After the Wedding Page 14

  Judith had been right. Camilla hadn’t had love—not ever again. Not after that.

  Camilla had asked her uncle to post letters for months after she’d arrived. She had tried writing for years—even though she hadn’t known her sister’s direction, she’d sent the letters to her uncle to send on for her.

  There had been nothing from Judith but resounding silence. That silence had swallowed all her hope.

  When she was sixteen, after four years of silence, Camilla had vowed to look forward, not back.

  Now, if the news was to be believed, Judith had found love. Her husband was wealthy and respected; she had gowns and lemon tarts. She had everything.

  Camilla had nothing.

  “That is how I lost my family,” Camilla said. “I threw them away. I chose to go to my uncle instead of staying with them. And he sent me to his cousin. And so on and so on, until I found myself here. I traded away my right to ever have anyone love me when I was twelve, and I…” Her voice faltered. “I know it deep down. I do. But I am not strong enough to face the truth. I have to keep hoping or I’ll fall to pieces.”

  “Camilla.” Adrian’s voice was low. “That’s not how it works. You can’t give up your right to be loved. And you were twelve.”

  “I’m twenty now. I have amassed close to nine years of proof. Do you know what it’s like to hope for years and years that someone will like you enough to marry you, and to know that the only reason you said ‘I do’ is because time in my company is marginally preferable to death?”

  “Camilla.” He bit his lip. “That’s—look, this isn’t about you at all.”

  “I know.” She swiped angrily at her cheeks. “Of course I know! Even my own wedding wasn’t about me, for God’s sake!”

  “Camilla, I’m sure somebody will want you.”

  “You don’t.”

  Even now, even at her worst, she couldn’t keep from hoping that he would deny it. That he’d tell her he’d fallen stupidly, deeply in love over the course of five days.

  But he didn’t say that. Instead, he let out a long breath. “That’s not fair. I want what my parents have—decades of happiness, a partnership that has withstood the test of time, a long, slow chance to really fall in love. I am not going to apologize to you because I want that for myself.”

  Of course. Camilla’s sobs had progressed to the ugly stage of hiccupping. “And I will apologize for being as weak as I am. I just have to keep hoping.”

  There was a long pause. He took another step toward her and set his hand on her shoulder. There was nothing importuning about it; just comfort given in small measure.

  “Cam,” he said quietly. “There you are, little tiger.”

  “Tigers are strong. I am not a tiger.”

  “Tigers never stop hoping,” he said. “Hope is not weak. It takes courage to hope and hope and hope, when nothing comes out right. It takes strength to continue to believe that this time everything will come out right when it’s always gone wrong before. You are not weak.”

  He was going to break her, giving her just this much kindness and not one iota more.

  “See here,” he said, and the hand he had on her shoulder gave her an awkward pat. “I can’t know what it’s like, but I can tell you this. You deserve to be loved. You have always known it; that is why you keep hoping. But look at you, little tiger. You look on the bright side of things—most of the time, if not always. You rarely complain; you are willing to work hard to achieve a result. You have an excellent memory. You’re witty and charming and pretty. You deserve more than someone who has been tied to you by the caprices of fate.”

  She shook her head. Her heart felt so stupidly empty and so ridiculously full, all at the same time.

  “I promise you,” he whispered into her hair, “it’s not impossible. Someday, somebody is going to adore you for how wonderful you are.”

  He put one arm around her. It wasn’t an embrace; it was a gesture of comfort. She knew it for precisely that, and still she couldn’t help but feel her heart beat just a little faster.

  “You deserve that,” he whispered in her ear. “You deserve to truly fall in love and to be loved in return. You deserve to be worshipped for the person you are, and not just tolerated for existing.”

  It had never happened yet. If she looked back at everything that had ever happened to her, she’d conclude from all available evidence that love would never find her at all—not in any way, not in any form.

  Her heart was too fragile to take that crushing a blow.

  So Camilla did what she had done a dozen or more times over the course of her life—she looked forward and pushed the darkness of her past back into hiding.

  She let herself hope through the twinge of her bruises and the sting of her tears. She let herself believe despite all the evidence.

  Someone would love her. Just because it had never happened yet, didn’t mean it wouldn’t. Hope stung like an old ache, but it was better than the alternative.

  “There,” Adrian said, one arm still around her. “There, there. That’s better. You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”

  Camilla sniffled and opened her eyes. Her forehead rested against the skin of his neck; he smelled clean and bright, full of promise. She pulled away an inch.

  She had thought he was handsome when first she met him. Here he was, telling her that she deserved to have her long-held wish granted. Telling her that she was pretty and charming and…and…

  And, oh God, he had ceased to be merely handsome. It felt like the darkness of her mood lifted when she looked at him, like every sunbeam in the sky reflected off his skin.

  He must have mistaken the shy smile she gave him, because he nodded and smiled back at her.

  “There we are,” he said softly. “That’s not a fake smile is it?”

  Oh, no, no, no. She wasn’t feeling better. Her hands felt clammy; her whole body prickled with the awareness of his proximity.

  “Maybe I can do it,” she said slowly. “Maybe. I can go back, if you want me too.”

  He looked off over her shoulder, as if seeing something she could not, and then nodded once. “No.” He sighed. “My uncle asked me to pose as valet. I didn’t want to, but… Never mind my reasons. He shouldn’t have asked me, not after I said no the first time. And look what happened. I’m not going to be him. You said no; that should be enough. We just need a different plan, that’s all.”

  He should be yelling at her, calling her a stupid girl. Anything but kindness. Camilla was horribly susceptible to kindness, and every inch of her soul was responding to him in silent entreaty.

  “This affects the rest of our lives,” he pronounced. “We don’t need to fix it in five minutes.” He sighed, then shrugged. “Or even, I suppose, in five days.”

  She exhaled.

  He was almost talking to himself now. “No matter how swiftly we proceed, there are still elements of this business that will necessarily take time. We’ll need to obtain an affidavit from Mrs. Martin as evidence. Besides, I have some things I must attend to; I have already put them off for far too long. I need to go back to Harvil. We’re not resolving this tomorrow or even the next day, no matter what you do; it was foolish to think we could.”

  Oh. No. A thread of panic reasserted itself. “You’re leaving.”

  “Well, you do get a vote.” He smiled faintly. “I’d like to go to Harvil—I have business there. You may come along, if you wish; now that I think of it, this will be good for our case. We can introduce you to everyone there as someone who is not my wife. The more witnesses who say that we have not held ourselves out as married, the better it will be for us. And it will give us a chance to think of some possible avenues for proceeding that don’t leave you devastated.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment; she could hardly speak.

  “We can always arrange for you to go somewhere else,” he said when the silence lingered. “This is difficult enough for both of us. I understand if you don’t want to spend mo
re time in my vicinity.”

  It was an all-too familiar feeling. Camilla, fool that she was, recognized the emotion that flared in her chest far too well. She’d always wanted to get love, and so she gave it too easily. At the proverbial drop of a hat.

  She could almost laugh at herself. For God’s sake, Camilla. He hadn’t even needed to drop his.

  He didn’t love her. He didn’t intend to love her; he didn’t want to love her.

  It didn’t matter.

  She inhaled, long and shuddering. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, no. No, your family property is perfectly acceptable. We’re not married, but we are tied to each other in a way, and what if I recalled something that might help us? We should be close enough to consult.”

  He smiled.

  “I’d have to send telegrams if we were apart.” She was joking, and it almost hurt to joke when her heart felt so fragile. “And somewhere along the way there’d be a Mrs. Beasley, and she might remember the whole thing. How embarrassing for us both.”

  “I know you don’t want to look back,” he said more quietly. “I arrived at the tail end of your stay with Rector Miles. What I saw was dreadful. I can’t blame you for not wanting to look back.”

  She shook her head.

  “Sometimes you look back and it’s a wedding at gunpoint. Sometimes it’s lemon tarts. You’re a generous person, Camilla. You give a great deal. Give yourself time, and look back a little when it’s possible and maybe you’ll see that you’ve gotten more than you thought.”

  He was just saying it out of self-preservation. He wanted her to get the account books; he was telling her to wait a few weeks until she felt better. She knew this was true.

  And still, that praise made her heart thump. Generous. He thought her generous.

  His smile flashed out, bright and merry, and Camilla gave up on herself. Hopeless; she was utterly hopeless.

  She had fallen in love before, and it always hurt. This would be no different.

  She’d come through worse. She’d survived the loss of her father, her brothers, her sisters…

  Her sisters. She had mentioned her family twice, but hadn’t told him who her sisters were. She’d changed her name so she wouldn’t embarrass them.

  Judith was a marchioness. Her youngest sister was fifteen now, and would likely be coming out soon.

  Lady Theresa Worth had stayed with her family. She was getting all the gowns, all the love, that Camilla had not had. And Camilla loved the sister she hadn’t seen—the sister she could not let herself look back on—enough that she would leave her to those gowns and never disturb that.

  If Camilla could survive not knowing the woman her sister had grown into, she could survive anything. She could even survive Adrian Hunter.

  Camilla took a deep breath and did what she did best. She smiled and looked forward.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lady Theresa Worth was not the sort of young lady who left anything to chance. The Dowager Marchioness of Ashford had told her that an acceptable gift for her sister’s birthday would be a commemorative embroidered cushion.

  The dowager was her sister’s husband’s mother, a woman who had taken Theresa under her wing the moment Judith’s marriage had been announced. She had declared that she’d always wanted a daughter, and after a few uneasy months together, they’d actually become friendly.

  So Theresa had planned to do exactly as the dowager suggested. She had made a plan, stitch by stitch, obtained the appropriate silks, then sat down to wage war on the fabric.

  The main problem with this plan was that Theresa’s embroidery was utter shite.

  She’d given herself a full three months to produce something within the bounds of acceptability—something that her oldest sister could put on, say, a divan in a rarely used room, instead of quietly sending up to the attic. Or burning it to stay warm in the winter.

  Alas. After two months, Theresa stared down at her current attempt—try nine—and the lopsided things that were supposed to represent the ravens of the Ashford crest.

  Instead of sleek, feathered things, Theresa had managed to produce something that looked more like a withered, blackened cauliflower. Or maybe, a diseased octopus?

  A shame. She liked octopodes.

  She imagined herself presenting this cushion to her sister.

  “What are these?” Judith would ask, her lip quirking in dismay.

  Oh, just some rotting vegetables, Theresa would reply. My love for you is like a field of rotting vegetables—like rot, my love grows to encompass the entire crop. It’s rather hard on the vegetables, but if you would just look at it from the rot’s point of view—

  That explanation would go over so well.

  The other idea that the dowager marchioness had come up with was that Theresa could compose a poem. Perhaps Theresa could combine the two? At least she’d get a laugh.

  She glared out the glass window.

  “Theresa?”

  Theresa turned at the sound. Her younger brother, Benedict, stood in the doorway.

  She raised a single eyebrow, set her cushion of rotted splendor aside, and folded her arms, waiting for her brother to realize his mistake.

  His legs came together; he straightened. His hand rose in a salute. “My pardon, your Excellency. General Worth, I mean. I beg a moment of your attention.”

  Theresa considered whether she should punish her brother. On the one hand, insubordination needed to be extracted from the root. Besides, nobody told Benedict that he had to produce a cushion or a verse for his sister’s birthday. He was a boy. He was allowed to do all sorts of non-labor-intensive things, like purchasing flowers as a gift on the morning of Judith’s birthday.

  On the other hand, thus far, nobody in her family had noticed that she had dragooned her younger brother into her own private army, and Theresa intended to keep it that way.

  Today, she could be magnanimous. “Proceed, Corporal Benedict.”

  “You promised we would deal with my little problem.”

  Benedict’s little problem was not so little. Over a year ago, he’d refused to return to Eton. She could hardly blame him; he’d been badly treated. Since then, Judith and Christian had attempted to find him a place in the world. He’d been made to sit in a lawyer’s office for the last three months.

  He hated it with a passion that burned hotter than…than a field of withered cauliflower, put to the flame?

  “Give it some time,” Judith had told him comfortingly. “A year may feel like forever to you at this age, but it’s nothing. You can’t know if you like the work if you don’t take time to get good at it.”

  “You’ll grow into it,” Christian had promised Benedict. “You like talking with people and being right. You should love the practice of law.”

  Theresa, who knew her brother far better than either Judith or Christian, had promised to come up with a plan to free her brother from the tyranny of the law office. Which—admittedly—was not so tyrannical, as the man was incredibly kind to Benedict and his wife brought him biscuits. But all professions that one did not wish to have were a tyranny.

  “I’ve been thinking about the matter.” Theresa slid her embroidery underneath a cushion. “What you need is to show an aptitude for some other profession. They’ll never agree to pull you from this law thing if you haven’t provided an alternative.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know an alternative.”

  “I do,” Theresa said. This was probably not a lie. She technically didn’t have an alternative in mind at the moment the words came out of her mouth. She was just certain that by the time she finished speaking, she would have figured one out.

  “Excellent! What is it?”

  “Let us come at it another way,” Theresa said. “What were your thoughts on Judith’s birthday present?”

  “Flowers,” Benedict said glumly.

  “Ask yourself: Does Judith really want flowers?”

  “Well…”

  “No,” Theresa decided. “She do
es not, any more than she wants terribly embroidered cushions depicting the last century’s worst farming tragedies. She’ll appreciate them, because they come from us, but she doesn’t want them.”

  “True.”

  Theresa folded her arms and tried to look like a wiser older sister. She was fifteen to Benedict’s fourteen; it shouldn’t be hard. “Let us ask ourselves this: What does Judith want? What does she really want?”

  What an excellent question. If only she knew the answer.

  Benedict considered. “A new hat?”

  “No,” Theresa said, realizing the answer as she spoke. Judith had stopped speaking of the matter six months ago; that didn’t mean she didn’t care.

  Years ago, their family had been separated. Her eldest brother had been transported as punishment for doing things that really ought not to have been crimes, but which were technically treasonous. Her father had been…could you call it separation, if he was separated from his life? And Camilla, their middle sister, had gone to live with an uncle.

  Judith had tried to find her, but their uncle had passed her on to someone else, and so on and so on. Letters had not been forwarded. The whole matter was something of a disaster.

  They hadn’t found her yet, and Judith was in mourning. She hadn’t said anything; she was much too Judith to do so. But after more than a year of searching with no response, Theresa knew precisely what her sister thought about the matter of Camilla.

  Judith had started wearing black ribbons, the only outward show of grief that she allowed herself.

  “Judith wants to find Camilla. That is what we are going to accomplish for her birthday, you and I. We are going to find Camilla.”

  Benedict glanced over at Theresa. His lips pressed together. “Uh. Well. Um.” He fell silent after this proclamation, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

  Theresa tilted her head. “Permission to speak more precisely is granted, Corporal Benedict.”

  “I mean to say…we have less than a month. And perhaps investigations should be left to professionals? And also…this is precisely how you always get me in trouble.”