Retreat From Love (4 page)

They all spoke at once, and just as quickly fell back into silence. Anne looked at both men. Brett had put his cup down. “Please, Miss Goode, continue.” Anne took a deep breath, nerves assaulting her.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I was unforgivably rude. And prior to that, unforgivably forward.” Anne had been staring down at her hands, clutching her teacup in her lap. When she finished she looked up at Brett. “I’m so sorry.

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My only excuse is I didn’t realize who you were until you got off your horse. And then…and then I was in shock. After so many years—”

Anne broke off, suddenly overcome at the knowledge that he was sitting next to her. She’d dreamed of it for years, until finally she had to give up girlish dreams and face reality. And when she’d finally found a measure of peace he showed up. And he was sitting next to her, all his attention focused on her.

She could have had him yesterday. If she hadn’t said anything, she could have had him. But now it was too late.

“Miss Goode, Anne.” Freddy spoke from her left and she felt someone take the cup from her hands and heard the gentle clink as it was set back on the tray.

She turned and saw how concerned he was. And guilty? What had Freddy to be guilty about?

“We should have come, Anne. We should have come to see how you fared after Bertie’s death. But Brett was so injured, and in no condition to travel for almost a year, and then,” he sighed, “and then we have no excuses.”

“I should have come.” Brett finally spoke, his voice rough. “I was selfish, Anne. I was so overwrought at Bertie’s death that I couldn’t face you. It should have been me, Anne.”

Anne saw Freddy pull back in shock at the other man’s words, his eyes wide. She turned to face Brett and his anguish was like a physical blow to her midsection. Without thinking she reached out to take his hand. The touch was electrifying, and he clutched her hand tightly, more of a reflex than a conscious decision on his part she thought.

“Anne, forgive me.”

“For not dying in Bertie’s place?” She hadn’t meant the question to be so sharp, so blunt. He tried to pull his hand away and it was her turn to hold him tightly. “No.

There is nothing to forgive. Some men live, and some men die. It is not our decision to make. The choice was never yours, Mr. Haversham. I believe that there was nothing you could have done to change the outcome at Salamanca. And I have never regretted, not for one moment, that you survived.” God forgive her, but she hadn’t. Her relief at his return to England had been overwhelming. But he didn’t need to know that, and Anne had made her peace with Bertie over it several years ago.

Even before she finished speaking he was shaking his head. “I can’t believe that.”

He said no more, but Anne could see there was more, much more, that he was holding back.

“That I do not blame you for Bertie’s death?” He wouldn’t look at her and after he gave a small pull she released his hand. He shook his head, the movement so slight she might have mistaken it.

He took a deep breath and met her gaze. “You know there is more to apologize for.”

Anne was suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. How odd, as if they hadn’t been talking about extremely personal things before. But this, her invitation that 18

Retreat From Love

he had ignored, this was too personal. Her loneliness and despair in the years following his rejection were still too fresh to bear much scrutiny.

“No, there is nothing to apologize for.” She busied herself tidying the tea tray. She saw him lean forward in his chair as if to speak again, and rushed to change the topic.

“I have something for you. For both of you.” She stood up abruptly, suddenly desperate to escape the room, the house, her life. She knocked against the tea tray and the cups rattled in their saucers before Freddy reached out to steady it. The sight of his long-fingered, elegant hand on the edge of the battered tea tray calmed her for some unknown reason.

Brett tried to speak again, his look frustrated, but Anne continued before he could say anything. “It’s letters, letters from Bertie that were sent to me with his last letter. For some reason he addressed them all to me.”

Her words froze Brett in the process of getting up from his chair. After a moment he slowly lowered himself back down. He said nothing, just stared at his hands where they rested on his knees. Anne couldn’t look away. It was almost as if a different man had taken the place of the one who’d sat there but a few seconds before. He seemed utterly composed. But surely that was not right.

“When did you receive the letters, Anne? Right after Bertie’s death?” Freddy asked the question, still seated, and Anne had to turn away from Brett. While Freddy sounded composed as well, his face revealed his inner turmoil at her news.

“Yes. Well, soon thereafter. It was a shock, to see his handwriting.” Anne hurried to the door. “I’ll get them. I’ll be right back.” She rushed out of the room, her own composure at an end.

When Anne returned Brett had himself back under control. He watched her hand a letter to Freddy. Brett recognized Bertie’s handwriting on the front. It was fortuitous that Anne should mention Bertie’s letters right when he was going to tell her how much he’d longed to come to Ashton on the Green all those years ago. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he knew memories haunted. And the memories of Bertie reading Anne’s letters were assailing him now. He remembered how Bertie would often have to stop and clear his throat when he was reading, or the way he’d give that shaky little laugh when something she wrote made him homesick. It was after those letters that he’d tell Brett yet again about the one time he’d had her, and how sweet and wonderful she had been. And all the while Brett had coveted her. He’d coveted those letters, and that memory.

He didn’t realize he’d been standing there staring at the letter she was holding out to him for several long beats. Not until Freddy encouraged him quietly, “Take the letter, Brett.”

“I…I’m so sorry.” Anne’s voice broke, and Brett looked up at her for the first time since she’d held the letter out to him. Tears were swimming in her eyes. Damn, he’d made her cry again. He reached for the letter then. After he took it Anne stood there, 19

Samantha Kane

her hands clutched so tightly her knuckles were white. “I should have tried harder to deliver them to you. But when I took them to the Park, they wouldn’t take them from me. Well, Reeves,” she looked at Brett, “the butler, he took them the first time, but then returned them later that same day by the pot boy with no explanation. And when I sent them to your solicitor, Your Grace, they were returned. The same thing happened when I sent them to Ashton House in London.” She looked down, clearly overwrought at what she perceived as her failure. “It’s been several years since I last tried. I shouldn’t have waited so long.” She dashed a tear from her cheek, and Brett carefully put the sealed letter into the pocket inside his coat. He couldn’t read it right now.

“It’s not your fault, Anne my dear.” Freddy spoke up and walked around him to Anne’s side. He placed his arm around her and steered her back to the sofa, but not before Brett saw his face. Freddy was furious, and not at Anne. It was yet another black mark against his mother, for Brett had no doubt it was she preventing Anne from delivering Bertie’s missives from beyond the grave.

“No, Anne. It is not your fault. Please do not blame yourself.” Brett cleared his throat, surprised at the raspy tone of his voice. He thought he’d composed himself.

Apparently not. He stopped speaking, not wanting to upset Anne more with his obvious distress.

Anne looked up at him from the sofa, Freddy’s handkerchief clutched in her hand.

She shook her head. “I know. I know it’s not my fault. I tried, I did. But I forgot, you see. I forgot about the letters, until just this morning.” She shook her head almost violently. “How could I forget them? Bertie’s last letters. How could I forget?”

Brett watched Freddy closely. It was clear that the letter, the whole situation, bothered him. He stood beside the sofa, his hands clasped behind his back, one hand holding Bertie’s letter so tightly it was crumpling in his fist. Brett wanted to reach out and grab it, to save it. Freddy hadn’t talked much to him about Bertie’s death over the last few years. Brett wasn’t sure if that was because it upset him to do so, or he was afraid it would upset Brett. And Brett wasn’t sure how he’d react, so it was easier to let the subject lie silent between them.

He knew coming here to Ashton Park was a mistake. Not only was it distressing Anne, he’d made her cry twice now, damn it, but it was upsetting Freddy. And it was opening wounds that had long scabbed over, if not healed. He closed his eyes briefly, unable to lie to himself. The truth was he wasn’t sure his wounds had ever stopped bleeding where Bertie was concerned.

Freddy lowered himself to the sofa and took Anne’s hand. “Because life moves on, Anne. You didn’t forget. The first time you saw us you gave them to us. That is all that could have been expected of you. That you saved them all these years means a great deal. Thank you, Anne. I—” He stopped when his voice broke. It was Freddy’s turn to be overcome with emotion. “I have very few letters from Bertie, so I shall treasure this one.”

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Retreat From Love

His comment brought Brett’s head up. “What do you mean, Freddy? Bertie wrote you at least once a week, if not twice. We used to tease him he wrote so many letters. To you, to Anne, to Jerome.”

Freddy looked at him blankly for a moment, then Brett saw a rage unlike any he’d seen before in Freddy’s eyes, but the fire was quickly banked. In the blink of those blue eyes Freddy appeared his usual, unflappable self. “Did he? Perhaps I just don’t remember. It seems so long ago, and I haven’t seen the letters in years.”

But Brett knew—he knew what Freddy had just realized. His mother had kept

Bertie’s letters from him, not just the one Anne had given him today, but most of his letters from the war. For the first time Brett realized that was why Freddy never asked about certain things that happened on the Peninsula, things that Brett had assumed he knew. But he didn’t know. He’d never gotten Bertie’s letters. One look at Anne’s face and Brett realized she knew it too.

“Freddy,” Anne said quietly as she laid her hand over his. “Dearest Freddy. I’m sorry.”

Freddy gave an exaggerated sigh and patted her hand. “Again? You must stop being sorry, my dear. We did not come to call to listen to your apologies, but to give our own.” Anne started to protest but Freddy held up a hand to stop her. “No. Apologies have been given and accepted.” He briskly put the letter he’d been holding into the pocket of his coat.

“Anne,” Freddy said cheerfully, causing her to jerk in surprise. She had clearly not been expecting cheerful. She wasn’t used to Freddy’s moods yet. “My dear, do let us accompany you to the village. It is surely too far to walk on your own.”

Brett slowly sat down in his chair, his face a mask of polite interest. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say, no excuse he could give for not

accompanying them. And he wanted to, God how he wanted to prolong this time with Anne, though he knew it was foolish and would not change anything between them. He said nothing, however. He looked over at Anne and was surprised to find her watching him closely. When she looked at him like that he wondered what she saw.

She didn’t look away as she answered Freddy. “We live on the edge of the village, Your Grace. The walk into town is less than a mile.” Brett blinked slowly, refusing to reveal his panic at the thought of cutting their visit short.

“I must insist,” Freddy purred, and Anne squirmed and looked down at her hands wringing the handkerchief she still held. Brett nearly sighed with relief. When Freddy insisted, Freddy prevailed.

“Really, Your Grace, it’s not necessary,” Anne replied. She looked worried. Why was she worried about their accompanying her to the village? What errands did she need to accomplish?

“Necessary has nothing to do with it, Anne. And you must call me Freddy again. I miss the way you used to say it, with that long, exasperated y.”

Brett stood up then and gave Freddy a wry grin. “You mean the way I say it?”

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Brett held his hand out to Anne and she hesitated. He could see that she wanted to take it as much as he wanted to touch her again. He wanted to feel the glide of her warm, smooth palm against his rough, calloused one again. Just the thought made his heart race and his breath catch. And he could see that she felt the same as the pulse in her throat beat wildly and she stared at his hand hungrily.

“Yes, Brett, exactly the way you say it.” Freddy was already moving toward the door and hadn’t noticed the little drama taking place in the spot he’d recently vacated.

But when Brett made no response he stopped and turned. Freddy chuckled. “Take his hand, my dear. He won’t bite.” Anne placed her hand in his, and the sleek warmth was just as he remembered.

Brett tugged her hand and Anne rose clumsily from the sofa. He steadied her with that simple grip on her hand, and then let go and stepped away. He had to. Because he feared her warmth, that gentle glide of palm on palm, the hunger that clawed at his belly when he could feel her wildly beating pulse in their clasped hands. He could see that he left her confused. He’d left himself miserable. What a fool he was, to tease them both with what they could not have. But hadn’t he been in this position constantly for the last five years? If it wasn’t Anne, it was Freddy. He was the king of fools, it would seem.

“Thank you, Mr. Haversham,” she said formally. But Freddy would have none of that.

“Mr. Haversham? I think not, Anne. He is Brett, as I am Freddy. And you are Anne.”

Anne began to protest, “But—”

“I am the duke,” Freddy said simply. “How I choose to be addressed is not up to others. If I say that I am Freddy, then I am Freddy.”

Anne tilted her head, and her smile said she was amused by his airs. “Yes, Freddy,”