The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(78)

Henderson was on the far side and so did not see Alice as she slipped through the doors and down the stairs, taking the time to deposit the blanket on the top step. The grass was cool beneath her feet, and wet with dew. Picking up her skirts, she ran toward where Henderson stood. She was nearly upon him when he turned, and Alice launched herself into his arms, letting out a small sound of pure happiness. She wrapped herself around him, locking her ankles behind his back, until he was wearing her.

“Oh, God, it’s so good to hold you,” he said, his voice low and rough as he held her to him, squeezing so tightly it was very nearly painful, but wonderfully so.

She nuzzled her face against the crook of his neck, breathing him in, mad for him. Henderson nudged her head up with his and kissed her with so much need, Alice cried out and clung even tighter. It was a long, hot, drugging kiss, filled with love and lust and a need that left her light-headed and her core on fire.

Henderson spun slowly around, holding her tightly, kissing her insensible, for several long minutes, making up for the days they had not been together. Finally, he pulled back, kissed her again, and again, then let her slowly slide down his body until her toes once again touched the cool, wet grass.

“Not seeing you has been torture,” he said, then leaned in and kissed her again, as if he couldn’t get enough of tasting her. “How is your father?”

“Better. I’ve only spoken to him briefly. And I told my mother that I love you and that I plan to marry you.”

He drew her against him and tucked her head beneath his chin. “What did she say?”

“It matters not. Either way, we are getting married.”

“I’d much rather your parents be, if not excited by the prospect, then at least accepting of me. But I’m not certain it’s possible.” He stepped back until he was no longer embracing her, and Alice felt a coldness that was more than just the night air.

“What is wrong?” she asked, reeling at the idea that he had changed his mind about getting married. Surely he was not going to allow what had happened at the ball to sway him.

“I have to talk to you about something and I’ve no idea where to start.”

It sounded so much like what she had just said to Lord Northrup, Alice found herself unable to speak, bracing herself for a pain she knew was coming.

Henderson began pacing back and forth in front of her, clearly tortured by whatever it was he was going to say.

“I’ll understand if you no longer wish to marry,” she said, the ache in her heart nearly unbearable. “You never did formally propose, so you have no obligation to follow through with—”

Henderson stopped pacing and stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. “You’ll understand, will you?”

She wished it was daylight so she could better see his expression, but his voice sounded oddly…amused.

Shaking her head, she said, “Actually, no, I will not understand.”

Henderson reached out with both palms and gently grasped her head, ducking his own so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. “I love you. I am going to marry you. Now, shush and let me tell you what I came here to say.”

“Shush?”

“Shush.” He let out a long breath. “I fear the thing that has lifted a weight from my soul will only add a burden to yours.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. I don’t know where to start, but once I am finished, you will understand why I left four years ago, why I stayed away even though it nearly killed me to do so, and why I came back when I did.”

Alice took his hand and led him to a small bench in the garden, the pebbles of the gravel path sharp against her feet. Once they were seated, she turned toward him, her hand still in his, needing his strength and warmth. “Tell me.”

“It’s all about Joseph. He is here, in this story, from beginning to end.”

Alice shook her head in confusion. The last thing she’d expected him to talk about was Joseph.

“When Joseph was around fourteen years old, about a year before we met, he and a few of his friends were building a tree fort. One of those friends accidently dropped a branch on a Mr. Stewart, killing him.”

Alice gasped. “I remember that. The entire town went to the funeral. It was the first funeral I’d ever attended. Joseph was there when it happened?” She sagged a bit as she was hit by the realization of the terrible secret her brother had kept, a terrible burden for such a young boy to carry.

“As were Peter, Tristan, Sebastian, and Gerald. All dead, except for Gerald Grant, who happens to be the lad who dropped the branch.”

A chill enveloped her as she understood the implication of what Henderson was saying. “You think he killed them all? That he killed Joseph? But it was an accident. There were others there. Wouldn’t one of them have said something?”

“I don’t know what happened that night. As you know, I was not there and I carried the guilt of that for years. Joseph asked me to go, was angry when I wouldn’t, but I had other plans.”

“No doubt with a lady friend.”

“Perhaps,” he said with a small smile. “That night, I stopped into the White Hart and saw Gerald there. He looked bloody awful, and I knew something had happened. Alice, he told me Joseph had committed suicide, that he stood on that roof, said ‘Tell Southie I’m sorry,’ and fell back.” Henderson’s voice thickened on this last, and Alice gripped his hand even tighter. “It was all a lie, one made so that I would not discuss what happened. It was my idea not to speak of it, not to tell your parents, who would have been devastated to know their son killed himself. It was brilliant on Gerald’s part, you see. By telling me that, I remained silent. I didn’t question the other lads who were there, who most certainly would have disputed his story. I was silent and then I left, so filled with guilt, I could hardly live with myself. I couldn’t bring myself to look at you or your parents; it felt as if I had pushed Joseph myself.”