August did not know how they had managed to show hospitality to everyone, except that Minette awoke the morning after his father’s death and calmly took everything in hand. She had been their saving grace, directing the servants and playing hostess while August flailed in a fog of numb emotion and his mother lay prostrate with grief.
Dear, sweet Minette. Where would they have been without her? She had told charming, heartfelt stories of her limited acquaintance with the marquess, until the ladies were in tears and the gentlemen all clearing their throats. She had put a publicly acceptable shine to the miserable character of his father, and brought brightness and order to the exhausting rituals of mourning. August was not offended by this fiction. He was grateful. As the next Lord Barrymore, he had an interest in maintaining the honor of the name. His mother and sisters, in fact, everyone who had criticized Minette after he jilted Priscilla, remarked how magnificent she was.
In one whirlwind week, Minette had won the ton’s regard, smoothed social snarls, and saved his father’s legacy. This afternoon, when the last of the guests finally left, he noticed she looked thin and tired, and had dark circles under her eyes.
August was in love with her. He had been in love with her before this past week and all its challenges, but he was more in love with her now. It wasn’t the careless, casual love he’d felt for her in years past. It was a new kind of love, fearsome, consuming, deep enough to drown him. This love suffocated him, pulling him under waves of confusion and self-doubt.
Now Warren sat across from him in the library, one leg crossed over the other, a befuddled frown on his face. “You want me to take Minette to Oxfordshire? Why?”
“It’s her choice, of course,” August replied carefully. “But I thought she might wish to be with Josephine during her lying-in. They’ve always been such close friends. You should present her with the option.”
Warren snorted. “You should present her with the option. She’s your wife. And as I recall, last time you stowed her in the country, she made her way back to you within the week.”
“It’s not that I don’t want her here.” At Warren’s daunting look, August stood and began to pace. “It’s only that things are in such disarray.”
“There is no one better at dealing with disarray than my sister. She kept your household running all week.”
“Yes,” August said, turning back to him. “She’s tired herself out. She’ll always tire herself out, as long as there is work to be done, and endless visitors. There are so many tasks yet to be accomplished.”
“Such as shunting your wife off to the country.”
August sighed and moved to the window. Minette had mended some relationships this past week, but the rancor between him and Warren festered as painfully as ever. “It’s not as if I’m trying to get rid of her,” he said. “I love her very much.”
“Is that so? Have you slept with her yet?”
“I won’t discuss that with you.”
“That means no,” said Warren in a disgusted tone. “She must be going out of her mind, you heartless bastard. There will have to be children, you realize. Minette has always dreamed of children.”
“Three months,” August said, wondering when the fight had gone out of him. “Three months is all I ask.”
Warren took a deep drink of brandy and put his glass down with a bang. “You’re a liar. You don’t love my sister.”
August turned to fix him with a look. “Take care what you say to me, Wild.”
Warren pursed his lips at the childhood name. “Help me understand then. You’ve always cared for her. I know you’ve a heart under all that bluster and scowling. If you loved her, you would try to make it work. You wouldn’t send her away for a second time.”
“Barrymore’s dead and the house is in mourning. Why must she be here?” He hid his guilt and anxiety in mounting irritation. “She’ll enjoy better looking after Josephine. She likes to be helpful.”
“And who helps Minette?” Warren snapped. “She’s not the same since she married you.”
“Nor am I the same,” August shot back. “Forgive me for my blundering failure. I wasn’t ready to be married, not now, not to her. Forgive me if I haven’t transformed into the perfect husband, like you. Like Townsend.”
“You can send her off a thousand times, and she’ll come back.”
“If Josephine asks her to go to Oxfordshire, Minette will go. Three months,” August repeated again. “You’ve been my friend for years, Warren. Help me. Take her with you until I’m better prepared to be her husband.” He turned away from the man’s grim scowl. “I ought to have spoken to Josephine instead. She would have been more sympathetic to my plight.”
“I don’t want you talking to my wife.”
August turned back in shock. Warren looked surprised too, that he had said such words. But he had said them. This then, was the end of a twenty-year friendship. This judgment and hostility. This open scorn.
“Damn you, then,” August said coolly. “Leave your sister here, or take her. Damned if I care.”
A knock sounded at the door and Minette swept in, a smiling dove in the midst of two dueling hawks. “I wondered where you both were. Why, how dark it is in here, and both of you swilling spirits. The ladies would like your company, you know.” She went to her brother and took his hand. “I know you’ll be leaving soon, and I don’t want to lose a moment of our time together. I’ll miss you and Josephine when you go.”
She came to August next and pressed her cheek to his. She was like the cozy, comforting warmth of the winter’s fire.
“How pretty you look,” he told her. She smelled like flowers. Like pretty lace kept in a scented drawer. “It’s true that we’re being unmannerly, darling. We ought to join you and Josephine. Has Mother retired?”
As Minette answered in the affirmative, Warren roused himself from his chair, draining the last of his brandy. “Yes, we ought to make the most of our last days,” he said in a taut voice. “We’ll be leaving by week’s end.”
“So soon?” asked Minette in dismay.
“Perhaps you’ll agree to come with us, if you are not needed here. I’m sure Josephine would like your company as she begins her confinement. You know she’s always been a restless sort, and you amuse her to no end.”
“Come with you?” Minette slid August a look. He could see the conflict in that small glance. She was so giving—she would wish to help her sister-in-law. But she didn’t want to leave him.
You should. You must. I need time...
Always more time.
What a coward he was. He forced a smile and pitched his voice to a light, casual tone. “Of course you must go with Josephine if she needs you. We’ll manage here. The worst is over, and winter in London is so bleak.”
“But I can’t leave you. You’ll be here alone.”
“There’s my mother to settle. And Arlington will be in town, he says. I’ll miss you terribly, of course, but this is Josephine’s first baby. If Warren agrees it would be all right, I think you ought to go.”
Minette twitched restlessly at the front of her gown before looking up again. Were her eyes misted with tears? “What about my piano lessons?” she asked. “Without your help, I’ll get terribly rough with my fingering. I may forget everything I’ve learned.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” he assured her. “Your playing has progressed so beautifully, and Josephine will love hearing you play. Your brother too.”
Warren stared at him with a deeply hateful gaze. He wanted to take Minette away now. “You needn’t decide right away, mopsy,” Warren said, turning to his sister. “We’ll be a few days yet, packing up at Park Street. But I daresay Josephine would find you a comfort. Once the baby is born, you can stay a while longer, or return to prepare for the season. With Barrymore House so recently in bereavement, I don’t think you’ll need to do much.”
“Goodness. It just seems...” Minette knit her fingers together, and looked back at August. “It seems so soo
n for you to be alone,” she said meaningfully.
August had shown her a side of him, a tortured, ragged side no one had ever seen. Rather than feel repulsed by him, as any wife ought to, she wished to protect him. August wanted to haul her against him and disappear inside her brightness. He wanted to sob like a child against her neck. But he didn’t, because he had to be strong.
“I’ll be perfectly fine, if you think it best to go with Josephine,” he said in a carefully steady voice. “I’ll visit when I can, and we can write one another letters, of course.”
If Warren glared at him any harder, he’d bore a hole right through his dinner coat.
If you don’t want to be friends, thought August, we won’t be friends. He had expected this, eventually.
He was growing grievously comfortable with loss.