The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(66)

But he held out his gloved hand expectantly to Baron Lowery.

“I told you that I was Edward Clark. But I was born Edward Delacey,” he said. “I’m not dead. And I’m the current Viscount Claridge.”

Chapter Seventeen

FREE HAD KEPT EDWARD’S confusing telegram—both so straightforward and so utterly baffling—in her pocket for the last few days, pulling it out at odd hours, until the cheap paper had begun to fray at the edges.

He was coming back. She’d always known he would return in his own time, and yet now that it was happening, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.

She was standing out of doors now, with Amanda by her side. Together, they contemplated the replacement cottage some fifty feet distant. It had been completed a mere two weeks ago.

The last months had erased all evidence of the fire she had fought with Edward. Grass had grown over charred marks; trees had been replanted, flowers put back in boxes. Her memories of that night were rather more permanent.

Edward was coming back. She smiled.

“We should paint the cottage white,” Amanda said. “One can never argue with white.”

Free frowned. “What’s the point of doing something that nobody can argue with? Don’t you think yellow would be nice?”

“You would say that.” Amanda smiled faintly. “Well, I’m with Aunt Violet half the time now. Maybe we can compromise on a stately gray.”

“Gray! No, anything but gray. Gray is nothing but a white that can’t make up its mind.”

To anyone else, it would have sounded like an argument. But Free understood it for what it truly was—a distraction. She’d shown Amanda the telegram, and Amanda must have known how nervous she was.

Behind them, the sun was high in the sky, and the press was running, a comforting clatter at this distance.

That was when she saw a man coming up the track from the university. He was walking in that swift, direct way of his, long strides, arms swinging. It took less than a second for Free to recognize Edward. She didn’t need to see his face; she knew him deep in her bones, as if something resonated between them across even this distance.

She had a brief moment of panic—what was she to do?—and then she remembered that she didn’t panic. Good to know that; her heart must be racing for some other reason.

“Free,” Amanda asked, “why have you turned bright red?”

“No reason,” she said rather stupidly, as he would arrive in the next few minutes, and her lie would be obvious.

Amanda, no fool herself, peered down the road. “Ah,” she said sagely. “There’s your Mr. Clark after all. Right on time.”

Free had only that one too-brief telegram to guide her expectations. She didn’t know why he’d come back, what he intended with her, or if he’d walk away again. She didn’t know if she should hope or despair.

She looked back in his direction. “Ha, is it? No. It can’t be. He’s seen me, and he hasn’t so much as lifted a hand in greeting. But then, I’ve seen him, and I haven’t…” That logic would get her nowhere.

She lifted her hand, gave a little wave. A moment later, he saluted her in return.

“Free,” Amanda said. “I’d never thought I’d say this to you of all people, but are your nerves overwrought?”

“No,” Free wrung her hands together. “My nerves are neither over-nor underwrought. They are wrought to the precise degree demanded by this situation.”

Amanda snorted in disbelief.

“The situation,” Free admitted, “is one of both dreadful confusion and enormous anticipation.”

He’d turned off the main track, starting up the path that led to her press. Her heart pounded. Her palms prickled.

“That’s it, then,” Amanda said with a smile. “I’m going in.”

“Wait…” But her protest was halfhearted. He was coming up to her now. His jacket was rumpled from travel and he was in desperate need of a shave. Free didn’t care—not one bit. She drifted down the path to him, holding out her hands.

Distance vanished. Time vanished.

“Mr. Clark.” Behind her, the press still thundered on. She could scarcely hear it for the ringing in her own ears.

He didn’t hesitate. He twined his fingers with hers, pulling her…not close, not really. Not when she’d imagined him so much closer for many months now. They were no closer than two people would be if dancing a country reel. But her pulse beat as if she’d just danced two sets with him, and she’d done nothing more than take a few steps down the path.

“Mr. Clark,” she repeated, looking up at him. “You are very tall.”

“And you,” he said in a low voice, “you, my most maddeningly beautiful, brilliant, Free. You are perfectly sized. If you Mr. Clark me once more, I shall be forced to do something dreadful, something like kiss you in public.”

Even her wildest fantasies had not had him saying something like that on arrival. She squeezed his hands and then looked up into his dark eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Clark,” she said. “What did you say, Mr. Clark? Mr. Clark, I fear that I have become rather hard of hearing. The noise of the press is terribly distracting. What was that you said you’d do if I called you Mr. Clark?”