Page 33 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

He lifted his pen again, almost absently, and began anew. Just her name. Smaller this time. More controlled. Yet his hand shook when he tried to add the finishing stroke. The ink bled where it shouldn’t. He pressed his thumb to the blot and left a dark mark there. A stain he could not remove.

It was absurd. He had no right to think of her with such tenderness. His brother had noticed her, spoken well of her, and even called on her. Roman would make an excellent husband for any woman, and if Lady Emily were wise, she would see that. The baron had charm, rank, purpose, and so many other things Lyness lacked.

Though he had the financial means of setting up a modest household, thanks to the competence he earned from the investment of his inheritance. It would never be as much as Roman had, with the family estate and wealth, but Lyness could afford a family. And he had considered the idea several times, though he hesitated to act on it. In part because Roman and his mother seemed to need him.

Perhaps it had been a convenient excuse, or a series of them, to avoid courtship. Because there were things about himself that he did not entirely wish to expose to others. What if a wife grew tired of his stuttering? Or questioned why they spent so much time in York rather than in the glittering ballrooms of London? What if she did not understand his mother’s need to keep her sons close?

He rubbed at his chest as the old concerns spilled out of his thoughts. He set down the pen and leaned back, the ache behind his ribs steady and familiar now. To love anything, whether it was beauty, art, or a woman, seemed always to demand the same thing of him. His silence.

He folded the page carefully, though the ink was still damp, and tore it into pieces. Best to rid himself of the evidence of his feelings. If anyone saw what he had done, they would think him absurd. Or ask questions. Or perhaps laugh, not understanding what it did to him to think of her.

He was utterly ridiculous.

Across the room, Apollo gave a low, contented sigh. The fire cracked softly. Lyness rose with the scraps of paper in his hand. He went to the hearth, and Athena lifted her head to watch him. He crouched low and scattered the paper along the embers, then took up the poker to stir up the flames again.

Orange and yellow fire licked at the paper, curling it at the edges, then caught it. Devoured each and every ink-stained shred.

Lyness stared at the wavering flames until his eyes blurred. Athena came closer to him, sat down, and whined softly. Bringing him out of his depressing thoughts.

The words he would not speak gathered in his throat anyway. Words meant for no one, or perhaps for whatever Fate had decreed his must be born second.

“May my brother make her happy.”

He put the poker in its place, then wrapped his arm around Athena and buried his face in her neck. The dog, sweet in her loyalty, did not move as his heart cracked in two and his tears fell on her coat.

Chapter Twelve

August 19th, 1822 - Race Week

One of the worst lies Lyness Eastwood had ever told was to himself. He reflected on this as he stood with his brother at the race track, looking out over the crowd, watching for a particular person to arrive.

The sunlight set off the pale stone arches of the Knavesmire Grandstand well enough that he could imagine what it looked like in its heyday, nearly a century before. The murmur of voices echoing beneath the vaulted arcade, the scent of dust and horses carried on the wind, was familiar in a way that ought to bring comfort.

But his own thoughts distracted him.

The lie he told himself was simple. It was that there was no harm in being a friend to Mr. Jack Sterling and his sister, Lady Emily Sterling. As he had determined to believe that lie, he had repeated it when visiting her twice between the night his heart broke and that very day. The first time he visited was brief. He brought her a book on botany. The illustrations were beautiful, the information helpful, and her pleasure on receiving the book made it worth the pain of pretending he had no greater interest in her than friendship. The second time he visited was to give her strips of paper with his writing samples on it, to ask which she preferred to use for her bottled herbs.

He was delighted that she had continued to insist he make the labels for her stillroom ingredients.

Delighted. Like a fool.

Given her obvious pleasure, though, he could not help but smile even as he took himself to task. Her eyes had glowed with excitement, and she had looked over his samples with an attention to detail that no one had given his handwriting since his time at Harrow.

“I have not seen the Sterling party yet,” Roman said at his side, glancing down again somewhat casually. He leaned against the rail of the balcony, studying the building behind them. “I am glad someone thought to touch up the old building. The new paint brings her up to date. But something must be done about the chips in the staircases. I have heard some argue for an addition, but perhaps an entirely new building would be wiser.”

“And more expensive,” Lyness muttered from where he looked over the rail. “Doncaster’s races are growing in popularity. And I hate to say it, Roman, but the crowd does not look as large this year as the last.”

Roman turned to rest his elbows on the railing and let his clasped hands hang over the crowd below, for a moment looking like a supplicant about to ask the heavens for divine help. “The Duke of Sussex rejecting our invitation to speak at the Whig dinner did not help matters.”

Yes, that had been a blow to Roman and all the members of the Whig club. The news had leaked, too, and their political rivals were practically celebrating this mark against more progressive ideas.

Changing the subject seemed advisable. “I am surprised you prevailed upon Mother to attend today with us.”

A slight shrug came before Roman’s answer. “She likes the indoors for speaking with her friends. I am certain she will witness none of the actual racing.” Still, his lips quirked upward. “She seems more herself of late. I had worried her good humor would not return. This is something of a blessing.”

“I agree.”

Inside the Grandstand, the reception hall hummed with conversation and rustling of fine gowns and paper fans. They were on the first floor, above the ground, but never went so high as the top floor that was open to the sky. It made their mother light-headed, and there was no relief from either sun or rain, should either make an appearance.