They rode through London to Mayfair in silence. A pounding headache had formed behind Lenore’s eyes that she was certain even a week of peaceful sleep couldn’t banish, and that was if she could sleep at all. Rest and peace seemed like distant memories, like the whisper of the wind across the moors or the clucking of the Mercer chickens in the yard as Gladys and Amaryllis hunted for eggs. Just thinking about Yorkshire left a hole in her heart as big as the one she had for Haskell and her family.
She was near tears by the time the cab pulled up in front of Howsden House, though she hated herself for being such an emotional ninny. Phin hopped down from the carriage, then turned to help her down.
“I’m certain everything will work out,” he said in a tight voice once they stood on the dark curb facing each other. He didn’t let go of her hand after helping her to alight.
“Are you really certain?” Lenore asked, wincing at the defeat in her voice.
Phin didn’t reply, which was more of an answer than he could have given with words.
Lenore sighed, then put her traveling bag down so she could hold both of Phin’s hands. “I know I’m just repeating myself at this point and that it all probably sounds hollow to you, but I swear to you, Phin, I didn’t set out to deceive you. I was afraid, and fear can make people do things they wouldn’t do otherwise. And I truly do love you, even if—”
He silenced her rambling by pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her, and kissing her with far more enthusiasm than she would have expected. His mouth molded to hers and his lips parted her own. He took his time exploring her with his teeth and tongue, nibbling on her bottom lip and tasting her fully. It felt so wonderful that Lenore closed her eyes and sagged against him, giving up every bit of control she had fought so desperately to keep and letting him claim her. It felt uncommonly good and left her wondering just how perfect her life could be if she gave up and handed her heart over to Phin completely.
A moment later, Phin stepped back with a sharp intake of breath and pushed her to arm’s length. “You’d better go in,” he said, his voice rough from kissing and turbulent emotions. “Reese’s butler is spying on us from the front window.”
Lenore gasped and touched a hand to her tingling lips before glancing past Phin’s shoulder to the front window. Sure enough, the shadowy figure of Mr. Tilney was watching them. Lenore cleared her throat and bent to pick up her bag.
“This isn’t over yet,” she said, stepping away from Phin and toward the front door. “I’m going to sort this out, and then I’m going to make amends to you somehow.”
Phin opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to think better of it. He nodded, then turned away from her and climbed back into the carriage.
Lenore waited where she was until the cab pulled away. It felt as though her heart ran off with it, and when she turned to the door as Mr. Tilney opened it, her chest ached with hollowness.
“Good evening, Miss Garrett,” Mr. Tilney said with a nod as Lenore passed into the house. He reached to take her case, giving Lenore a chance to unbutton her coat and remove her hat. Mr. Tilney’s expression wasn’t stony, for a change, though Lenore wasn’t sure she liked the awkward combination of sympathy and wariness it held.
“Hello, Mr. Tilney,” she replied with a weak smile, handing him her hat and coat when he held out his free arm. “I wish I could say it was good to be home.”
“Understood, miss,” he said, filling those two words with a world of meaning. His expression dropped to something akin to dread before he said, “They’re waiting for you in the parlor.”
Pure anxiety flooded Lenore’s stomach as she turned and marched down the hall to whatever doom awaited her. She hadn’t even reached the parlor doorway before she heard just how much doom she was in for. Bart’s booming baritone sounded right along with Reese’s mellifluous tenor in the parlor. It was clear the men were arguing.
“…without proof of the things you say, you are merely engaging in slander.” Reese stood near the fireplace, his back as stiff and straight as any well-bred Englishman, as he glared at Bart.
“You want proof? I can give you proof,” Bart growled back from where he was splayed in one of Reese’s finely-upholstered chairs, as if it were a table at a saloon.
He looked as out of place as could be in the sophisticated parlor. It wasn’t that Bart was a ruffian, like the ranch hands both he and Lenore’s father employed. Bart’s suit was expensive enough, and the silver watch chain that looped from a buttonhole to the pocket of his waistcoat was an indicator of how much wealth the Swan family had. But the way Bart lounged and the utter contempt for everything around him that radiated off of him marked the man as part of a different culture entirely.
“Saying you’re married to Lenore doesn’t constitute proof,” Freddy snapped from the far side of the room, where he appeared to be pacing. “Unless you can produce a marriage license, I won’t believe it.”
Lenore cleared her throat, and instantly, all three men snapped their attention to her.
“There’s your proof,” Bart said, rising from his chair so fast Lenore was tempted to take a step back. The laughable thing was that Bart was short—shorter even than Lenore—and squat, though he
