Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes lying on her creamy skin, and there was a flush along her cheekbones. Her luscious mouth parted.
“Lavinia,” he murmured, and his lips pressed to hers, chastely at first. Her breath sighed out as if she had been waiting for this as long as he, and he deepened the kiss. She tasted the same, and he’d missed her so much. She wound her arms around his neck and he pulled her up against him. He opened his eyes, wishing she would open hers, so that he could read what was in them.
“Lavinia,” he groaned. “Look at me.”
Her expression was dazed, her dark eyes hazy. This was the Lavinia he had known, the woman who trembled in his arms with a passion they both knew was rare and beautiful. Then she gave a gasp, as if suddenly realising what was happening and who was holding her.
“Sebastian,” she said, sounding shaken and struggling to withdraw. “I can’t . . . it isn’t possible, not now. Not ever.”
He let her go although his arms and his heart felt empty. “Why not?” he asked her, his voice husky with need and edgy with frustration. “Why isn’t it possible? You are a widow, there is no Lord Richmond to stand in our way. Why not, Lavinia?”
She stared at him, as if she were debating whether he was genuinely asking her to tell him. As if she thought he should know.
“You know why,” she breathed.
He frowned, resisting the urge to shake her, or kiss her, or both. “Do I?”
“You and Patrick used me,” she went on. “I let myself be used, for my duty and friendship to him, and because I was already half in love with you. And then I fell deeper in love with you even though I knew it was wrong.”
“And yet when Patrick was dead you abandoned me,” he spoke evenly despite the melee of emotion pounding in his chest and his head. He needed to hear her reason; after all this time he was desperate to know what had sent her running from him.
She was chewing her lip again. “Sebastian, I did come to the hospital. When you were wounded, I did come. I sat with you. I was there. And then Martin . . . he told me what had happened. So I left and I didn’t come back.”
She was there! He shook his head, confused. She had been there by his side and he hadn’t known. “What did Martin tell you?” he demanded, sounding as if he was barely hanging on to his composure.
She stepped back and shook her head. Her voice was bewildered. “Why are you doing this? Why are you forcing me to tell you what you already know?”
There were tears in her eyes but he wouldn’t stop. “Tell me!”
“Martin said that you and Patrick were seen together at Waterloo, in the heat of the battle, and you pushed him into danger. You killed him. Everyone knew you had done it because we were lovers and you wanted me for yourself. Tell me, Sebastian, how could I turn around and align myself with the man who had killed my husband?”
So this was why . . . Suddenly her actions made a terrible sense.
He shook his head. “That is what your brother told you? He was right about the ugly feelings between Patrick and I. Our friendship was over. You saw that for yourself. But we were soldiers, there to fight for our country, and personal matters had to be put aside. So I put them aside. There was some rumour . . . some nonsense, but Wellington soon quashed it.” Suddenly he was furious. “You didn’t think to ask me for my side of the story?”
“I remembered the conversation we had had before you left. You asked me how I would feel if Patrick was killed . . .”
He took a step closer to her but she held her ground, lifting her chin and waiting for his excuses. She’d already made her mind up that he was guilty, Sebastian realised. She’d made it up that day in the hospital, and that was why she had refused to see him and sent his letters back unopened.
“Then let me enlighten you,” he said. “Let me tell you what I have never told anyone because I did not want to cause you further grief. Patrick hated me despite Oliver . . . because of Oliver. I might have set my personal feelings aside to concentrate on fighting Napoleon, but he hadn’t. He’d decided it would be better if I were out of his way, permanently, so he lured me into the battle. He had a pistol, and I’m sure I’d be dead now—an unfortunate casualty of war—if a cannon ball hadn’t landed next to us. He died immediately and I was injured.”
She swayed. “You can say that but—”
“But I’m lying?” he said, deceptively gentle. “You’d believe your brother, Lavinia, who is busy spending Oliver’s inheritance and no doubt would have done anything at the time to prevent me from marrying Patrick’s widow? Because that would mean he couldn’t have what he has always wanted—the money to go with his blue blood.”
She didn’t answer. He was wasting his breath and Sebastian had had enough. He had loved and longed, and fought, for this woman and it was obvious to him now that she did not want him. He was done. He turned his back, reaching for the door, his hand closing around the doorknob. Only then did he pause.
“Goodbye, Lavinia,” he said, and he meant it. He couldn’t do this anymore. This really was goodbye.
Ten
Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square
Monkstead bowed over Lavinia’s hand, begging her pardon for the intrusion. He’d arrived as Captain Longhurst was leaving, but the other man had looked at him as if he didn’t recognise him, and did not respond to his greeting. The atmosphere was turbulent, and even if Lady Richmond’s face had not been pale and drawn, he wo
uld have known all was not well between her and the Captain.
“Perhaps I should return another time, Lady Richmond?”