Page 32 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

Lowering his voice, as though to share a secret, he said, “That means you will offer me your potions at no charge. As a second son, I can hardly resist such an ideal situation.”

That coaxed a small giggle from her, and she immediately hid her smile behind one gloved hand. “Very well. I will offer you my cures for stomach ache, nightmares, and eye bruises without asking one ha’penny for them. In return, however, you must help me label my bottles. You have beautiful penmanship, so I believe it is a fair trade.”

“Indeed, it sounds quite fair.” The pleasure in his eyes, the upward tug of his lips, even the easy way he shortened his stride to walk with her, made her want to thank him. Merely for being him. For setting her at ease in ways she could not explain.

The tension she had carried since breakfast had melted away, completely. He had thought of her—or, sort of. He had thought of Miss Feathersby. But he had remembered Emily’s fondness for herbal work and stillrooms. He had even jested with her in a way her own brothers could not manage. She felt more herself when Mr. Eastwood spoke to her, and had from their first meeting in London.

What did that mean about the lack of such ease with his brother? Was she not trying hard enough? Or was Lord Hartwell the problem?

They made it to a curve in the lane when he suggested turning back. Marking that their times was half gone, much to her disappointment.

“Are you attending the races?” she asked him. “Or the ball on Wednesday? Or any of the events? It sounds as though York will be full of things to do and see.”

At first, he did not answer. His cheerful demeanor seemed to dim, then turn into an expression she did not have a name for. It was still warm, still him, but he was less present for a moment.

“Mr. Eastwood?” she said softly. Had she given offense, somehow? Or was he trying to form an excuse for not being present? Her mind jumped to half a dozen other possibilities while waiting for his response.

He blinked and shook his head, as though he needed to dislodge his thoughts. “I beg your pardon. You asked if I would attend any of the race week events? Yes, I believe I will. Almost anywhere my brother goes, I will go. And he would not miss the pleasure of seeing York and its citizens truly shine. What about you, my lady?”

“I believe our family will join yours for some of the races,” she said, studying him carefully. The strange pause concerned her, but he did not wish to address it. She let it go. “Of course we will be at the ball, and I have hopes of doing so many things. Plays. Galleries. It sounds better than the Season in London, in all honesty. Because the city will be full of interesting things to do, and it will only last a week.”

That brought another smile to his face, though his eyes remained somewhat soft. “Your experience during the Season did not give you a high opinion of it, I take it.”

“It did not,” she said, raising her chin. “The only good points were the few new friends I made. And my brother courting Lady Juniper, of course.”

“Of course.” He tucked his hands behind his back, focused his eyes on the cottage as they approached it. “I hope you count me among the good points, then.”

“I do,” she answered at once, and far too quickly to be considered demure. “One of the very best of them.” Her tongue had completely run away from her, it would seem.

But he did not take offense, nor did he laugh as though she had told an outlandish joke. Instead, he turned his head to take her in, that same gentle look in his eyes as he said, “I count you a good point in my year as well, Lady Emily. One of the very best.”

That warmth spread through her again, beginning deeper, lasting longer. And she wished in that moment, with her whole heart, that Roman Eastwood stirred half so much feeling in her as his younger brother did at that moment.

When he took his leave not long after returning her to the door, she watched him ride away on his horse. Her heart felt lighter, her body more relaxed, her mind clearer. And yet, after he disappeared from sight, it all turned. Curled up inside her, like all the good feelings he inspired wanted to hide and let disappointment take their place.

Plucking up the mirror from where she had left it, Emily went through to the drawing room where the little bird sat in her cage, quietly watching a maid tidy the room. The canary seemed to perk up when Emily approached and carefully unlatched the door.

She reached inside with the mirror, hooking it just so, letting it hang above the canary’s perch.

Miss Feathersby brightened at once, trilling to the brave little bird she found in her reflection. Smiling, Emily eased the door shut and felt the faint catch of the latch beneath her fingers.

It was a kindness, she told herself. Safety for the tiny creature. But as the song rose, clear and sweet, she could not help thinking how neatly a bird with clipped wings learned to love the limits it was given.

The house had gone still.

It was the kind of quiet that pressed in from every direction. There was no whisper of conversation, no footsteps on the stair, only the soft sigh of curtains moving in the breeze and the tick of the clock upon the mantel. The dogs had long since settled themselves before the hearth, waiting for Roman’s return from dinner with a friend. Apollo’s massive head rested on his paws, and Athena lay near Lyness’s chair, a guardian even in sleep.

Lyness sat at his desk with a single candle guttering beside him, casting a pool of light across the scattered sheets of paper. He had told himself he meant only to write a few notes before bed. A letter, perhaps, to his mother’s gardener about the country house’s accounts. But the page before him bore no such practical purpose.

At its top, in his finest hand, was a name.

Lady Emily Sterling.

The first attempt had been neat enough. Modest flourishes, measured spacing, as though it were merely an exercise. Practice. The second attempt grew more elaborate. The lines of her name lengthened into leafy chamomile stems, the final g trailing away into a stem that descended along the edge of the page in a petaled flower. By the third iteration, the letters became something else entirely. Emotion made visible. The ink lines wove upon themselves, too heavy in places, too ornate, until the whole thing turned into a tangle of dark lines that meant more to him than anyone else would ever understand.

He had spoiled the page and not minded at all.

The truth sat there, unblinking, no matter how many times he changed nibs or wiped his fingers clean. He wanted—foolishly, perhaps—to think of her. To recall the light in her eyes when she spoke of her garden, her laughter when she teased him, the way she looked at him without pity when his words stumbled and skipped all over themselves.