A Passion for Him (Georgian 3)

“What do you want me to do?” the Frenchman asked, looking grim as always.

“I cannot go into town. There is some concern that Miss Benbridge will follow, and while I find that highly unlikely, the request is valid, so I must stay for now.”

“I understand.”

“St. John is sending a man to rally those who work for him in Bristol. Go and direct the search. Tell them what to look for, what to expect. If you find anything of import, send for me.”

Jacques nodded and set off immediately. The Frenchman took the main staircase; Colin took the servants’. It emptied by the kitchen, and he ignored the startled glances sent his way as he exited out the delivery door and headed toward the stables.

Every step he took grew heavier, his heart weighed upon by the upcoming confrontation that would cut him nigh as deeply as the one with Amelia had.

He entered silently and inhaled deeply, finding the smells of hay and horses both familiar and soothing. The many beasts inside snorted and shifted restlessly as his scent filled the air and disturbed their equanimity. Glancing about, he looked for the groomsmen’s quarters. His stride faltered when he found the doorway. A man leaned against the jamb, watching him with wounded, angry eyes.

The years had been kind to Pietro. Aside from a slight pouch at the belly, the rest of his body was still fit and strong. Strands of silver accented his temples and beard, but his skin was smooth and free of wrinkles.

“Uncle,” Colin greeted, his throat tight with sorrow and affection.

“My only nephew is dead,” Pietro said coldly.

Colin flinched at the repudiation. “I have missed you.”

“You lie! You let me think you were dead!”

“I was offered the chance at a different life.” Colin held out his hands in a silent plea for understanding. “I had one chance to accept and no time to second-guess.”

“And what of me?” Pietro demanded, straightening. “What of my grief? Was that nothing to you?”

“You think I was not grieving?” Colin bit out, stung by the condemnation of yet another person he loved. “I might as well have been dead.”

“Then why did you do it?” Pietro came forward. “I have tried to see what would make you do such a thing, but I don’t understand.”

“I had nothing to offer anyone before. No way to create a life of comfort for those I loved.”

“Comfort from what? The only discomfort in my life has been my mourning for you!”

“What of freedom from work?” Colin challenged. “What of a life of travel and discovery? I can offer you those things now, when I could not before.”

Pain wracked Pietro’s handsome features. “I am a simple man, Colin. A roof over my head . . . food . . . family. Those are all I need to be happy.”

“I wish my needs were as simple.” Colin moved to the nearest stall and set his crossed arms along the top of it. “I need Amelia to be happy, and this was the only way I could conceive of to have her.”

“Colin . . .” He heard his uncle sigh. “You love her still.”

“I have no notion how not to love her. It is ingrained in me, as much a part of me as my hair and skin color.”

Pietro joined him at the stall door. “I should have raised you in the camp. Then you wouldn’t want things that are beyond your reach.”

Colin smiled and looked aside at him. “Amelia and I would have met at some point, at some time.”

“That is your Romany blood talking.”

“Yes, it is.”

There was a long silence, as each attempted to find the right thing to say. “How long have you been in England?” Pietro asked finally.

“A few weeks.”

“A few weeks and you didn’t come to me?” Pietro shook his head. “I don’t feel that I know you at all. The boy I raised had more care for the feelings of others.”

Aching from the pain he had inflicted, Colin reached out and set his hand atop Pietro’s shoulder. “If my love is in err, it is not due to lack of it for you but to a surfeit for her. I would have done anything, gone anywhere, to become worthy of Amelia.”

“You seem to have accomplished what you set out to do,” Pietro said quietly. “Your clothes and carriage are fine indeed.”

“It seems a waste now. She is as angry as you are. I do not know if she will forgive me, and if she does not, all is lost.”

“Not all. You’ll always have me.”

Tears came to Colin’s eyes, and he brushed them away with jerking movements. His uncle looked at him a moment, then heaved out his breath and embraced him.

“There is still some of the Colin of old in you,” he said gruffly.

“I am sorry for the pain I caused,” Colin whispered, his throat too tight to speak any louder. “I saw only the end, not the interim. I wanted everything, and now I have nothing.”

Pietro shook his head and stepped back. “Don’t give up yet. You’ve worked too hard.”

“Can you forgive me?” If he could manage to win back the love of one, perhaps there was a possibility that he could win back the other.

“Maybe.” A grin split the depths of his uncle’s beard. “I have six horses to groom.”

Colin’s mouth curved wryly. “I am at your service.”

“Come on.” Pietro put his arm around Colin’s shoulders and urged him toward the groomsmen’s quarters. “You’ll need to change your clothes.”

“I can buy more if these are ruined.”

“Hmm . . .” His uncle looked at him consideringly. “How wealthy are you?”

“Obscenely.”

Pietro whistled. “Tell me how you did it.”

“Of course.” Colin smiled. “We have time.”

It was late afternoon. The sun was dipping to the west and supper was being prepared. Ware’s guests would eat earlier tonight than they would in Town, then spend the evening in the parlor, attempting to ignore the tension simmering between all parties. It would no doubt be unpleasant, but Ware understood the emotional undercurrents that were affecting everyone but him. He cared for Amelia and thought her the most suitable bride for his needs. That was his only tie to all of the rest.

“Mitchell stayed,” he said to Amelia, as they strolled through the rear garden.

“Oh.”

She stared straight ahead. With a sigh, he drew to a halt, which forced her to do the same.

“Talk to me, Amelia. That has always been the core strength of our friendship.”

With a shaky smile, she canted her body to face his. “I am so sorry to have done this to you,” she said remorsefully. “If I could go back and alter the events of this last week, I would. I would go back years and have married you long ago.”

“Would you?” He tugged her closer, and set his hands lightly on her hips. Behind her, a profusion of climbing roses hugged an archway that led to a pond. Dandelion seeds drifted in the breeze, creating an enchanting backdrop for an enchanting woman.

“Yes. All these years I mourned him and he was thriving.” Something deliciously like a growl escaped her. “He finds it far too easy to leave me behind. I am sick of being left behind. First my father, now Colin.”

Amelia wrenched away and began to pace, her long legs moving with a lithe, determined elegance.

“I have never left you,” he said, pointing out what he knew to be his greatest strength. “I enjoy your company far too much. There are precious few people in this world about whom I feel similarly.”

“I know. Bless you. I love you for that.” She managed a brief smile. “That is what has decided my mind. You will be steadfast and supportive. You do not seek to be someone you are not. You inspire me to be decorous and deport myself in a manner befitting a lady. We rub along well together.”

Ware frowned, considering. “Amelia. I should like to discuss your thoughts on decorum and deportment in greater detail. Forgive me, but I find it rather odd to mention those traits as being most attractive. I would think our friendship and ease of assoc

iation would lure you most.”

She halted, her pale green skirts settling gently around her feet. “I have come to realize something these past days, Ware. I have reckless tendencies, just as Welton did. I require a certain environment in order to restrain those selfish impulses.”

“And I provide this environment.”

Amelia beamed at him. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

“Hmm . . .” He rubbed his jaw. “And Mitchell inspires your reckless nature?”

“‘Goads’ would be a more apt word choice, but yes, he does.”

“I see.” Ware smiled wryly. “His role sounds more fun than mine.”

“Ware!” She looked affronted, which made him laugh.

“Sorry, love. I must be honest. In one breath, you point out that I do not seek to be someone I am not—in opposition, I presume, to Mr. Mitchell. Then in the next breath, you say that I inhibit a part of your nature that you are not proud of. Is that not seeking to be someone you are not . . . in a fashion?”