The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(42)
It was impossible. Wrong.
Alice sat up, her breathing harsh, and swiped the tears from her eyes. She had to say good-bye, had to kiss him and hold him and remember how that felt. If she had thought that kiss in the library would be their last, well, she would have taken care to remember every moment, every touch, every sound he made.
She tiptoed to her vanity and held her small clock to the moonlight so she might see the time, smiling when she realized at this late hour of two o’clock, everyone would be abed. She knew where Henderson was, of course, for her mother had put him in the same room where he always stayed.
Alice put on her wrap and opened her door silently, her heart in her throat. This is wrong. Ignoring the strident voice in her head that sounded remarkably like her grandmother, the duchess, she moved silently down the hall until she reached Henderson’s room. Sorry, Grandmama, but I have to say good-bye.
Alice stood outside his door, her bare toes curling into the carpet that lined the hall, her arms down straight and stiff, her fingers waggling in her uncertainty. She would just say good-bye. Perhaps kiss his cheek. A hug might be permissible. After all, this was Henderson, her friend. Her friend who could kiss her and make her knees weak. Oh God. If you knock, you know what could happen. What you want to happen.
Alice lifted her hand suddenly, then hesitated, her knuckle just inches from the wood of the door. Then she knocked softly and held her breath.
Chapter 10
Henderson lay in bed, hands tucked beneath his head, and stared at the ceiling, trying to come up with a reason he was still under Tregrennar’s roof. A soft breeze, carrying with it the familiar scent of the sea, drifted over his naked torso. This room, so familiar to him, would no longer be his. The cruel thing was that perhaps it had all been an illusion, wishful thinking for the little bastard who had been lucky enough to befriend the grandson of a duke.
He should have left immediately after Lord Hubbard told him to go, but something had stopped him. He was curious.
How was it the man who’d treated him as a son for so many years prior to Joseph’s death, who had greeted him so happily not a few weeks prior, had become the cold man he’d seen that evening? It didn’t sit well with him at all. Had he done something so terribly wrong by demanding why Lord Northrup was holding Alice’s hand on bended knee? How was he to have known Lord Northrup had somehow, miraculously, gotten back into the good graces of the very man who’d wanted to sue him following the jilting?
Unless Henderson always had been a charity case.
Henderson remembered a boy from Eton who’d had few friends. Joseph, with his soft heart, had welcomed Paul into their small group, and Henderson had taken his lead and been especially kind to the boy, even though, simply put, Paul was obnoxious. The lad didn’t know how to act, was always making awkward jokes that no one thought were funny, or repeating someone else’s lines when they’d received a laugh. After a time, Henderson had deeply regretted his kindness, for Paul clung to him, taking his small kindnesses and turning them into something far different in his head. Paul called Henderson his best chum, invited him to his home for Easter break. Henderson was never unkind to Paul, but his friendship was restrained, awkward. Unwanted.
Was that how Lord Hubbard felt about him? Had he been tolerated for Joseph’s sake and was now the unwanted one?
A small tap on his door shook him away from his thoughts, and he wondered if perhaps Lord Hubbard had come to offer some explanation or an apology. He hastily donned his robe, but instead of finding Lord Hubbard at his door, there stood Alice, dressed in her bloody nightgown and wrap, looking so beautiful his first instinct was to shut the door in her smiling face. His second instinct, though, was far different.
He stepped back, his entire body tense, with one terrible thought: See what you have done, Lord Hubbard? You have driven your innocent daughter into the arms of a bastard.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, forcing himself to step deeper into the room. This was a pivotal moment. Should he act the gentleman? Or should he act like the man who lurked inside him, the man with his father’s blood coursing through his veins, a man who would take an innocent and walk away forever?
“My father and his lordship were horrid to you this evening and I wanted to apologize,” Alice said.
“You could have written me a letter.”
“Which, given my past, I would not have sent.” She gave him a small smile. “You are right, though. That is not the only reason or even the biggest reason I am here.”
Alice moved into the room and walked across to the window, and his chest hurt to see her lovely hair catch the breeze and fly out. He wanted to go up behind her, lay his lips on her neck, wrap his arms around her, let his hands touch her breasts and feel their fullness. He wanted to press his cock against her pretty derrière, let her feel how much he wanted her, let his hand drift between her legs and press and press and move until she was too weak to stand.
“Why are you here, then?” He smiled grimly, hearing how coarse his voice sounded.
She trailed a finger on the window, leaving behind the smallest smudge. “It occurred to me that when you leave tomorrow, it is very likely I shall never see you again.” Henderson nodded, even though she was facing away from him. “And never…” She turned, clutching her hands in front of her and looking so very young and innocent, Henderson nearly told her to leave.