When she returned home to Hollythorne House, she could indulge in tears. She could—and would—give voice to her broken heart and cry until she could feel nothing else. But now, she refused to allow his last sight of her to be one of her weeping.
“Take care of yourself, Anthony Welbourne.”
* * *
Anthony allowed his gaze to linger first on the dark chestnut hue of Charlotte’s windblown hair, then the gentle slope of her petite nose. Then the full curve of her lips that he knew so well.
She was right. He should return to his uncle’s.
Prolonging this farewell would not lessen the torment.
But his boots were fixed to the stone beneath him, heavy and weighted, as if the very moors were holding him captive, demanding that he speak.
The words—the declaration of his adoration—wrestled within him, begging to be uttered.
How could he depart without communicating to her the depth of his affection? If he’d had any inclination that a woman would have such a powerful impact on him, he never would have considered the officer’s commission. He might have even been content to work all his days at his uncle’s gristmill. But the commission had been purchased, and he was committed to an unalterable path.
And another truth, equally as valid and forceful, refused to be ignored. Even if he were free and had no commitments, Charlotte’s father would forbid a connection with a man bearing the surname Welbourne, let alone the fact that his social standing was far inferior to hers.
Despite their differences, she’d been an anchor to him in a time of transition. After nineteen years, his role was changing from dutiful nephew and mill worker to that of a soldier. He knew from the first moment he’d witnessed her struggling with a pony—with her flushed cheeks, wild hair, and dogged determination—that she’d laid claim to the concealed, sentimental parts of his heart. As of yet, she had not released it.
Her father’s travels had kept him away for the past several months. Throughout that time she’d easily escaped her ineffective chaperone’s lackluster supervision to spend the evening hours with him. During those precious times, she’d challenged him. Encouraged him. Allowed him to truly express himself in an environment that didn’t contest his plans for his future.
A relationship that started as curious infatuation had developed into the most important and influential of his being, and yet even when all seemed ideal, he held back his true feelings. At this late point, revealing his love for her would be a selfish act. He might never return from the war in America, and even if he did, asking her to wait for him would cause discord within her family. Just because he longed to say the words didn’t mean they were prudent.
The silent moments slipped by, and her chin began to tremble. Her high cheekbones flushed pink.
Every muscle in his body ached to reach out and comfort her, but he refrained. It would not be fair, perhaps even cruel, to give false hope to a situation that must end.
Instead, he leaned forward, indulged in a breath of her scent of lavender, and pressed his lips against her forehead. “Farewell, dearest Charlotte.”
Without looking at her, he turned.
He forced one step.
And then took another.
She did not call out to him.
She did not stop him.
And in time his own heart might heal. Then again, it might harden.
Regardless, her life would go on.
Chapter 1
Wolden House, Leeds, Yorkshire
October 1817
Roland Prior had gone too far this time. This was not to be borne.
Charlotte’s racing blood boiled and fueled each step down the first floor’s opulent corridor to Wolden House’s broad main staircase. With each inch traversed she formed her argument. Anticipated Roland’s retorts. Sharpened her rationale.
Normally, arguing with Roland would only make a matter worse. When it came to their infant son, Roland demanded complete control. But mere minutes ago she’d been informed of his intention to send Henry to live with his brother for the next six months while Roland traveled to the Continent. The suggestion that Henry would be better off with his uncle enraged her. How dare Roland keep her son away from her, for any length of time! She knew well the possible ramifications of questioning Roland Prior. But for Henry’s sake, she would fight.
The soles of her soft kid-leather slippers clipped the wooden steps as she descended the staircase. She ignored the sideways glance from the liveried footman and focused her attention on the heavy oak door to her husband’s study at the corridor’s end. She lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the door.
No answer ensued.
Annoyance flared. She knocked harder. Sharper.
When a response still did not come, she gripped the brass handle and turned it, steeling herself for a battle.
But when she opened the door and stepped inside, the chamber was empty.
She frowned. A freshly built fire roared in the grate, and papers and letters, along with a half-empty glass of brandy, littered his desk. The heavy aubergine velvet curtains were drawn in the chamber’s two windows, and the fire’s saffron glow reflected off the glass decanters on the side table and the gilded mirror on the opposite wall.
She huffed, disappointed not to be able to give voice that very moment to her frustration. She pivoted to leave, but the toe of a polished black boot on the floor captured her attention.
The sight of it, prostrate and positioned at an odd angle, slowed her blood that just moments ago was racing.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
She inched closer, one step at a time, until she could see around the desk’s edge. There, on the Persian rug beneath the window, lay Roland in an unnatural position on his back. Unmoving. One arm was tucked awkwardly behind him. Papers were strewn around him. His icy blue eyes stared, unblinking.
Nausea seized her, and her hand flew to her throat.
She screamed.
The footman she’d encountered just moments prior rushed in and pushed past her.
The next events simultaneously slowed and sped up.
Servants streamed in.
Voices and shapes blurred into a mess of noise and chatter.
The butler brushed past her and dropped to his master’s side.
Someone opened the curtains, flooding the chamber with morning’s harsh, colorless light. An arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her backward. A feminine voice whispered for her to come away, but her feet refused to move.
Roland Prior—formidable, imposing, and polarizing—was dead.
Every element from their three-year marriage flashed before her. The fear. The mistrust. His cold words and violent displays of anger.
She should feel sadness at the loss of life. She should feel grief.
But she perceived only numbness—blinding, debilitating numbness.
Perspiration beaded cold on her brow, and every breath burned, as if the very air she was inhaling had died with Roland. In this single slice of time, it mattered not that no love had existed between husband and wife. The fact that arguments and disagreements had ruled their interactions evaporated into a meaningless void.
What mattered now was their son. At only seven months of age, Henry was now heir to his father’s fortune and business holdings—a significant designation for anyone, let alone a baby. She might be free from Roland now, but Henry—dear, innocent Henry—would be further embroiled in the complicated tangle that was the Prior family.