“About me? But that’s terrible.”
“No, it’s wonderful.” He poured himself another coffee and explained. “For years that boy has been writing to me, and oh, the letters are entertaining enough, but there’s never any, any feeling in them. Nothing ever worries him, nothing excites him; he’s never frightened or angry or delirious with joy. Have some toast.” He pushed the toast rack toward her. Lily had not the slightest interest in toast.
“Ned went through years of war, and all he could write about was socks, or a tasty meal, or send an account of some foreign place that read like a damned guidebook. And we know that all the time he was risking his life like a madman, courting danger at every turn. Remember what his commanding officer told me? That Ned didn’t much care whether he lived or died.
“And then came that letter about you falling off your horse, and now”—he patted the letter happily—“now he’s half off his head with worry—about you.”
“I don’t understand,” Lily said. “Are you happy because he’s worried?”
“I’m happy because he’s feeling something at last.” He reached out and took her hand. “So I want you to stay here. As bait.”
“Bait?”
“I haven’t been able to get the boy to come home, not for years, but I have a feeling he might come for you. I hope so anyway. I believe he cares for you more than you realize—more than the young fool himself realizes.” His faded old eyes gleamed with hope. “He’ll only realize he loves you if he’s provoked out of this, this slough of despond he’s been in for years, where nothing touches him. Because he won’t let it.”
How often had Lily thought the same, that Edward didn’t want to feel?
He sat back and gave her a challenging look. “Well, girl, don’t you want to find out?”
Oh, but she did. “But what if he doesn’t come?”
He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Then we’re no worse off, are we?”
Lily bit her lip. It was one thing to live in hope that her husband might care for her, might even love her one day, but quite another to have those hopes shattered.
Still, she needed to know, one way or the other. She ached to know.
Lord Galbraith must have seen something in her eyes, for he leaned forward with a hopeful expression. “I’ll write to Ned at once, tell him he must come here to collect you, that I won’t let you leave otherwise.”
“I’m not so spineless,” Lily objected. “If I wanted to leave, I would.”
“If he’s angry at being forced to come here, he’ll blame me, not you. Better to blame me, I think.” He patted her hand. “So will you do it, my dear? For an old man?”
She swallowed. There was no choice, really. And wasn’t it worth the risk? If there was the smallest hope of Edward loving her . . .
“Very well, I’ll do it.” For a young man as well as an old one. Whether he came because he loved her or to free her from his grandfather’s custody, Lily believed with every instinct she owned that Edward needed to come home, to his grandfather, to Shields, and to the people who loved him.
Which included Lily, who loved him quite desperately.
• • •
Three nights later Edward arrived. It was dusk. Lily saw the hired carriage bowling down the drive and knew who it would be. She flew down the stairs and out the front door to greet him.
He looked tired and scruffy and unshaven—Edward was never scruffy. He leapt from the carriage, swept her into his arms and held her hard against him for an endless, shattering moment. His body was trembling.
As was hers. She’d never dreamed of such a greeting from her normally so controlled husband. She clung to him fiercely, not wanting the moment to end.
Eventually he released her, letting her slide slowly down his body until her feet touched ground again. He cupped her face in his hands. His eyes, winter-green and glittering with emotion, bore into her. “Never, never do that to me again.” And he kissed her, a long, hard, shattering, possessive kiss.
“I thought you were taken, lost to me, dead,” he said. She could barely stand. He kissed her again. Kisses that were hard. Tender. Desperate. Kisses that wrenched her heart right out of her body.
“I’m so sorry, Edward, I didn’t mean to—”
But she couldn’t finish because he pulled her hard against him, as if he’d never let her go. “Why,” he murmured against her skin. “Why flee? And why here, of all places?”
“I wasn’t fleeing.” She planted kisses wherever she could reach him. “It was just, there was chicken pox at Aunt Dottie’s . . . and I didn’t want to go back to London, not if you weren’t there.”
He kissed her again, and when she had breath to go on, she added, “And I wanted to see the place where you grew up. And since your grandfather had invited me—”
He stiffened, and Lily realized he was looking over her shoulder. She glanced back. Lord Galbraith stood at the top of the steps leading to the house. “You!” Edward’s voice grated. “You had to trick her into coming here—”
“No!” She pulled on his arm to get his attention. “Don’t blame your grandfather. He had no idea I was coming. It was an impulse on my part. Please don’t be angry with him.”
Edward gave her a long glance, then nodded wearily. He walked toward the old man, his expression stony. “Grandfather,” he said tersely, and held out his hand.
Lord Galbraith ignored it. Half blind with tears, the old man embraced his grandson. “My boy, my dear, dear boy, you’ve come home at last.” His voice was choked.
Edward stood stiffly in his embrace, his
