.
Thomas whistled as he handed his mare's reins to the hostler. It was only a short walk back to Blythe's flat, and as he covered the distance, he wondered if he had ever seen the world look so bright. It was one of those perfect winter days in London, the pale sunlight amazingly clear and the air as crisp as a white ribbon. In the pocket of his greatcoat, Thomas could feel the flat wooden box he had brought from home.
She deserves better. She deserves rubies and emeralds, diamonds that shine as bright her eyes.
However, whatever Blythe deserved, he thought that none would please her so well as the gems that lay in the box he had on his person. Inside, instead of valuable gems or even gold or silver, was a brass necklace, dim and tarnished but shaped with consummate skill. The largest bead on it was the size of Thomas’ own thumbnail, and the smallest barely bigger than a kernel of corn, but each was carved with graceful beasts that swam or ran or danced across the surface.
It was a relic of the past, brought back from some epic journey by a long-forgotten Martin. It came from some distant port of call, and perhaps Blythe would be interested in wearing it and coming with him as they both figured out where it came from. Oh, and, of course, marrying him as well.
Thomas’ grin widened as he walked. He had known Blythe for some short while now, but he had a feeling that there would always be some new element of surprise waiting for him, some fresh facet to Blythe that he could never predict. However, one thing would stay the same. She would always crave adventure, and he wanted to be the one to give it to her.
He bounded up the stairs to Blythe's flat two at a time and knocked twice on the door.
Instead of Blythe opening it, however, Tristan Carrow did.
Thomas reared back, ready to strike the man if Tristan lashed out, but Tristan only stood back with something like grave courtesy, allowing Thomas into the flat. Thomas entered automatically, and with relief, he saw Blythe standing by the cold hearth. She stood as straight as a poker, and her face was pale but composed.
"Blythe, are you all right? Did he hurt you?"
When he reached for her, she took a step back, looking at him with an almost mystified, confused disgust. Thomas drew up short, because whoever this woman was, she was not the one who had moved like water in his arms the night before.
No, stop thinking that. Of course it is Blythe. Of course it's her. She's an expert at playing roles. That's all this is, a role.
"Why, of course, I am not hurt, Thomas. Tristan is here, why would he ever hurt me?"
When Thomas looked at her, mute with confusion, she shook her head.
"I'm sorry for all the fuss and the confusion. It has been a difficult few weeks at home for Tristan and me, but I have finally come to my senses."
"What does that mean, Blythe?"
Her face was as still as a statue's. "It means that we are done, Lord Amory. I am leaving now, to try to salvage what is left of my reputation and to return home to the family that cares for me."
"Don't you dare call me that, Blythe—"
"And you must no longer call me Blythe. I am Miss Dennings to those who are not of my family."
"Family! We are a damn sight more than family! You cannot mean this. Carrow, he was the one who tricked you, or he's blackmailing you, or—" Thomas spun on Tristan, who to his fury, looked utterly bored with the situation. For the first time, Thomas thought he could see the resemblance between them, something of cold indifference and disdain. "You. You're doing this to her.
Tristan's voice was an irritated drawl. "I don't know what your family is like, Amory, but Carrows are made of sterner stuff. I gave her a choice, and this is her choice."
Blythe nodded. "This is my choice, Thomas. I am leaving. I am not doing this anymore with you."
"Blythe, please don't do this. I don't care what's happening with your inheritance. I'd take you with or without it."
A flash of disgust crossed her face, making him take a startled step back. "You are not taking me anywhere, Lord Amory. I am done with running around London like some kind of would-be hellion. I suppose I must leave such things for you. I am going home, and no matter what you think of the situation, I will no longer be contacting you."
The pain that tore through Thomas’ heart was so great he almost looked down to see if there was a dagger protruding from his chest. The events that unfolded before him were ludicrous, absurd. He could have better imagined a circus tromping through Almack's than he could what was happening now.
Enraged by pain and heartbreak, he turned to the one person who could have caused all of this. He turned to Tristan. "You. You're the one who has done this."
"If you like, Amory." Tristan's tone was indolent, and he didn't spare Thomas more than a glance. "It is time to go home, cousin."
"No!" Thomas lunged at Tristan, ready to pound the man into the ground if it would only make things right. He would have thought that nothing in the world could stop him, but, of course, there was.
Blythe stood between him and Tristan, her face set like a stone. "Please, don't."
He might have been able to take it if she was as upset as he was. He wanted, needed to see the passion in her eyes and to know that it was not some kind of trick. He refused to believe that everything they had experienced together was false, but when he looked into her eyes now, he couldn't tell. It was enough to drive a man mad. She sounded as if she was asking a recalcitrant child to stop banging on the furniture.
Thomas stepped back from Tristan and from Blythe. "Don't do this."
"There's nothing left for us to say, Lord Amory. My cousin and I are leaving now."
And that was all. There was nothing else, and in a few moments, Thomas was alone in the flat with an ancient necklace in his pocket and a heart that felt as if it had been carefully studded with glass shards. He felt like a ghost of someone who had once felt things, some kind of living remnant of a better time.
Thomas wanted to rail at the world for this terrible thing, to shout and to scream. He felt beyond that, however. Instead, all that mattered was getting to the next moment, and the one after that. One foot in front of another until he had put this tragedy behind him, but then Thomas thought of Blythe's brilliant brown eyes and knew it would never, ever truly be behind him at all.
For most of the ride back to the house on Grosvenor Street, Tristan was silent, and Blythe was grateful. If she just sat as straight as she could, if she stared at nothing and allowed her eyes to see nothing, her hands to feel nothing, she wouldn't fly into a million pieces.
When Tristan reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, she stared at him as if he were some foreign traveler come from an ancient and mythical land. He was a curiosity, a stranger, and nothing could touch her in the place where she now lived.
"You are doing the right thing."
"I am doing something. How it will turn out, and what it will mean, I have no clue."
To her surprise, Tristan eased an arm over her shoulders, hugging her lightly as the coach bounced along the roughly paved road. When she was a young child, her parents had hugged and kissed her every day. Then they died, and she came to live in London with the Carrows, who did not touch each other very much, if at all. Hugs from Tristan, especially, were rare things, moments where he stepped out from his mantle as the heir of the Duke of Parrington and comforted her or congratulated her. There was a time when she would have hugged him back without reserve. Now, being this close to him sickened her. She moved away, wondering in that same distant part of her mind if Tristan would be angry.
Instead, he only nodded as if her anger were justified, sitting back and watching her.
Blythe had thought she would never think of the future again after what she had done to Thomas, but now she found she was curious. "What shall happen to me now? To the convent, perhaps, or will you banish me to some distant place where my mischief may do your reputation no harm?"
Tristan looked angry for a moment, and then he shrugged. "I would like to continue taking you into Society. You are still an heiress, after all, and you might yet make yourself a good match."
"If I keep my mouth shut. If I do exactly as you tell me to do."
"Cousin, I have learned only a few things as I have lived on this Earth, but one of them is that marriage and romance are deadly tangles. You might as well listen to me. I have your best interests at heart."
She wanted to fight with him, to rail at him and to scream, but maybe, in a way, he was right. None of the fighting and arguing they had done had done a single bit of good. She had always thought she would go down fighting, but as it was, she felt as if there was nothing left to fight for at all. Perhaps she would tomorrow, but today, there was just nothing left of her.
Of course, now that he had won, Tristan was the soul of courtesy. He handed her down from the coach as if he were her bridegroom and not her cousin, and when she murmured that she wanted to go up to her bedroom to rest, he kissed her gently on the forehead.
"This will be better all around. Trust me."
I haven't much choice. Then she winced. She’d had a choice. She had made it, and she hoped that somewhere, someday, Thomas would understand.
Thomas thought he was being normal enough when he finally returned home, splashed some cold water on his face, and sat down to a quiet dinner with Georgiana. He at least thought he could trust her to keep up a stream of inconsequential chatter that would distract him from his problems and allow him to ease back into the world.
However, they had barely started the soup when she put down her spoon and looked at him. "What's wrong?"
"Why does anything need to be wrong?"
Georgiana gave him an impatient look. As reckless as she was, and as many times as he had gotten her out of trouble, sometimes it was damned difficult to remember that she was the younger sibling. "You look as if you died sometime this afternoon and your corpse never figured it out, so you came to dinner anyway."
"God, that's horrid, Georgiana." However horrid it was, the laugh he uttered was hollow, and after all, there was something apt about how she said it. It really had felt as if something had died in him. At the very least, he felt half-alive now at best. "Well, I suppose I might as well be dead. I thought that asking a Carrow to marry me was a good idea."
He was slightly gratified when Georgiana, something of a scandal connoisseur, gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Blythe Dennings?"
"Well, it certainly wasn't Tristan."
Georgiana shuddered. "I should think you would have more taste and intelligence than that. But why in the name of God would you do that? What could possibly have possessed you?"
He smiled a little, and with a shrug, told her the whole story. For all of her wildling reputation, Georgiana could keep her mouth shut, especially when it related to the family. Whatever happened to Blythe next, Georgiana wouldn't harm her.
Georgiana listened intently as he spoke, and when he finished, Thomas shrugged. "And that's that. I suppose she remembered exactly who and what she was and wanted to go home."
Georgiana's blue eyes were troubled. "I suppose. Or perhaps Tristan bullied her into it somehow. I would not put it past him."
"You wouldn't say that if you knew Blythe well. She has more spirit than anyone else I have ever met. She wouldn't let anyone bully her like that, let alone Tristan."
Georgiana looked as if she wanted to say more than that, but instead, she shook her head. Standing up, she came behind Thomas’ chair and draped her arms around his shoulders. "It'll be all right, Thomas. It truly will."
"I hope to God you're right. If it gets any worse, I'm not sure that I could stand it.”