Inclining his head at his reflection, he raised his brandy in mock salute. "Well, that did not go particularly well, did it?"

He tossed back the potent drink, relishing the internal burn, which at least served to prove that he wasn't completely numb. Perhaps after a few more drinks he might start to feel better. A few dozen drinks might conceivably be necessary.

"Bloody hell, there's not enough brandy in the entire empire to make me feel better," he muttered. Of course, enough brandy might render him unable to feel anything which at this point would be a blessing indeed. Sloshing two more fingerfuls into the crystal snifter, he made his way to the wing chair flanking the fireplace and sank down. Leaning forward, with his elbows resting on his splayed knees, he stared into the low-burning flames, as if they held the answers to all his questions. And God knew he had plenty of questions. Problem was, he didn't like the damn answers. In truth, he'd only received a positive answer to one question: She did indeed taste like honeysuckle everywhere.

An image of them together, naked, his lips caressing her, flashed through his mind, bringing with it a wave of agony that stole his breath. He could still taste her on his tongue. Feel the imprint of her satiny skin… skin he would never touch again.

No! The word reverberated through his mind with pounding intensity. Things couldn't be over between them. They'd barely begun…

But what choice did he have? Through his own stupidity he'd lost her. She'd made her feelings unmistakably clear. She did not want him. She did not love him.

He rubbed his palm over the center of his chest. Damn it, the fact that she had turned down his proposal hurt. But the fact that she didn't love him… God, that sliced like a rusty blade. She might as well have cut out his heart and tossed it on the floor. Stomped on it while she was at it.

Yet he had no one but himself to blame. He should have told her. He'd obviously been a fool to believe she wouldn't find out, but it had happened so long ago. Had Elizabeth told her? Possibly, but he doubted it. He supposed he could ask her, but the answer made little difference now. More than likely she'd overheard some servant gossip. Or perhaps Lady Gaddlestone had mentioned it during their ocean crossing.

In truth, it didn't matter how she'd found out. In her eyes, he was guilty. Not only of a crime but for not telling her. He recalled the look in her eyes. She'd looked at him as if he were a… criminal. Accusation had shone clearly in her gaze, all but screaming at him, You're just like David.

God, that hurt. But he could not blame her-not when he'd said nothing to disabuse her of the notion. He'd wanted to tell her the whole truth, so badly his skin had ached, but he was bound by promises he could not break. He'd never told anyone. And he'd given his word not to. Unfortunately, there was more involved here than just his wants and desires.

Damn it, he was not a criminal. But he had committed a crime…

Yes, he'd done what he'd had to do, but damn it, he'd never considered that those actions would cost him the woman he loved four years later.

If he'd known, would he have made the same choices that night? He took a long swallow of brandy, then squeezed his eyes shut. I don't know. God help me, I don't know.

Of course, in the entire scheme of things, his past didn't really matter a jot anyway. It was simply the final nail in the coffin. He could have been a vaulted saint, and she still would have refused him. She did not love him. Did not want him. Did not want to marry ever again. By spouting out his feelings like a faulty fountain, he'd accomplished nothing but making an ass out of himself. He'd known she'd be reluctant to accept a proposal. His fatal mistake had been underestimating the depth of her reluctance.


*************

He polished off his brandy, then set the empty snifter on the hearth. A long groan escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands. Damn it, it was over. He had to accept it. He'd offered her everything he had-his love, his heart, his name- and she'd turned him down. Why the devil could he not have simply fallen in love with an amenable English girl with no bloody former husband or problems or madmen after them or aversions to marriage? Someone willing to allow past mistakes to remain in the past? Someone who, when he asked her to marry him, would know that the correct answer was: Oh, yes, Robert. I’d love to be your wife. I love you, Robert. Not I've no desire to ever marry again. I want a lover, nothing more. I am not looking for forever.

An expletive he rarely used whispered past his lips. He briefly considered leaving Bradford Hall, escaping back to London-or anywhere-for the duration of her stay here, but he discarded the idea. With Elizabeth's warning of danger bouncing through his head, he refused to leave Allie alone, whether she wanted him to or not. And he needed to remain here to await Michael's arrival from Ireland. No, he would simply have to put his feelings aside and carry on as if nothing had occurred. As if his dreams of a wife and family hadn't been shattered. As if his heart hadn't broken.

Just how the hell he was going to do that, however, he did not know.


**********

Lester Redfern slogged through the darkness, cursing the mud that sucked at his boots, making his feet feel as if they each weighed twenty stone. Bloody hell, a man of his caliber should not have to suffer being this cold, wet, miserable, and filthy.

Gusts of wind shook the surrounding trees, and his gaze darted from left to right, nerves jittering, heart pounding. Devil take it, he hated the woods. 'Specially at night, wot with all the spooky sounds and shadows, when a body didn't know where he was. Give him London any day of any week.

But as much as he hated the woods, it didn't come close to the way he hated horses-one horse in particular. That sway-backed nag wot had dumped him in the mud, after she'd bit his hand. He flexed his bruised fingers, and muttered a string of curses. And all that when he'd unhitched the beast after the mud had sucked up his gig's wheels.

By the devil, this was madness. He'd catch his death out here in the rain and cold. Wetness oozed through the soles of his boots, and he ground his teeth. With the rain all but washin' out the roads, he'd be lucky to get to Bradford Hall- assuming he'd ever find the bloody place-by next month. It had taken him the entire day to get the distance he could have traveled in an hour's time if this rain hadn't started.

Well, he weren't about to walk to Bradford Hall, that were for damn certain. The earl would just have to wait until travelin' conditions improved, to get his precious note.

"And he's goin' to have to pay up some extra blunt for all my efforts," Redfern grumbled. "He's goin' to replace my boots, and get me a fine greatcoat as well."

A loud squeak caught his attention. Squinting through the darkness, he spied what looked like the glow of a lantern ahead. With a flicker of hope ignited in his cold, wet, miserable, muddy self, he surged ahead. Rounding a corner, he almost fell to his knees with relief. Blowing in the gusty wind, its hinges squeaking loudly, was a sign-The Boar's Lair. An inn, or at the very least a pub, where he could get himself a meal, warm himself in front of a fire, and pray for this bloody rain to stop. And when it did cease, which it surely had to soon, he would continue to Bradford Hall. And to Mrs. Brown.

Chapter 20

Robert sat in the darkened billiards room watching the last of the glowing embers in the grate die out, counting the mantel clock chimes strike midnight. The windows rattled with gusts of wind, but at least the relentless rain had finally stopped. He'd wryly wondered if perhaps he and Austin and Miles should organize an effort to build an ark. For the past four days, sheets of water had fallen from the gray sky-a sky that perfectly matched his mood.

Four days. Four days since that last encounter with Allie in her bedchamber. Four days of trying his damnedest to avoid her in a tremendous house that suddenly seemed no bigger than a crofter's cottage. Four endless, sleepless nights, lying in his bed, trying without success to think of something, anything, other than her.

The rest of the household had retired more than an hour ago, as had he, but he'd finally left his bedchamber, unable to face another sleepless night in his empty bed. Alone. He gazed at the brandy snifter cupped in his hand. Besides, he'd emptied the decanter in his bedchamber.

He and Allie had managed to avoid each other during the days, although he wasn't certain if that was more a case of him avoiding her or her avoiding him. He'd spent most of his time in Austin's private study, helping his brother with the estate accounts, throwing himself into the task with an enthusiasm that clearly baffled Austin. But he wanted, needed, to keep his mind and hands occupied so he wouldn't think of her. Wouldn't search her out and find some excuse to touch her.

When he wasn't helping Austin with the accounts, he kept to himself, reading in the library, playing billiards with Austin and Miles, spending time with James and Emily in the nursery, although it was pure torture to even look at the sofa in that room. He knew from Caroline that Allie had spent most of the last four days with Caroline and his mother, talking, doing needlework, playing card games. And according to Austin, she also visited with Elizabeth each afternoon.

He'd longed to escape from the house, where he kept catching elusive whiffs of her fragrance in the corridors, and take a long, bruising ride. The rain, however, prevented such outdoor activities.