Chapter Three

The air was crisp and cold the morning Admiral Octavius Stone was finally laid to rest.

The Admiralty had lauded their fallen hero with an immaculately planned, multi-day affair. As for Alicia, the countess, and their respective households, they had been advised to remain in their homes, behind closed and bolted doors.

In the evenings, Aunt Hester read the reports.

The Times implored the citizens of London to cease marching wax effigies of the admiral through the streets, as such displays were unbecoming to the courage and dignity of the deceased.

The Herald favorably reviewed the battle reenactments played to sold-out audiences in Drury Lane.

And other papers—the kind Alicia only dared to read after Aunt Hester retired—described how the distraught countess received visitors from her bed while clutching the coat Octavius had been wearing when a musket ball ripped through his shoulder and lodged in his spine.

Alicia spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about that musket ball.

It seemed absurd that after all Octavius’s daring, all his courage, and all his strength, one tiny lead ball could demand such a larger-than-life figure pay the ultimate price.

Thinking of that musket ball left tears in Alicia’s eyes; remembering her husband did not.

The musket ball had destroyed a once-in-a-century strategist born with the sole purpose of saving the seas. The husband she remembered destroyed her heart. In defense of the towering figure felled by the musket ball, the Admiralty acted to conceal Octavius’s past. Because of the humiliation she’d suffered at the hands of the often selfish, ever inconsiderate Octavius, Alicia complied.

So, while fifteen thousand viewed Octavius in state, Alicia stitched closed holes in Aunt Hester’s hose. While ten times that number crowded boat decks and clung to rigging waiting for a glimpse of the admiral’s funeral barge, she soothed Aunt Hester’s spirits, reading from the Book of Psalms.

By the day of the land procession to the tomb in St. Paul’s, Alicia believed she had successfully prevented the mourning mania gripping London from breeching her household’s defense. But truth, thick as wood smoke, had seeped under the latch, scuttled across the floors and burrowed into the creases of Aunt Hester’s brow.

“Every inhabitant in England will be lining the streets,” Hester huffed. “Surely his own family has a right to be there.”

Alicia looked up from her sewing. Aunt Hester usually insisted on propriety, however, her nerves frequently rattled, and she was often unable to comprehend events in any other way but the way she was affected.

“Ladies of rank rarely attend funerals,” Alicia reminded.

“I do not wish to attend the funeral,” Hester gritted. “I wish to see the procession.”

“We cannot.” Alicia’s tone sent a clear, full stop. “Do not be fooled. These throngs of people see your nephew’s death as little more than an exciting distraction.” Even she knew she lied.

Hester began to pace. “We are to be draped in black, then.” She sniffed. “Condemned to mourn in silence while the whole world wails.”

Not, unfortunately, an exaggeration. For the past few days, collective sobbing had become accompaniment to London’s already cacophonous song. While they had lost a neglectful nephew and adulterous husband, the rest of the world had lost the vanquisher of Napoleon’s ships, savior of the nation, and one half of a legendary love affair.

“We must remain here because of her,” Hester said with acid. “Her and her bastard child.”

In her mind’s eye, Alicia saw a weeping woman and child huddled together in a bed, wrapped in a bloodied coat. Like a reprimand from beyond, a cold sensation lifted the hair on her neck. She set aside her book.

“The countess grieves as we grieve.”

Hester’s eyes narrowed. “Are you grieving, Alicia? Are you?”

The accusing question hit Alicia like a physical blow.

“Very well, we will go. But you must promise me you will remain silent. If we are seen, you know what kind of sensation that would cause.”

Before she thought through a plan, she was guiding a heavily veiled Hester down the front stairs and along the city streets. A task her own heavy veil made difficult.

By the time the two reached the route, the crowd had grown several layers thick. To Alicia’s amazement, an accommodating group of Gentlemen parted one by one, helping Alicia and Hester to the front.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers, all in a state of strange, anticipatory anguish, added flourish to the already unreadable script in her heart. Then, a murmur swelled in the crowds.

The chief mourners passed—members of the Admiralty, she suspected. If she’d been Octavius’s wife in truth, she would have known them by name.

She did not. And her shame was complete. Patriotism, however, formed an efficient cloak. As a British subject, she could stand in gratitude for Octavius’s service and mourn his sacrifice.

A stubborn clog of God-knew-what caught in her throat as the velvet canopy came into view. The canopy covered the admiral’s mahogany casket, adorned with scenes of his heroism.

How was it possible Octavius lay within? How was any of this possible? By all rights she should be back on her island. She did not belong here.

She did not belong anywhere.

Aunt Hester’s hand squeezed hers. The neglectful nephew was still a nephew. The absent husband was still the man Alicia had sworn to love.

“Let’s go,” Aunt Hester choked as she spoke.

Like a beast waking from slumber, the crowd began to move. Alicia wrapped one arm firmly through her Aunt’s, but her veil muffled every “Pardon” and “Please make way.”

“Please—please get us out.” Aunt Hester’s quivering voice sounded close to Alicia’s ear.

She could not see, confound her foolish decision to come out into this mess. With a sweep of her hand, she lifted her veil. Using her firmest voice, she demanded a path. Slowly they made their way through the mass of humanity surging toward St. Paul’s. She maneuvered them to the shelter of a vendor’s cart and stood at Aunt Hester’s side, rubbing her back as she silently wept.

“Aw.”

Alicia glanced around, catching the eye of an elderly female vendor.

“Broken up over the loss of the handsome gent, is she?” the vendor asked.

The vendor must have mistaken Aunt Hester’s petite form for that of a child. Alicia dared not contradict. She nodded.

“We all are.” A young woman looked up from browsing funeral mementos, clearly affronted anyone could have a grief equal to her own. “Imagine what his family feels.” She selected a print from the vendor and sighed. “So, so sad.”

Alicia had seen the likeness of Octavius often enough to blunt its effect. However, in this version, the weeping angel on his left looked a great deal like the countess. And the kneeling child on his right, Octavia.

The vendor dabbed her eyes—eyes undoubtedly fixed on a sale. “Touches the heart, it does.” She pointed to the child in prayer. “His daughter,” she whispered. “Very accomplished, they say.”

“Of course, she is. She was born of beauty and bravery.” The woman sighed as she handed over a coin. “The countess would have made the admiral the perfect wife if the barren shrew he married had the grace to die.”

The pain Alicia had released impacted her chest in dizzying rebound. Aunt Hester slipped an arm through hers and tugged, but she remained rooted. Fixed to the very spot as every emotion she’d suppressed suddenly ran riot through her mind.

Rage.

Anger.

Pain.

Pain, as unforgiving and inescapable as a humid high noon in her tropic home.

And then another type of burn, as if she were being watched. She turned, instantly locking gazes with a man. His black hair teased his collar with a hint of wave. His symmetric nose complemented his unforgettably firm mouth. He was alive and vivid, pulsing with an arresting consciousness at odds with the mourning throngs.

Something in her chest cleaved.

He saw. He saw the heartlessness of the woman’s statements. He saw the truth of them, as well. In short, he saw Alicia’s most closely guarded secret—the aching loneliness at the center of her heart.

Somehow, she’d unwittingly shared a more honest part of her than she’d ever shared. Alicia had been cast off, shut out. She’d wanted desperately to be let back in, yet had known the struggle was futile—the door had forever closed.

Worse still, this truth was reflected in the handsome stranger’s eyes. His sympathetic expression left her wanting dreadfully to be held.

Ash’s gaze fixed on the widow and a lightning bolt hit his chest.

She was no longer veiled as she’d been when he’d followed her from her home—the effect was glorious dawn. Not strictly a youth, she was neither a matron. Her light hair curled in discordant wisps around a soft face so lovely and luminous he nearly doubled over.

She was everything Chev had described and more. And she was standing just beyond his reach.

He refused to look away when her eyes met his, though his behavior was rude. He refused to look away because her gaze, full of tortured emotion, clashed with her presence. Tortured emotion, he understood.

A sensation, long frozen, burst free from his chest—pain. Pain, and grief-stricken anger, both suspended in yawning loneliness. The emotions—Good God—they cut through him with the messy imprecision of a surgeon’s saw.

He was feeling. Not just observing, but feeling.

They had not even met, and Lady Stone had accomplished the impossible—she had made him feel.

In the weeks following Cheverley’s warning, he poured through his library archives, striving to find any mention of her name.

Early papers described the young bride in praise-worthy, though suspicious terms—she’d not been born on British soil, after all. She was not, therefore, one of them. Then Admiral Stone met the countess, who fell into his arms in grateful tears after his victorious fleet arrived in Sicily where she’d been stranded by war.

The countess was already a legend—a vivacious siren with a titillating past. Beauty had indeed met bravery. England collectively swooned. Lady Stone was cast out as the unwanted specter marring a world belonging to undeniably genuine—if salacious—love.

Ash understood the wilderness beyond society’s castle walls. He understood the lonely longing to be let back inside. He became more determined they meet.

In Ash’s dark dreams, she became a cinder pathway beneath his feet. In his noonday reflections, she became his muse.

His absorption wasn’t rational.

It was not even sane.

Yet his dreams persisted.

Covet was too pithy a word for a force capable of thieving a man’s reason.

And now that he had seen into her soul, he wanted to take her away. Away from the hordes jockeying for a glimpse of the admiral’s casket. Away from these women and their words, sharp as pointed shards. But away to where? Wisterley, half in ruin?

She’s embroiled in scandal enough as it is.

“Blind me!” The vendor stared at Lady Stone. “Aren’t you the admiral’s—?”

“No,” Ash answered sharply. “My wife resembles her, yes. But I am sorry to disappoint. My dear, shall we return to the carriage? I fear the crowds have grown too thick for Felicia.”

He extended his arm to Lady Stone. She hesitated only a moment.

“Yes,” she replied.

She dropped her veil, and leaned down to whisper something in her companion’s ear. The companion nodded in silence.

Then, Lady Stone placed her fingers against his arm. A heady effect, one that stirred places he dared not name. Visceral desire joined his extraordinary response to her pain.

He struggled to master his need as he followed the course she chose. Anyone looking would have assumed he led, but he’d known men with less determined strides, less mettle, less pride. She did not speak. Oddly enough, it did not matter. Remaining close was his only concern. Close enough for her scent to permeate less alluring smells. Close enough to feel the rise and fall her shoulders.

When they reached the corner just beyond her street, she stopped.

“Thank you, sir, for your kindness.” She released his arm, and bowed her head. “We will make our way from here.”

Chev’s warning wrangled with Ash’s ferocious need until, reluctantly, he agreed. If he were to spirit her away, what then? He had nothing to give. Nothing that would staunch the flow of her pain.

“I will wait here until you are safely inside,” he said.

Her companion turned away. She nodded before following. As they rounded the corner, she glanced back.

That gesture was his undoing.

Intentionally or not, she’d opened a window into her soul, and he’d seen a mirror of his own.

She’d left the country of her youth, she’d been cast off, heartbroken, and yet, she retained an unnatural sincerity, purer than anything he’d ever known.

He did not, in fact, have anything to give. And she was, as warned, embroiled in scandal enough without him.

It did not matter. They must meet again, and soon. His life depended on a closer acquaintance. A much closer acquaintance.