Page 22 of The Untamed Heart

She laughed, covering her face with her hands for a moment. “Oh, of course I forgive you. But only if you reciprocate.”

“I do not,” he said, though he hurried to explain as her face fell. “Because I am not sorry. You did stick your nose in, as you so delicately put it, and it was none of your affair, but it was done out of kindness, I know that, and… and it made me think.”

“It did?” she asked, sounding so uncertain of herself that he knew he must explain. Eustacia was never uncertain, never at a loss. She was the most capable and collected female he had ever come across, and he’d not change that for the world.

He let out a breath. “I think… I think I have allowed myself to wallow a little, in grief and in guilt. I am guilty and ashamed of things that happened during the war, even though I know that there were often no other options. But you were right in what you said. My grandfather would never have blamed me. He would not have felt ashamed of me. Strangely, it was the times when my father made me feel most ashamed, when he would pick me up and show me I had been courageous and honourable, not the weak fellow my father accused me of being.”

“He was a wise man,” she said gently.

Marcus nodded. “I….” He swallowed the words he’d been about to speak, wondering if she would think him foolish, but he owed her this much for being brave enough to contradict him. There were few men who would dare to do that. “He was the wisest of men, and I have missed his counsel. You gave it back to me, Eustacia. I heard his voice—not out loud, I promise you I was not seeing ghosts or angels, but his voice echoed in my mind so clearly, he might have been standing beside me. You gave that back to me, his voice, his guidance, all the things he taught me. For that, I shall always be grateful.”

He did not know what else to say after that raw confession. The room felt too charged, the atmosphere too… something. As if things might be said that could not be unsaid if he did not leave. So he fled, because he was just a man, and not nearly heroic enough to face the words she might speak in reply.

Eustacia stood staring at the doorway Marcus had just marched out of, too stunned to speak. Just as she had said, she had been tying herself in knots as she tried to figure out how she could face him again after being so… so unspeakably forthright. Even for her, it had been unforgivably bumptious to force her way into his past and go blundering about around such sensitive subjects.

Yet he had thanked her.

He had been horribly embarrassed, but he’d done it anyway.

Her heart clenched. Suddenly, she knew. It had taken her months to decide how best to portray Clara, but with Marcus, she now knew precisely how she wanted to paint him, what it was she wished to show the world.

She pinned a large piece of paper to her drawing board and snatched up a piece of charcoal. Her hand moved with deft, vibrant movements that wrought his image with all the certainty she felt. For the first time, she knew exactly what she wished to say, and the rightness of it vibrated through her.

If Clara’s portrait had been a song, Marcus would be a symphony, and she could not wait to begin.

Chapter 7

Lord Sheringham Regrets

Enroute to London, 22nd September 1816

Sheringham eyed his travelling companion dubiously. Lord Darenth had not said a word since they had entered the carriage. That had been over two hours ago. Instead, he frowned out of the window, apparently deep in thought.

Now and then his finger would tap against the door of the carriage, as if counting, which was becoming increasingly irksome. Sherry tried to return his attention to the book he’d had the good sense to bring with him. He was halfway down the page when—

“Ridiculous!”

Sherry jumped and turned back to face the man—assuming he was being addressed—and discovered him scowling even more fiercely at the passing countryside.

“What is ridiculous? Are you speaking of me?” he demanded with some asperity.

No reply.

Darenth didn’t even blink, just continued to stare into space.

Well, apparently not, then.

Sherry, used to more convivial company and never having held his tongue for so long in his life, could not endure another moment of silence.

“We should be in London in an hour and a half, I believe. Shall we begin at Horse Guards?”

No reply.

“You did not tell me where we were to begin.”

No reply.

“Darenth?”