The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(46)

Henderson made his way down the wooden stairs, his footsteps quiet on the thick carpet runner that ran their length. Slipping out the door, he looked back once, knowing he would never set foot in this grand old house again. For the first time since he’d been brought home with Joseph, he felt unwanted.



*



The White Hart Inn was just down the street from a church, and not wanting to disturb the innkeepers at that late—or early—hour, Henderson decided to sit on a bench outside the large stone building. The wide street, divided by a small square, was completely deserted and the village was almost unearthly quiet. Not even the birds had begun their racket of welcoming the dawn. Henderson, his satchel clutched in his hands, leaned his head back against the hard surface of the bench and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the events of the night.

It was a futile exercise. If not for Lord Berkley and his promise to help in the famine efforts, Henderson would have gone directly to the new rail station and waited there for the next available train, and his luggage be damned.

“So, Joseph, what now?”

Henderson let out a humorless laugh, a sharp puff of air that created a plume of vapor in front of him. For a mid-July morning, it was decidedly chilly, though St. Ives never did get very warm. He’d thought, after enduring the oppressive heat of India, that he would never have complained about a chill in the air. This morning, in his foul mood, he felt like complaining about everything.

It was unlikely he would ever see Alice again. Certainly he would never hold her, kiss her, make love to her again. Why had he ever thought he could? He’d known, even as a lad at Eton, when Joseph had invited him to St. Ives for the summer, he’d known even then it was a bad idea. Yet the lure of St. Ives, of being the best friend of a boy whose grandfather was a duke, who promised the best fishing in all of England, had proved too much. He wanted to go back in time, to the room they’d shared at Eton, and tell that boy to go home alone.



*



A baker opening up his shop across the street drew Henderson from his memories of the past, and he realized he was famished. Pushing himself off the bench, he made his way across the street just as the eastern sky was beginning to turn a lovely shade of yellow-red and the birds were starting to greet the new day.

A young woman, probably no more than twenty years old, fresh-faced with cheeks rosy from her work, greeted him shyly as he made his way to the counter to peruse the shop’s offerings. She wore a white cap on her head and a white apron over a sky blue dress, and it struck Henderson at that moment that this was the type of girl he should set his cap for, a shop girl with lively blue eyes and a neat little braid.

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked, her Cornish accent thick and rather charming.

“A scone, please.”

“With marmalade? We make the best, you know.”

Henderson gave her a brief smile. “Of course.”

“Are you here for the festival?” She tilted her head at him and Henderson had the distinct feeling she was flirting with him. “Oh, no, you’re an artist.” Yes, flirting, which only made him feel even more depressed, for he was fairly certain had Lord Berkley walked in, she would not have flirted with him. Was it the cut of his clothes? His accent that wasn’t purely aristocratic? His manner? What marked him as a commoner, someone this girl felt free to flirt with?

“I’m here on business,” he said, his tone more curt than he’d meant it, but bloody hell, it was annoying to him to realize even a simple Cornish girl would recognize his ilk.

And if she did, how had Lord and Lady Hubbard felt when he’d first come to Tregrennar?

Henderson paid for the scone and left, catching himself in the reflection of a nearby shop, still dark and empty at this early hour. Turning away, he went directly to the inn and hoped the proprietors were up and about, for he was in no mood to hang about the street like some sort of vagabond. Even though, considering he had no home and no position, despite his accumulated wealth, that was nearly what he was.

And he’d thought to offer for Alice’s hand. A red hot flash of humiliation washed over him, and continued to visit him throughout the day. Restless and bored, he wandered the Island that afternoon, exploring the wild strip of land that had once been separated from the mainland but was now connected by a long, curving spit of earth. Thick walls, remnants of a time when the Cornish Britons had fortified it, seemed to lead to a small building of stone, locked in time, that had once been a lookout used by the coast guard to seek smuggling ships trying to sneak toward shore. The wind tore at his jacket, and it fluttered behind him, audibly snapping in the wind. The sea was rough, sending spray ashore as it crashed into the rocky beach, and he reveled in the icy chill of it. At the far end of the island was a group of artists, tripods set up and fortified with rocks against the wind, who were trying to capture on canvas the violence of the sea and the charming village of St. Ives in the distance.

Seeing them only made him think of Alice, who was an accomplished painter—at least he had always thought so. He wandered to the end, near a great pile of rocks called the Carncrows, trudging along a narrow path, curious to see how well the painters were capturing the tumultuous sea, the way the sun streamed through thickening clouds.

He wasn’t paying much attention to the artists themselves, the small group of men and women who had gathered at the very tip of the land, until he heard a distinctive laugh and stiffened. Henderson had never thought himself a lucky man; indeed, many occurrences in his life would make anyone think the opposite. Standing there, amidst the group, was Alice. She was wearing a light blue gown that the wind was plastering against her, revealing her form in such a distinct way, Henderson couldn’t help but remember her long, smooth limbs, muscles taut as he pleasured her. Tendrils of hair fought with the wind, whipping around her head, drawing him like the snakes of Medusa. Would he ever be able to look at her without his heart wanting to explode from his chest?