Captain Amberton's Inherited Bride (Whitby Weddings 2)

She felt a roiling sensation in her stomach as if she were about to be sick. No one else had ever uttered the suspicion out loud, that Arthur Amberton’s death had been anything other than an accident. Clearly his brother thought otherwise.

‘So you think it was my fault, what happened?’

‘At the ball, yes. To Arthur, not entirely. There’s plenty of blame to go around, but you weren’t quite the innocent bystander either.’ He raised his glass in the air as if he were making a toast. ‘But I do believe that you owe me a debt, Miss Harper. The very least you can do to repay it is marry me.’

Chapter Five

Lance raked his hands through his hair and staggered to his feet, keeling slightly as the floor pitched like the deck of a ship beneath his feet. How much had he drunk? He grimaced at the sight of another empty bottle on the sideboard. Too much, then. He was well aware that Mrs Gargrave watered it down, but the back of his throat still felt as though it had been scraped raw with sandpaper.

Had he slept? He felt marginally less exhausted than he had when he’d sat down, though refreshed was too much to hope for. He hadn’t slept well in six months and there was no reason to expect he’d start doing so now. He must simply have dozed at some point.

Something had happened the previous night though, something to do with Miss Harper... His drink-addled brain seemed to be trying to tell him something, as if whatever it was, was important. Had she been there in the room or had he dreamt it? He stared intently at the sofa as if it might give him the answer, fragments of conversation coming back to him, fuzzy and yet vivid enough that they must have been real. They’d talked about her escape, about the will, about the money, about—he moaned out loud—Arthur.

Now he remembered. She’d dashed out of the room on the verge of tears after he’d practically accused her of causing Arthur’s death, looking even more distraught than when he’d locked her in the tower, and he hadn’t been so drunk that he hadn’t felt a sting of remorse. The accusation had been cruel as well as unjust, but it was easier to lash out than face his own part in it. Easier, too, to keep on drinking afterwards than go and apologise.

He reached into his breast pocket and drew out the letter, the last one he’d ever received from his brother, the one that should have brought him home from Canada on the next available ship, but that he’d never answered and kept locked in a trunk instead, as if doing so would make its unwanted contents go away. He’d kept it with him ever since he’d received word of his father’s and Arthur’s deaths, over his heart like some kind of bandage, partly as a reminder of the amends he owed to his family, partly as a form of self-punishment, to remind him of how worthless a specimen of manhood he was by comparison.

He’d proven that again last night. He’d spent years blaming Violet Harper for his banishment, yet when he’d finally said the words aloud, they’d sounded utterly ludicrous. Of course she wasn’t to blame. She hadn’t intended to cause the rift with his father. That had been coming for a long time. She’d simply been the catalyst. He’d always been the cause.

As for what he’d said about Arthur, he had to apologise and the sooner the better. As much as he wanted her money, he should never have implied anything so vile, especially when the blame sat so squarely on his own shoulders. He forced himself to look down at the letter, at his brother’s faded and increasingly illegible handwriting begging him to come home, to help him stand up to their father, to save him. And why hadn’t he? Because he’d been too busy with a woman, that was why, with his own major’s pretty and bored young wife. He’d stooped as low as he could go, and he’d paid for it. But so had Arthur.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Martin entered the room, wearing his usual taciturn expression.

‘Good morning.’ He tucked the letter away again. ‘What time is it?’

‘Eight o’clock, sir. The maids are waiting to come in and clean up.’

/> ‘Are they too frightened to come in and tell me themselves?’

‘Probably.’ Martin stood to attention and Lance sighed inwardly. Touching though his former batman’s devotion was, there were times when he wished he’d simply go back to the army and leave him alone. He might have saved the man’s life once, but he’d only done what anyone else would have under similar circumstances. He didn’t deserve such loyalty.

‘Miss Harper’s in the breakfast room, sir.’

‘Already?’

Lance lifted both eyebrows in surprise. It only seemed like a few minutes since she’d left him, though at least that meant she wasn’t crying on her bed in despair. That made him feel slightly better.

‘In that case, I’d better join her.’

Martin cleared his throat. ‘All due respect, sir, but you might want to shave and clean up a bit first. You don’t want to scare her.’

‘Is that so?’ He rubbed a hand along his jaw, finding enough stubble there to qualify as a beard. Hadn’t he shaved for his wedding yesterday? He couldn’t remember, but apparently not. No doubt he looked as bad as he felt, but he still had to apologise first.

‘Then I’ll just say good morning. Meet me upstairs in ten minutes, will you? Bring a razor.’

He made his way unsteadily to the breakfast room. Martin was right, she was already there, sitting neatly at the table, her pale face and white hair contrasting starkly with her black day gown. Black. He groaned inwardly. He’d been so angry yesterday that he’d forgotten she was in mourning for her father. As if she needed another reason to hate him.

‘Miss Harper.’ He propped one shoulder against the doorjamb for support.

‘Captain Amberton.’ She glanced up briefly, her shoulders tensing at the sound of his voice, though her outward expression remained calm.

He stood there in silence for a few moments, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall sounding deafeningly loud as he wondered what to say next. She wasn’t crying this morning. Quite the opposite, she looked tranquil and self-contained, as if nothing he’d said the previous night had bothered her at all. He had to admire her fortitude, even if the dark rings around her eyes gave her away.

‘I trust you slept well, Miss Harper?’

‘Quite well. I suppose there’s no need to ask how you feel.’

‘I’m used to it.’ He looked around the room and then gestured towards her plate. It was piled high with what looked like a mountain of toast. ‘Is that all they’ve given you?’