“Fine.” He couldn’t help the growl that had formed in his voice. After shaking his hand free of hers, he wrapped his arms tighter about her body, for this conversation would no doubt stir the demons within. “Ask me what you will.”
When she rested a hand on his chest, the warmth of her seared into him. “Are you angry your brothers fought in the war and you didn’t, or that they don’t bear the responsibility of the title?”
Was it one or the other? He must have winced or otherwise shown his discomfort, for she moved her hand to his cheek and turned his head until their eyes locked. “Look at me. Don’t give that anxiety any room to bully you.”
For the first time in his life, Drew didn’t shove down the emotions that churned inside him. He let them bubble to the surface, stared at them in an effort to analyze what would break him if he didn’t address it. “I am angry that I wasn’t allowed to join in the fight against Napoleon.” He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. When she patted his cheek, he forced himself to relax with a sigh. “I’m angry that I couldn’t protect them. I’m angry they can do whatever they want with their lives while I’m stuck, buried under the duty to the title.”
Speaking it aloud took away a portion of its sting. It was there and he could confront it.
“Good.” She nodded. “Has becoming angry changed the past?”
“No.”
“Has letting anger consume you fixed or healed your brothers?”
“No.”
“Does being angry help you learn how to be a better earl?”
He sighed. “It has not.”
Sarah nodded. “Then it is a waste of your time to let it rule you.” When she smiled, he savored the sense of calm she imparted. “The war is over, Andrew. What happened to your brothers, though tragic, did happen, and nothing you do now, nothing you think now, none of those regrets or anger will change the past. The measure of a man is when he moves forward and meets the present challenges.”
A wad of unshed tears lodged in his throat. “I’m afraid that all my efforts will be for naught and I’ll never free myself from the years of hiding emotions.” Essentially, he would lose her due to that failure.
She rose in his lap and brushed her lips against his. “It doesn’t make a man weak to show emotions or to let yourself cry.”
“My father taught us differently.” His chest ached. “I don’t want you to view me as less,” he managed to gasp out.
“Flaws, emotions, reacting to things don’t make you less than an ideal gentleman. In fact, allowing yourself to show them makes you more approachable, more trustworthy.” A trace of moisture filled her eyes. “None of that will change how I feel about you.”
It was all too much, and he wasn’t experienced enough to feel everything assailing him and then releasing it. “Oh, Sarah. I can’t continue like this.” The urge to cry, to yell, to let out some of the things that felt stuck within him grew strong. Instead of shoving her off his lap as he might have done at the beginning of their marriage, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and gave into the tears he’d denied himself over the course of his life.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered into his ear while stroking her fingers through his hair. “Once you’re through purging all that doesn’t serve you any longer, you’ll have room to fill your life with better things.”
He suspected she was part of that. Please, God, don’t let me fail at this.
An urgent rapping at the drawing room door broke the spell he’d fallen into. “My lord, I have a missive for you.”
Drew lifted his head and frowned. “I’d forgotten I’d locked the door.”
Sarah wiped at the tears on her cheeks, and the smile she flashed him was a watery affair. “Poor Dalton sounds frantic.” She wriggled off his lap, and immediately he missed that connection. “Take pity on him.”
He scrubbed at his own cheeks on the way across the room. No sooner had he turned the lock and pulled open one of the double doors than the butler thrust an envelope into his hand.
“This arrived for you not five minutes past by special courier direct from London. He is currently belowstairs with refreshments should you wish to send a reply.”
“What now?” Drew’s hands shook as he tore open the envelope and pulled a single sheet of paper out. His mother’s flowery script only covered one half of the paper. The date on the top indicated the missive was two days old.
Dearest Andrew,
Come home immediately. Phineas nearly committed suicide. He was thwarted in his quest by hitting his head on a piece of furniture when he fell from his chair. Thank God. As of this writing, he is unconscious. I am fearful we’ll still lose him. You need to set things right.
Fondest love,
Mother
“Devil take it!” He crushed the note in his fist and then tossed it toward Sarah as she slowly approached.