But that was a lie.
His hands had been shaking ever since Lucy had left yesterday afternoon. He trembled as if he had the ague, as if all the demons inside him had decided to make themselves physically felt. Demons of rage, demons of pain, demons of self-pity, and demons of love. They shook and rattled his frame, demanding acknowledgment. He’d lost the ability to contain them anymore, and they had free rein of his soul now.
He grimaced to himself and swallowed a gulp of the amber liquor. It burned his throat all the way down. He probably wouldn’t be able to hold his sword on the day of the duel. Wouldn’t that be a surprise for Fletcher? To find him standing there, shaking and trembling, his sword fallen to his feet, useless. Christian would merely have to gut him and go home for breakfast. Hardly worth his time, when you thought about it. And Simon had nothing—nothing at all—to do between now and the duel on the morrow’s dawn.
He picked up his glass and wandered from his study. The hall was dark and cold, even if it was only afternoon. Couldn’t anyone keep enough fires lit to warm him? He had so many servants; he was a viscount, after all, and he’d be ashamed to have less than fifty souls toiling over his every whim, night and day. He thought to bellow for Newton, but the butler had been hiding the entire day. Coward. He turned down the hall, his footsteps echoing in his big, lonely house. What had made him think for even a second that he and an angel could ever be united? That he’d be able to hide from her the rage in his heart or the stain on his soul?
Madness, pure madness.
Simon reached the doors to his conservatory and paused. Even from without he could smell them. Roses. So serene, so perfect. As a young boy, he’d been mesmerized by the swirl of velvet petals that led to a secret center, hidden and shy, at the flower’s heart. The thing about roses was that even when not in bloom, they required constant care. The leaves must be inspected for blight, mildew, and parasites. The soil must be carefully tended, weeded, and improved. The plant itself should be cut back in autumn, sometimes quite savagely, in order that it might bloom again in the spring. A demanding, selfish flower, the rose, but one that rewarded with spectacular beauty when well cared for.
He had a sudden memory of himself, young and unmade, sneaking into the rose garden to hide from his tutor. The gardener, Burns, tending to the roses, not noticing the boy stealing behind. Only, of course, the gardener must have noticed. Simon smirked. The old man had merely pretended not to know the boy was in the garden, ducking his studies. In that way both could coexist in the place they loved best without any to blame should they be discovered.
He laid his hand on the door feeling the cedar wood, imported specially when he’d had this adult refuge made. Even as a grown man he went to the rose garden to hide.
Simon pushed open the door, and the humid air caressed his face. He could feel the sweat start along his hairline as he took a gulp of brandy. Newton had made sure the greenhouse was tidied again within an hour of Christian’s departure. One would never know that there had been a fight here. He moved farther in and waited for the smell of loam and the sweet perfume of the roses to bring back his serenity. To return his soul to his body and make him whole again—less a demon and more a man. They did not.
Simon stared at the long row of benches, at the neatly ordered pots, at the plants, some mere thorny sticks, some flamboyantly in bloom. The colors assaulted his eyes, every shade of white and pink and red and all the imaginable hues in between: flesh pink, cold white, black crimson, and a rose the exact shade of Lucy’s lips. It was a dazzling display that had taken him most of his adult life to collect, a masterpiece of horticulture.
He looked up to where the glass ceiling came to a perfect angle overhead, protecting the delicate plants within and keeping the chill London wind without. He looked down to the carefully laid bricks beneath his feet, arranged in a herringbone pattern, orderly and neat. The greenhouse was exactly as he’d envisioned it ten years before, when he’d had it built. It was in every way the culmination of all his dreams of refuge, of peace. It was perfect.
Except that Lucy was not here.
There would never again be peace for him. Simon tossed back the rest of the brandy, raised his tumbler high, and threw it to the bricks. Glass shattered across the path.
THE DARK CLOUDS HANGING LOW in the sky threatened rain or maybe even snow. Lucy shivered and chafed her hands together. She should’ve worn mittens. Hoarfrost had delicately entombed the garden this morning, delineating each dead leaf, each frozen stem with white fur. She touched a withered apple and watched the frost melt in a perfect circle under the warmth from her fingertip. The apple beneath was still dead.
It was really too chill to be outside, but she was restless today, and the house felt confining. She’d tried sitting inside, working on a sketch of a country kitchen still life: big earthen bowl, brown eggs, and Mrs. Brodie’s freshly baked bread. The eggs had turned misshapen under her fingers, and her charcoal had broken against the paper, making a messy blotch.
Strange. She’d left Simon because she couldn’t stand his choices. She’d felt herself in turmoil, living with him while he killed or sought death himself. Lucy knit her brows. Perhaps she hadn’t acknowledged it before, that part of her flight was fear—the constant, agonizing worry that he might die in one of his duels. Yet here, in the quiet of her childhood home, the turmoil within herself was much worse. The silence, the very lack of drama, was almost oppressive. At least in London she could flail against Simon, argue his revenge. She could make love to him.
Here, she was alone. Simply alone.
She missed Simon. She’d expected that there would be some yearning, the ache of loss when she’d left him. After all, she cared for him very much. What she hadn’t expected was that the ache would be a gigantic hole in the fabric of her life, a hole in her very being. She wasn’t at all sure she could live without him. And while that sounded melodramatic, it was also sadly true. She very much feared that she would return to her husband not because of the morally sound argument put forth by her father—that one should forgive the sinner—but because of a mundane truth.
She could not live apart from him.
No matter what he’d done, no matter what he would do in the future, no matter what he was, she still missed him. Still wanted to be with him. How appalling.
“Goodness, it’s freezing out here. Whatever are you doing, haunting the garden like the ghost of a wronged woman?”
Lucy swung around at the irritable voice.
Patricia hopped from one foot to the other behind her. She’d pulled her hood around her face and held a fur muff to her nose, obscuring all but her china-blue eyes. “Come inside right now before you turn to ice.”
Lucy smiled at her friend. “Very well.”
Patricia heaved a sigh of relief and scurried in the back door without waiting for her. Lucy followed behind.
When she came inside, Patricia already had her cloak and muff off. “Remove that.” The other woman gestured at Lucy’s hood. “And let’s go in the sitting room. I’ve already asked Mrs. Brodie for tea.”
Soon they were seated in the little back room, a steaming pot of tea before them.
“Ahh.” Patricia held her cup before her face, nearly bathing in the warm liquid. “Thank goodness Mrs. Brodie knows how to heat the water properly.” She took a sip of tea and set down her cup in a businesslike manner. “Now tell me about London and your new life.”
“It’s very busy,” Lucy said slowly. “London, that is. There is so much to see and do. We went to the theater not long ago and I adored it.”
“Lucky.” Patricia sighed. “I’d love to see all the people in their finest clothes.”
“Mmm.” Lucy smiled. “My sister-in-law, Rosalind, is quite kind. She’s taken me shopping and shown me her favorite places. I have a niece as well. She plays with tin soldiers.”
“Very unique. And your new husband?” Patricia asked in a too-innocent tone. “How is he?”
“Simon is well.”