fabric.
Stephen frowned as unease careened down his spine. Obviously, whatever had occurred between with her mother earlier had upset her. “About?”
“You and I.” A delicate shrug lifted her shoulders. She found his gaze, held it. “About whether I should let you slip through my fingers for my mother’s sake.”
“Ah.” His chest tightened with need for her as well as the want to protect her. She’d already suffered so much ill-fortune in life that she didn’t deserve more. “I assume your mother doesn’t care for me any better now than she did years ago.” It wasn’t a question, but the longer he looked at her, the more his immediate future was decided. He would offer for her though he hadn’t meant to do so this soon, but she was skittish and at sixes and sevens following her mother’s false collapse.
“She’s bitter about her own problems.” Nothing in her eyes revealed her state of mind. “The taxes are due once again on Birch House, and since they haven’t been paid for the last handful of years, she’s in danger of losing it, thanks to my father’s negligent cousin.” Bitterness wove through her voice, a true testament to her mindset, for as long as he’d known her, she never let circumstances affect her outlook. “I suppose I understand that.”
For long moments he stared, couldn’t bear to spend one more second away from her, and he wanted to solve the problems that threatened to tear them apart. After swallowing down the ball of emotions lodged in his throat, he came forward a few steps. “Then marry me.” It was perhaps a tad abrupt and highly unromantic, but he didn’t want to waste any more time.
Her eyes went wide, and confusion clouded them in the dim light. The shadows of the room nearly swallowed her. “I beg your pardon?”
Yes, this was what he wanted, what he needed. “Marry me.” Stephen said it again with more conviction. He closed the distance between them, took her hands, and swiftly tugged her into a standing position. “You and I have gotten on well together during the house party. And there’s certainly an attraction between us. I don’t see why a union between us won’t work this time around.”
“Are you mad?” She yanked her hands from his with enough force that he frowned. “That was hardly romantic, and it certainly won’t solve any of my problems.”
“I can think of three that it will off the top of my head.” When she remained silent, he gaped at her. Had he read her wrong? Then reality intruded and left him cold. “You’d choose your mother over me?”
“I don’t know. It seems either choice I make will hurt one of you.” Confusion filled her eyes. She twisted her hands together. “I don’t want to see her tossed out, but—”
“You deserve happiness, Lynette,” he cut in, unwilling to lose this chance. “It’s not your responsibility to make your mother find the same.”
“I’m all she has left, me and John.”
“Then you’ll forfeit your life to live beneath her thumb?” This is outrageous! He couldn’t lose her again, not to the selfish plans of an acrimonious widow. “How is that a woman’s love for a daughter?”
The delicate tendons of her throat worked with a hard swallow. “I’m so torn. And you haven’t told me how you feel about me, regardless.” A bit of her natural spirit rallied in her tones.
“I thought it was implied.” Hadn’t he shown her how during those kisses?
She snorted. “I’m not a mind reader, Stephen, and perhaps I’m vain, but I want to hear it, I want you to talk to me.” Desperation and longing fought for dominance in her dark eyes. “It’s the height of folly to marry a man who doesn’t love me or one to whom I don’t share the same.”
His chest tightened. Would this be how their life together went, constantly bickering over small things? After everything, had he misjudged her reaction? “I...” Why the devil were the words so difficult to say?
