Cavendish Brothers 01 - An Unintended Journey (2 page)

Did she want him to?

Abby studied him. The three years since his departure from Blacknall Manor had been unkind to him—perhaps as unkind as the allegations hurled at his racing feet had been as he left. His visage had hardened, and a garish, purple scar ran from his left temple to his cheek. Did he have other such marks?

“
Abby? Did you hear me, dear?”

Lady Pritchard’s voice startled Abby out of her ruminations, but not before her hand—the one holding the missive for her mother—reached out across the expanse of the parlor, as though to soothe Mr. Cavendish’s perceived hurts.

She snatched it back to her chest and took a shaky breath. “M—my apologies, my lady. Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll be sure to send word to Thomas right away.”

In lieu of allowing the baroness to stop her again, Abby bobbed a quick curtsey, spun on her heel, and barreled through the French doors, nearly knocking Robert to the floor in her haste to escape.

*

When Abby raced out of the room, Wesley Cavendish took his first full breath in what felt like ten years. The faint scent of lavender soap followed in her wake, leaving a tingling sensation in his nostrils. She couldn’t have been in the parlor for longer than a minute. And he’d only been gone for three years, after all. He must be overreacting.

Hardly surprising, when it came to Abby.

He’d just waited so damned long to see her again. But she’d looked down at his fisted hands and then up to his eyes with an expression which likened him to a murderer, or perhaps Beelzebub, himself. He’d had to force himself to still his movements. The continual clenching and unclenching had always bothered her, though she had never deigned to tell him as much. His years away had only increased the habit. Finding a means to stop would have to be his first priority.

Although, perhaps not. She’d run off like a skittish colt, sprinting away from him so fast her lush, silken, brown hair had worked itself free from her knot. It flew behind her like a horse’s mane at a neck-or-nothing pace. By Jove, there were even tears in her wary, hazel eyes.

He hadn’t expected her to rush to him, toss herself into his arms, and ride off into the sunset with him. He wasn’t her knight on a white charger—or so he told himself. But he also hadn’t expected her aloofness and obvious discomfort at his return.

Maybe he should retrieve his horse and leave. Now. Before he allowed himself to become any more entangled in her. Before she sunk her tenterhooks into his heart again and ripped what little of it remained free from his chest.

Alas, who was he trying to fool? Wesley Cavendish had never been free from her, not for a single moment while he was on the Continent searching for a sponsor to support his political endeavors, and not for quite some time prior to that.

Abby Goddard consumed him.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“
Wes, are you in there?” Daniel Pritchard, his longest friend, knocked on the side of Wesley’s head as though it were a door and then smiled. “You numskull, Father asked you a question. You’ve been staring off into the ether, woolgathering, it appears.”

Wesley shook his head as though it could clear the errant thoughts. “I apologize, Lord Pritchard. What did you ask?”

The baron, an older, greyer version of Daniel, passed him an indulgent smile. “I asked if you’ve been to Blacknall yet. Has Fordingham learned of your return?”

“
Hardly. I thought about sending word ahead several times during my travels, about warning him of my impending arrival, but I never did.” He’d been too distrustful of his reception there to chance it.

Lady Pritchard leaned forwards, and a line formed on her forehead between her eyebrows. “You think he’ll be displeased? Surely he will be glad of your return—the prodigal son, come home again. It’s Christmas, after all. And you’re his brother. I’m sure Fordingham can leave the past in the past.”

But Lady Pritchard didn’t know the half of it. None of the Pritchard family did, for that matter—not even Daniel. They all thought Father had sent Wesley away after he’d drunkenly seduced a scullery maid at Blacknall Manor—well,
seduced
might be too kind a word.
Forced himself upon
might be more accurate to the line Father had told. That was the story he’d passed about, blackening Wesley’s name throughout society with mad tales of rape, thereby ensuring Abby’s father would deny his pursuit.

If the Pritchards knew the truth—that something as simple as political beliefs had drawn a clear line through the middle of the Cavendish family and Wesley was firmly entrenched on the “wrong” side of it, since he not only held his beliefs but fought for them in the real world—they might understand his hesitation.

How could he ever admit such a thing to them, though, and reveal his father for the conniving blackguard he was? Lord and Lady Pritchard had treated Wesley as a son his whole life. Even now, when the rest of the
ton
looked on him as the worst sort of villain, they accepted him into their home. They’d never believed Father’s lies, and they’ve never insisted that Wesley explain the heart of the matter to them. They simply welcomed him.

All those years when Wesley had escaped the strict condescension at Blacknall—Father’s scornful treatment of anyone considered
beneath his station
and the general snobbery in regard to the servants—by running about with Daniel at Henley Green, the Pritchards had never expected he was as miserable as he was at home. For that matter, he doubted they knew Father’s view of them, and in particular their familiarity with their servants. Tristan—then Viscount Eddington, but now Earl of Fordingham—had always sided with Father and against Wesley on any disagreement between the two.

He could only assume that would still be the case. Although, he hoped things might have changed now that Father had finally expired like the heartless, lofty bastard he was. Perhaps Tristan had only wanted to please Father while they were lads. Perhaps he wasn’t as supercilious and patronizing as he’d led Wesley to believe all of those years. Perhaps his brotherly love and holiday cheer might outweigh his superior, Tory ideas.

It was a risk Wesley would have to take. But then again, any chance he might have with Abby seemed to already have been ruined, so what would it matter? Much had changed in three years—for both of them, it seemed.

He let out a sigh. “You may be correct in your assumption, my lady, but I dare not hope for as much. Tristan and Father always seemed to share their beliefs. He may maintain the banishment, despite Father’s recent passing.” Even if his brother retracted that edict, Wesley doubted Tristan would do anything to rescind society’s black-balling against him or to welcome him back into the family with open arms.

Without that, how would he ever convince Goddard to allow him near his daughter? Or perhaps more importantly, how could he convince Abby to grant him an opportunity to prove himself worthy? Certainly, neither Abby nor her father had believed the rumors of what he’d done—but what man would allow his daughter to suffer the scorn of an attachment with an alleged rapist?

But he was putting the cart before the horse with such thoughts.

Lady Pritchard pursed her lips. “Well,” she said on a harrumph, “should that be the case, you know you are always welcome at Henley Green.” She poured him a cup of tea, adding a drop of milk and no sugar, as he’d always preferred it, then passed it over.

Wesley adored the baroness for her steadfast kindheartedness. She’d been like the mother he’d never known, granting him tenderness and resolute loyalty where elsewhere in his life, there’d been none. “Thank you, madam.” A genuine smile stretched his lips and tugged against the ghastly scar on his face. Her gaze flickered as if drawn to it, and while she didn’t cringe in disgust, he recognized the hint of curiosity in her stare. He probably shouldn’t smile too often. He might scare polite society with the hideousness of it.

In his years away, he hadn’t been forced to think of such things. There was nothing polite about the squalor in which he’d been living.

Daniel winked at him. “It’ll be like old times—you and I running rampant at Henley Green, and Fordingham looking down his nose at us from across the way. A different Fordingham now, to be sure, but still…”

Yes. Like old times. Sneaking around behind the trellis in Lady Pritchard’s rose garden to catch a glimpse of Abby while she didn’t know he was watching. Casting furtive glances about in the maze to be sure her brothers weren’t spying while he stole a kiss from her. Lying on his back by the creek, gazing at the stars and wishing she was there with him.

Wesley’s heart seized at the memories. Would she still want him after the manner in which he’d left? Had she found someone else and pushed him from her mind?

No—Abby hadn’t forgotten. That much was clear in her behavior a few moments ago. But whether she still wanted him in her life was another matter entirely.

And all indications she’d given him were negative.

2

Abby untied her apron and hung it on the peg just inside the door to her family’s sitting room. When Mother had taken on the post of housekeeper and Father had become the butler at Henley Green so many years ago, the Pritchards had cordoned off an entire wing of the servants’ quarters for the Goddard family. It had become their home within the grander home.

She picked up the tray Cook had sent with her and set their supper upon the table. It was good to have something to do…something upon which to focus her thoughts, other than on Grandmama or Wesley Cavendish.

Thomas had already come in from the mews and was stoking the fire in the grate. When the flames rekindled, he moved to the holly wreath and fiddled with it, apparently as at a loss as she felt. Robert and Mother came around the corner from the direction of the bedchambers as Abby finished her task and took a seat.

“
Father should be along shortly,” Mother said as she sat in the high-backed chair at the end of the table across from Father’s. “He’s just finishing his meeting with Lord Pritchard.”

So much for the idea of refocusing her thoughts. Father’s meeting with the baron at this time of night could only be due to Grandmama’s passing. A fresh set of tears sprung to Abby’s eyes, and she dashed them away.

“
It’s just us, Abby.” Robert plopped down in the seat beside her and patted an awkward hand on her shoulder. He’d loosened his cravat and removed the coat of his footman’s livery. “If you can’t cry now, when can you?”

Of course,
he
wasn’t crying, was he? She bit down on her lip, hoping to staunch the flow. She’d never been one to openly display her emotions if she could avoid it—and right now, she thought there might be more tears ready to break free than all the water in the seas.

Father came into their sitting room before she could respond, though. Without a word, he removed his greatcoat and hung it beside Abby’s apron. Then he moved to the table, pulled out his mahogany chair at the head, and sat. He looked at each of them in turn, holding their gaze prior to moving to the next. Father always did this when there was something serious to discuss. He wanted their full attention. Abby couldn’t bear to look up. If she met his eyes, she might very well disappear like sugar dissolving in tea, or perhaps she’d burst into a fit of inappropriate, gauche laughter.

“
Abby?” he said after several long moments had passed where she felt the weight of all of their eyes upon her. “Look at me, luv.”

She knew she must. There was no escaping Father’s gaze…not when he intended to meet her eyes. It just wasn’t going to happen. Still, perhaps for a few moments, she could delay the inevitable. Staring studiously at her folded hands in her lap, Abby worried her lower lip with her teeth.

Father’s rich baritone broke through the stifling silence of the room, startling her with his calm tone. “I’ll wait as long as I need to, Abby.”

And if that wasn’t the truth of matters, she was the Queen of England. Finally, Abby forced her eyes up to meet the shining, glassy, eternally kind gaze of her father. As she did, a veritable flood spilled from her eyes and drenched the grey worsted of her frock. When she looked down at it, the fabric had darkened until it was almost black—to the very shade of Wesley’s hardened eyes. Drat, if she wasn’t thinking of him again.

Thomas reached over and took her hand, squeezing with the ungainly sort of comfort only a brother who’d often caused such tears could provide.

Once the worst of her sobs had subsided, Father spoke again. “Lord Pritchett has granted us all some time away from our duties to see to Grandmama’s affairs. We’ll have a small burial outside the village tomorrow morning. Mr. Langley saw no reason to delay matters and has agreed to perform a brief service in her honor. After that, we’ll all be off to Yorkshire for Christmas—”

“
Yorkshire?” Mother interrupted in shock. “Why ever must we go to Yorkshire now?”

Robert’s jaw hung slack. “Truly, Father, at Christmas?”

“—
Lord Pritchett has graciously offered us the use of one of his carriages for the journey,” Father continued, as though he’d not been interrupted at all.

Abby shook her head, dumbly. Yorkshire? What was in Yorkshire? Grandmama would be here, in Macclesfield, deep in the cold, hard ground. And finally, after all these years, Wesley Cavendish was here again. While she could have no possible future with him, she still could not bear the thought of leaving him when he’d only just waltzed back into her life.