Chapter Fourteen
Simon caught his breath as Meg stepped from the house and took her place beside him on the grand staircase that led from the drive. She was exquisite in a dark green gown that was cut not scandalously low, but low enough for his imagination to take flight.
Of course he’d seen her in the past five days. They’d shared meals and passed in halls and engaged in casual conversation with her family. But they had not been alone together since their encounter in the parlor the morning the other guests departed. Nor had he been afforded the chance to go to her room or have her join him at night.
He supposed he could pretend it was because both of them were very busy with preparations for the wedding that now loomed up the next day. He and James had been wrangling the special license and preparing other formal documents and settlements. He knew Meg and Emma had also been involved in a flurry of activity, if the constantly scurrying servants and the never-ending stream of seamstresses traipsing in and out of the house with bolts of fabric had been any indication.
But he had a sneaking suspicion none of that was why he hadn’t had a moment alone with Meg. Emma had seen the passionate exchange between them in the parlor. He had to believe that all this activity was arranged in part to keep them from surrendering to desire again before their official vows were taken.
So he ached for her as she took her place beside him. He ached to touch her. To kiss her. To feel her body against his. Oh, he wanted to take her, of course he did, but more than that, he missed her company. That quiet connection that had always been so easy between them but now felt so impossible and out of reach.
In that moment of realization, she looked up at him with a faint smile. “Simon.”
“You are beautiful,” he said softly.
Her lips parted in surprise at the compliment, and guilt stabbed him. It seemed there was no winning in his current situation. Either he maintained a distance in penance for his bad acts and hurt Meg, or he moved in close and took what he wanted without regard for all he’d destroyed.
He frowned and faced forward again, watching as a carriage thundered through the gate and came up the long drive and into the circle before them. The seal on the carriage door was his own, the Crestwood name represented by a flourished C surrounded by carved rearing horses and golden filigree, and his throat closed as a footman raced to open the door and help down the arrival.
His mother stepped from the carriage in a burst of perfume and disdain. She looked up the stairs, her gaze flitting over the others and settling at last on Simon. Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned, and he felt her loathing as sharply as he ever had.
She moved up the stairs and started her greetings at the opposite end of the line, going first to the Dowager Duchess of Abernathe. He could hear her words drifting toward him, apologies for the mess Simon had put them in, regret for all the trouble, vague congratulations to Emma and James, even as she sniffed when she looked Emma up and down.
At last she reached him and Meg. Meg lifted her chin as the Duchess of Crestwood glared at them. “And here you two are,” was all she said.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Meg said, holding out a hand that his mother ignored.
Simon stiffened, frustrated that her disregard for him would clearly stretch out to his future bride, as well.
“Mother,” he said.
She sniffed once more and turned to the others. “I am parched from that awful drive. May we retire to a parlor for some tea?”
“Of course,” Emma said, motioning to Grimble as she and James led the way into the house. “Please, follow us.”
The Duchess of Crestwood sharply turned her back on her son and moved to walk with the dowager, leaving Meg and Simon alone on the stairs. He let out a great sigh before he held out an elbow for Meg.
She remained facing him instead of taking it, her face lined with understanding and empathy. Of course she had known his mother a great many years. She knew some of the history that caused the strife that still existed between them.
“She hasn’t forgiven you?” she asked softly.
He tensed and turned his face, not looking at her as he said, “No.”
She reached up, cupping his cheek to turn his gaze back to her. Slowly, she lifted to her tiptoes and brushed her lips across his. Every other kiss between them had been passionate, driving, possessive, desperate. This was something else. As she pulled back with a shy smile, his heart swelled with all the things he knew he shouldn’t feel.
She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and tugged him forward. “Come, we face her together.”
He did as she commanded, allowing her to lead him into the house and down the hall to the parlor where the others had gone. He said nothing, but he wondered at her gentle strength, her solidarity with him in that moment. He’d had no siblings growing up. He’d felt like he had no family at all until he met James and Graham and they’d started their club with all the rest. That was part of why his betrayal was so bloody awful.
But entering the parlor with Meg, feeling her presence and her support as his mother turned another glare his way, this felt like something deeper than mere family.
This was the possibility of true partnership, of never being alone even if they were apart, because their souls were united as much as their bodies and their lives. And that was thrilling and terrifying all at once, for he knew he didn’t deserve such a bond.
He broke away from Meg gently and moved to the sideboard where Emma was already holding out a cup of tea for him. He forced a smile to his mother and said, “I am happy you have arrived in time for the wedding, Mother. I thought you might join us sooner—was my letter delayed?”
The duchess arched a brow, the cruel line of her lips tilting in a nasty half-smile. “It was not. I just saw no need to rush over to celebrate this humiliation you’ve brought on us. And as for what you thought, I have thought a great deal about you, my boy. Would you like me to recite all the thoughts I’ve had?”
He flinched not only at the harsh cruelty of her words, but at the way every other person in the room shifted with discomfort at witnessing her set down. Everyone, that was, except for Meg. She rushed forward, smiling as if nothing had happened, even as her eyes snapped with defensive anger on his behalf.
“Your Grace, why don’t you sit? You’ve had a busy day. I’ll bring your tea,” she said. “Two sugars and milk, yes?”
The duchess appeared surprised that Meg knew that and nodded. “Yes, just so. Thank you.”
His mother moved away from Simon to a place before the fire and settled in for a conversation with the dowager as Meg and Emma prepared the rest of the tea. Simon walked away from them, crossing the large room to stand aside at the window and observe.
It took James less than thirty seconds to break away from the ladies and join him. Simon refused to look at his friend, but continued to watch Meg handle his cranky mother with grace and kindness. From time to time, she glanced up at him, meeting his eyes with a purpose, with a message that she was his ally.
And she was more than that, in truth. She was his best friend. She had been for what seemed like forever, far more than even James or Graham had ever been.
“You all right?” James asked at last.
Simon still didn’t look at him. “Oh yes. My mother has despised me for years, as you well know. Now she just has a larger group of people who agree with her assessment of my poor character. It will make her happy to have so many who see me as a failure as a man and a friend.”
James stepped in front of him, forcing Simon to look at him at last. James’s jaw was set hard, his eyes lit with emotion. “I don’t despise you,” he said softly.
Simon caught his breath. Since the scandal that had started all this, he and James had not spoken of what he’d done. He’d been avoiding the topic, truth be told, for he didn’t want to hear James say he hated him. He didn’t want to lose one of the people he loved most, especially since he’d already lost Graham and who knew how many others in their circle.
But now James held steady in his regard, making his position as clear as the window that overlooked the garden behind them.
“No?” Simon asked.
James slowly shook his head as a response.
Simon wanted to hold onto that answer with both hands. He wanted to take it and feel that he deserved it. But then he thought of Graham’s crumpled expression before he left, of the way he had broken himself not just from Simon and Meg, but from James and the others.
“After I destroyed your friendship with Graham, ruined your sister and damaged your family name, you still don’t despise me?”
“No,” James said firmly.
“Well, you should,” Simon whispered.
“You despise yourself enough for both of us,” James retorted.
Simon was ready to respond, but before he could, his mother rose to her feet. “I would like to retire.”
He sighed and stepped forward. “May I show you to your chamber, Mother?”
She looked him up and down, then shook her head. “No, thank you. I prefer to have Grimble do it. Good afternoon.”
Simon clenched his teeth as she left, hating how the rest of the room, his friends and his future bride, all stared at him, pitying him when he deserved censure, not understanding. He let out his breath in a burst and said, “Excuse me.”
Without waiting for a response, he left the room, running from what he felt, what he wanted and what he knew he should not have.
Meg stood on a wooden box in the middle of her chamber, holding perfectly still as the seamstress made a few last adjustments on her gown. In less than twenty-four hours, she would don it to become Simon’s wife.
This was an event she had often pictured, especially after her betrothal to Graham. In fact, sometimes the fantasy of her wedding gown was the only thing about that marriage that she had actually looked forward to. And today her mind wasn’t on it at all, despite how beautiful the dress was, with its pale pink silks, creamy lace overlay and the hand-stitched pearls that danced along the skirt.
“May I ask you a question?” Emma asked as the seamstress excused herself to fetch some additional fabric from her carriage on the drive.
Meg nodded. “Of course.”
“When the Duchess of Crestwood arrived today, I expected her to be…”
“Different?” Meg asked, clenching her teeth as she thought of her future mother-in-law’s nasty behavior. She’d forced herself to be kind in order to ease Simon’s discomfort, but what she’d wanted to do was slap the duchess across the face.
“Yes,” Emma said. “Why is she so cruel to Simon?”
Meg sighed heavily as she stepped down from her perch and crossed to the fire. Memories mobbed her, including one strong one of Simon standing in the stable six years ago, tears streaming down his face as he tried to process his father’s death. She had held his hand—it was all she could do.
“Simon’s father wasn’t like ours,” she said at last. “Not abjectly cruel. He ignored Simon, though. Utterly ignored him. Nothing he could do ever brought him attention. Good marks in school, good behavior, bad behavior, all of it was for nothing.”
“He must have longed for connection,” Emma said softly, her hand straying to her stomach, as if to shelter the baby inside of her from such cruelty.
Meg nodded. “And he found it, with my brother and their club full of friends.” She sighed. “Part of why he is so devastated by his role in the breaking of his friendship with Graham, I think.”
“And his mother was the same as his father?” Emma asked, returning to the original subject.
“No, she has always been all about appearances. Looking to be the perfect family, the perfect duke, the perfect everything.” Meg folded her arms. “But when Simon found acceptance with his friends, he stopped seeking it from his father. He spent holidays with us, not them. Just before his father died, the duke sent Simon a letter. It was horrible, filled with demands.” She winced. “Simon didn’t answer. His father died shortly thereafter and Simon did not go home for the burial.”
“The duchess was angry,” Emma said with a sad shake of her head.
“That service was to be one of her finest moments, with all eyes on her in her loss. I’m sure she had it planned perfectly, from every sniffle to each twist of her handkerchief,” Meg said, unable to keep the disgust from her tone. “And instead she had to spend it explaining why her son was not there. Of course, it was because Simon was here, trying to process the death of a father he’d never truly had. But she’s never forgiven him.”
Emma sighed heavily. “Well, that certainly explains a great deal about Simon.”
Meg wrinkled her brow. “Like what?”
Emma shrugged. “Well, the past few weeks aside, he is never serious. When he’s with others, he often pretends that he has no depth, though it’s obvious that isn’t true. And he doesn’t…fight, even for what he wants or believes in.”
Meg flinched. That last observation hit so very close to home. Simon had never fought for her.
“A-And you think that is because of what he experienced as a child?” she whispered.
Emma nodded. “We all carry our past with us, don’t we? I know I do. James did for many years, and even now when the weight is lighter, he still holds it on his shoulders. Simon is no different. I can imagine if he spent his life never receiving his father’s attention or meeting his mother’s impossibly high standards, it would make him reluctant to try to win anything.”
Meg pondered that. She’d never thought of it in those terms before. “I suppose you’re correct. Pretending to be easy and satisfied at all times would be easier than striving for what was unattainable.”
The seamstress returned then and Meg stepped back into place as Emma changed the subject to something less personal in front of the stranger. But Emma’s words rang in Meg’s head.
It was possible Simon was incapable for fighting for what he wanted. But if he didn’t, she wasn’t certain she would be able to fight hard enough for both of them.