Silas’s mind reeled with such ferocity he feared falling from his horse. It was as if he had been caught up in a strong wind and could not right his person as strong gale gusts continued to blow him to and fro with no end in sight. He still sat motionless at the end of the drive to Castle Keyvnor where the main road split in several directions. One would take him closer to Tetbery Estate, one to Bocka Morrow and the open sea beyond, and the last…London.

Everything screamed for him to take the fastest route back to London, away from his family and Lady Mallory.

When the servant had arrived at The Crown & Anchor the evening before, unmistakably garbed in Banfield livery colors, with a hastily jotted note from the countess, Silas had agreed readily to meet with her at the allotted day and time. It was his main reason for being in Cornwall, after all. It hadn’t even irked him that his aunt hadn’t given him an option for the time or place. He would have attended her in the dark of night in a tavern, if she’d requested it.

Perhaps he should have been more leery about the information she had to impart.

Yet, it hadn’t dawned on Silas that he’d been summoned based on anything other than his visit when he first arrived in Bocka Morrow.

He’d regretted his decision the moment his aunt entered the room and wrapped him in an embrace so firm, he thought she’d broken one of his ribs—his chest still a bit sore from the altercation at the tavern. Once they’d been seated, and she began talking at great length and with much vehemence, Silas had allowed the words to wash over him. He’d listened to her speak of the letters and money she’d sent to Paris, the many trips she and his mother’s other siblings had made across the Channel in vain attempts to bring Mary Louisa and her children back to England, and the countess’s condolences at Silas’s father’s passing.

If he believed any of it, he’d need to accept all of her words as truth.

It was a daunting thought. Silas had spent most of his life cursing his family, his mother included, for the cruel nature of his childhood. He’d blamed his father for not coming to bring them home. He’d despised his mother’s family for abandoning them. And he’d resented his mother for being such a fickle, delicate woman.

When the countess had asked after Silas’s mother, he’d seen a tear in the woman’s eye when he spoke of his mother’s refusal to leave Paris; however, a spark had entered her hard stare at the news that Slade and Sybil were in England once more.

If his entire foundation hadn’t been ripped from beneath him, his aunt’s mention of his betrothal to Lady Mallory Hughes had surely done it. The woman had professed her remorse over not hearing of his father’s death but she’d known of his betrothal. It had quickly come to light that his intended had paid a visit to Keyvnor to meet with him but had learned he’d lied about his status as a guest at the castle.

The cold wind swept inland off the sea at his back, chilling him to the bone through his coat, reminding him that he still stood at a crossroads, one of both the literal and emotional kind. Silas only hoped no one watched him from the castle.

Silas had no urge to return to his dank, musty room at the tavern. Nor was he prepared to admit defeat and return to London.

That only left Tetbery Estate…and Lady Mallory.

When the countess had initially spoken of Lady Mallory’s visit, there had been an intense pounding in his ears. He’d withdrawn from the conversation with his aunt, but quickly realized it was his fault it was all happening.

He’d no right to be angry with his betrothed.

Silas had lied to her. He’d been given the opportunity to clear his conscience and admit his wrongs, but he’d continued with the charade.

But there was little doubt left that his aunt had shared all his secrets.

Lady Mallory would know of his estranged status with his family, his lodging at the tavern, and certainly, the dire financial state of the Lichfield earldom.

It would be she—and her father—who called off the betrothal, as what man would wed his only daughter to such a man? And what proper lady would seek to tie herself to a family in ruins?

He’d thought Lady Mallory, with her aunt in tow, would have already departed Cornwall for their home in Launceston in order to arrive before Christmastide morning.

Again, he’d been wrong to assume anything.

Obviously, she remained at Tetbery Estate.

Silas tilted his head back, his eyes closing, and took a deep, fortifying breath. It seemed his obligations were never-ending: his siblings, his estate, his family, and now, Lady Mallory.

There was only one direction open to him, and it led back to his betrothed.

Lady Mallory deserved an explanation, and Silas was the only person to give it. If she could see past his deceptions and accept his apology, there may still be hope for them.

Oddly, Silas was perturbed to realize he actually longed for Mallory to forgive him. The woman was unlike any he’d met before. Silas’s mother was indecisive, scatterbrained, and undependable. His fear of Lady Mallory being, in any way, like the present Lady Lichfield had been ungrounded.

Silas kicked his horse into action with a backward glance at the castle.

His aunt had made amends—or at least she’d made an effort—and had invited him and Slade to join them for the Yule ball. She went so far as to pledge her support for Sybil during her coming Season.

But first, Silas had to make things right with Mallory.

No longer was it essential he wed for the societal acceptance a connection to the marquess would give him and his siblings. Everything he’d dreaded coming to pass over the last several months since Mr. Peabody proposed his marriage to Mallory to remedy some of the Lichfield quandary was not as overwhelmingly frightening as it had been before his arrival in Bocka Morrow.

The sun shone brightly upon his face, and the wind receded as Silas rode toward Tetbery Estate—and the woman with the captivating grey eyes.