Someone to Love (Westcott #1)(41)

“Oh, does she?” Harry said bitterly. “Well, I do not wish to see her. I suppose you are going to try to drag me down there?”

“You suppose quite wrongly,” Avery informed him. “If I intended to drag you there, Harry, I would not try. I would do it. But I have no such intention. Why, pray, would it matter to me whether or not you go down to talk to your half sister?”

“I always knew you did not care,” Harry said with brutal self-pity. “Well, I’ll go. You cannot stop me.”

“I daresay not,” Avery said agreeably.

She was standing before the fireplace, warming her hands over the blaze—except that the fire had not been lit. Perhaps she was merely examining the backs of her hands. She turned at the sound of the door opening and gazed at Harry with wide eyes and ashen face.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, taking a few steps toward him. “I did not expect that you would see me. I am so glad you are safe. And I am so sorry, so very sorry for . . . Well, I am dreadfully sorry.”

“I do not know what for,” Harry said sullenly. “None of it is your fault. All of it is firmly on my father’s head. Your father’s head. Our father’s head.”

“On the whole,” she said, “I do not believe I was hugely deprived in never having known him.”

“You were not,” he said.

“Though I do have one memory,” she said, “of riding in a strange carriage and crying and being told by someone with a gruff voice to hush and behave like a big girl. I think the voice must have been his. I think he must have been taking me to the orphanage in Bath after my mother died.”

“He must have sweated that one out,” Harry said with a crack of bitter laughter. “He was already married to my mother by then.”

“Yes,” she said. “Harry—may I call you that?—your mother and sisters have gone into the country, though they do not intend to stay even there longer than it takes to have all their personal possessions packed up and moved out. They do not wish to know me. I hope you do, or at least that you are willing to acknowledge me and will agree to allow me to share with you what ought to be ours—all four of ours—and not mine alone.”

“It seems you are my half sister, whether I want you to be or not,” Harry said grudgingly. “I do not hate you, if that is what is bothering you. I have nothing against you. But I cannot . . . feel you are my sister. I am sorry. And I would not now accept even a ha’penny from that man who pretended to be my mother’s husband and my legitimate father. I would rather starve. It is not from you I will not take anything. It is from him.”

Avery raised his eyebrows and strolled to the window. He stood there, looking out.

“Ah.” The single soft syllable seemed to hold infinite sadness. “I understand. Now I understand. Perhaps in the future you will think differently and understand how it hurts me to be forced to keep it all. What will you do?”

“Avery is going to purchase a commission for me,” he said. “I don’t want him to, but he has made it impossible for me to enlist as a private soldier. It will be with a foot regiment, though. I am not going to have him kitting me out with all I would need as a cavalry officer. Besides, the officers of a foot regiment probably care less than cavalry officers do about having a nobleman’s by-blow among their number. I will not have Avery buying me promotions either. I will move up in the officer ranks on my own merit or not at all.”

“Oh,” she said, and Avery would wager she was smiling, “I do so honor you, Harry. I hope you end up as a general.”

“Hmph,” he said.

“Then I will be able to boast of my half brother, General Harry Westcott,” she said, and Avery knew she was smiling.

“I will excuse myself,” Harry said. “I have the devil of a headache. Ah. Pardon my language if you will, Lady Anastasia.”

Avery heard the drawing room door open and close. When he turned from the window, Anna was back at the fireplace warming her hands over the nonexistent blaze. And he realized—devil take it!—that she was weeping silently. He hesitated for a few moments until she raised a hand and swiped at one cheek with the heel of it. She had turned her head slightly so that he could no longer see her full profile.

“He will look quite splendid in the green coat of the 95th Light Regiment,” he said. “The Rifles. He will probably cause stampedes among the Spanish women.”

“Yes,” she said.

But dash it all. Damn it to hell. He closed the distance between them, drew her into his arms, and held her face against his shoulder just as though she were Jess. Whom she was not. She stiffened like a board before sagging against him. Unlike most women under similar circumstances, though, she did not then proceed to melt into floods of tears. She fought them and swallowed repeatedly. She was virtually dry-eyed when she drew back her head.

“Yes,” she agreed, smiling an only slightly watery smile, “he will look splendid.”

His mind reached for something to say in reply and found . . . nothing.

He kissed her instead.

Devil take it and a thousand and ten damnations, but he kissed her. He did not know which of them was the more startled. It was not even just a fatherly or brotherly or cousinly peck on the lips either. It was a full-on, lips-parted, head-slightly-angled, arms-closing-about-the-woman-to-draw-her-even-closer kind of kiss. It was a man-to-woman kiss. And what the devil was he doing trying to analyze it rather than lifting his head and pretending that after all it was just a kindly, cousinly embrace designed to comfort her?