It Happened One Night

  Up until now he’d ignored them. Delia Tildon was a good, decent young widow who certainly deserved better than him. He was damaged goods, on both the inside and the outside. He liked and respected her too much to take advantage of her kind nature and use her to slake his loneliness.

  Yet lately…over the past few months the temptation to do just that was proving nearly overpowering. The ache of emptiness eating at him seemed so much more acute lately, the memories bombarding him so hard, so fast, it was a daily struggle not to drown in them. A fact that never ceased to annoy him. Why the bloody hell couldn’t he just forget?

  Yet no matter how strong the temptation, he’d thus far resisted Delia’s lure. A woman like Delia would want—and deserved—a man’s whole heart. And he simply didn’t have one to give. To offer her any less would be unfair to both of them.

  Or so he’d thought until he’d spent the last few days pondering the reality that loneliness was also unfair. The thought of having someone to share his life with, someone to talk to, to listen to, had taken root in his mind and in spite of his best efforts to dislodge it, it refused to budge. He didn’t want to hurt Delia, but bloody hell, he was so damn tired of being alone. Perhaps affection and respect were enough. Enough to make a marriage. Enough to make him forget. Or at least make him stop wanting, yearning for things he could never have.

  It was time to give in to temptation. To discuss the matter with Delia. Let her decide for herself if affection and respect were enough. And maybe, if he were very, very lucky, they would be. And he wouldn’t be alone any longer.

  Feeling more lighthearted than he had in a long time, he entered the inn through the side door, closing the oak panel softly behind him. He stood for several seconds to allow his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the sudden dimness, and he heard Delia’s voice drift toward him from the inn’s front room.

  “So it’s two rooms ye’ll be needin’, milady?”

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Tildon. One for me, and one for my maid. For one night.”

  Ethan went perfectly still at the sound of the newcomer’s voice, his heart seeming to stall in his chest as myriad images flashed through his mind. Shiny hair the color of freshly harvested honey, laughing blue eyes, a mischievous smile. He blinked away the mental pictures, then with a sound of disgust, he shook his head. Bloody hell, bad enough that even after all these years he couldn’t erase the thought of her, but now he was imagining her voice as well.

  “The coachman will require a bed as well,” continued the soft, slightly husky voice that sounded so much like her, he found his feet moving of their own volition toward the front room. His mind, his common sense knew it wasn’t she, that she lived hundreds of miles away, yet he walked toward that voice, drawn to it like a thirsty man to an oasis.

  “We’ve beds available for your coachman in the livery,” came Delia’s voice. “Finest stables in St. Ives we have here at the Blue Seas.”

  “With Mr. Baxter as the proprietor, I’m not surprised.”

  Ethan rounded the corner and halted in the doorway. He vaguely noted Delia’s raised brows, heard her ask in a surprised tone, “Do ye know Ethan, my lady?” but his attention was riveted on the other woman.

  She stood in partial profile to him, the upper half of her face obscured by her bonnet brim. But his heart lurched at the glimpse of honey-colored hair, at the curve of her chin, the shape of her lips. The slight indent in her cheek next to her mouth, one that he could almost see deepening if she smiled.

  Her head jerked in a nod. “Yes, I know him,” she said softly. “Or at least I did, a long time ago…”

  Her voice trailed off and she seemed to go perfectly still—just as his heart began to pound in hard, fast thumps, as if he’d sprinted across a decade’s length of time to arrive from very far away. And then, as if feeling the weight of his stare, she turned slowly toward him. And he found himself gazing into eyes he never thought he’d see again, beautiful blue eyes that reminded him of the sea and that had haunted his nights and days for more years than he could recall.

  Cassie…

  Her name reverberated through his brain, then rushed to his lips, but he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything save stare.

  Her skin paled, then flushed crimson before his disbelieving eyes, and for several long seconds the only sound he heard was the frantic beat of his heart. And then, in that same soft voice he still heard in his dreams, she broke the silence.

  “Hello, Ethan.”

  Chapter Two

  Hello, Ethan.

  With those two simple words, the years fell away and Ethan was once again a green lad, working in her father’s stables, eagerly awaiting the moment she would arrive for her daily ride and greet him with a dimpling smile that could chase even the darkest clouds from the sky and those two words. Hello, Ethan.

  Hello, Cassie. The reply crammed into his tight throat, and he clenched his jaw to contain it. For she was no longer the Cassie he’d grown up with, the shy, awkward girl who’d blossomed into a beautiful young woman, the best friend with whom he’d shared countless hours. She was now Lady Westmore. A countess.

  And by God, she was still beautiful. With her huge blue eyes and pert nose and full, bow-shaped lips, she looked as if the gods had taken extra care when fashioning her. Yet, as he studied her face, he noted subtle differences. The lack of sparkle in those eyes. The slight tightness around her mouth. The thinness of her once apple-round cheeks. The laughing, hoydenish girl he’d once known was nowhere to be seen in this woman. He immediately wondered what had brought about the change.

  And then with a jolt he noticed her clothing, the unrelieved black that encased her from head to foot. She was in mourning. But who had died? Her mother or father? Surely not. Lord and Lady Parrish’s estate was only a two-hour journey from St. Ives. If either had died, word would have reached him via the gossip grapevine. That left her husband.

  For one terrible, ridiculous instant his heart leaped at the thought of her no longer being married, then reality returned with a bruising thump. It made no difference if she had a husband or not. Not now, not ten years ago, not ever. She was so far above his station as to be laughable. The platonic relationship they’d enjoyed as children and young adults was long since over. That his feelings had deepened far beyond mere friendship was his own pain to bear. She’d certainly never given him hope that there could be more between them—the limitations were never questioned. A stable boy and a viscount’s daughter? Utterly impossible. Yet that hadn’t kept his stupid, foolish heart from falling hopelessly, irrevocably for that which he could never have.

  Reality’s bruising thump also brought with it a jolt of anger—at himself, for never being able to forget the past, forget her, or talk himself out of his futile feelings. And anger at her, for showing up like this, and still having the power, after all these years, to tilt his world on its axis by simply standing there.

  Years ago he’d done everything in his power to hide his feelings, yet part of him had unreasonably resented the fact that she’d never guessed. How could she not have noticed what to him seemed to glow like a beacon from his every pore? Clearly he was an accomplished actor and liar. Of course that last year she’d been too preoccupied planning her Season. And then her wedding…

  She cleared her throat, and with a jolt he realized he was staring and wondered how long he’d stood there gaping in silence.

  “Lady Westmore.” The words felt like a knife in his gut. “Please forgive my silence. I’m simply surprised to see you.”

  Something he couldn’t decipher flickered in her eyes, followed immediately by what appeared to be relief. Surely she hadn’t thought he wouldn’t remember her. A humorless sound rose in his throat. Bloody hell, if she only knew how hard he’d tried to forget her.

  Clutching her reticule to her midsection as if a band of thieves were about to burst through the door she said, “Not unpleasantly surprised, I hope.”

  “No, of course not,” he said, not ce
rtain that was completely the truth.

  “It’s been a long time.”

  Ten years, two months, and fourteen days. “Yes.” His voice sounded rough and harsh, as if he hadn’t used it during that entire decade.

  Her gaze searched his face. “You’ve been well, I hope…?” Her words tapered off, and he knew the instant she saw the puckered scar that marred his left cheek. He hadn’t been handsome before the disfigurement, but the mark had wiped away any vanity he might have foolishly possessed. A daily reminder of the past. His jaw tightened at the shock and sympathy brewing in her eyes. Damn it, he didn’t want her pity. Anything but that.

  Her gaze lingered for several seconds on his ruined skin, then moved downward, over his clothing to his boots, and he barely suppressed a groan. Bloody hell, how many times had he imagined this scenario in his dreams? Of her coming to his inn, or of them meeting by chance somewhere? Hundreds? More like thousands. Yet in all those fantasies he’d been clean and well-dressed and debonair—not dirty and smelling of sweat and horse, and tongue-tied.

  Hands clenched, he bore her brief scrutiny and tersely reminded himself it didn’t make any difference what he looked like or smelled like. He was what he was, what he’d always been—a commoner, a man of the working class.

  When her gaze once again met his, he lied and said, “I’ve been well. And you?”

  “I’ve…managed.” One gloved hand brushed over her black gown, and her bottom lip trembled. “Westmore died. Two months ago.”

  God help him, he’d wanted to hate Westmore, and he supposed in some ways he did—hated him for his perfect, handsome face and title and wealth that allowed him to have the one thing Ethan had wanted and loved above all else.

  Cassie.

  Yet how could he hate a man who’d given her everything she deserved? Glittering parties and fancy gowns. A title, wealth, and a place in society. A comfortable, happy life. She clearly deeply mourned his loss, and for that he was sorry.

  “Please accept my condolences.”

  She gave a tight nod, then said, “I’m on my way to Land’s End, to Gateshead Manor.”

  “For a visit, or to stay?”

  She hesitated, then said, “To stay.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. She’d be only two hours away.

  God help him.

  “You’re not continuing on today?” he asked, experiencing a sudden, almost desperate need for her to leave. Before he said or did something he’d regret. “This fine weather may not last.” Having you here, in my inn, my home, will be torture. Close enough to touch, yet, as always, untouchable.

  She shook her head. “I need a respite from the long journey before returning home.” The ghost of a smile whispered across her lips. “One more minute in that coach and I’d have gone mad.”

  Understandable, he supposed. Yet was her stopping at his inn by design or coincidence? He didn’t particularly believe in coincidence, yet why would she purposely visit the Blue Seas? Surely she didn’t want to renew their friendship.

  A combination of idiotic elation and something that felt damn close to panic seized him at the thought. For one insane moment he allowed the notion of once again being her friend, of sharing laughter and sorrow, to fill him with a sense of happiness he hadn’t known in years. But then dread quickly replaced that momentary euphoria.

  Bloody hell, he couldn’t possibly be her friend. Couldn’t possibly spend any amount of time in her company and successfully hide his feelings. The only reason he’d been able to do so all those years ago was that she’d been so innocent. After ten years of marriage, ten years of maturity, she’d surely guess, would certainly see his hopeless feelings. Oh, she’d be too kind to mock him, but by God, he didn’t want her pity. Bad enough that he already had it thanks to his damn scar.

  Why had she come here? So she could regale him with tales of her fabulous life and wonderful husband? He didn’t begrudge her those things, but unlike years ago, he’d no longer subject himself to the punishment of hearing all about them.

  Silence swelled in the room which suddenly felt far too warm. Damn it, where were words when he needed them? Or at least appropriate words, for he could hardly say those that rested at the tip of his tongue: Go away! Or even worse, God, I’ve missed you.

  “Is your…family well, Ethan?” she asked.

  “Family?” he repeated, confused. Surely she recalled that his father had died. She’d stood beside him at the grave. “I have no family.” A movement behind her caught his eye, and his attention shifted to Delia, whose presence he’d completely forgotten. Noting her dark-eyed gaze resting on him, he collected himself enough to shoot her a quick smile, then said to Cassie, “Although my friends here at the Blue Seas make me feel as if I do.”

  Something again flickered in Cassie’s eyes. She appeared about to speak, but the front door opened and the young woman he’d seen outside, who was clearly her lady’s maid, and the coachman, who carried two portmanteaus, entered. After Cassie performed quick introductions, she accepted two brass keys from Delia.

  “Yer rooms are numbers five and six, just up the stairs,” Delia said in her usual brisk manner. “Dinner’s served at seven in the main room. Will ye be needin’ help with yer bags?”

  “I can handle them,” Mr. Watley said.

  “Will you be here for dinner this evening, Ethan?” Cassie asked, her huge blue eyes spearing him to the spot.

  “Dinner?”

  One brow shot upward. “Yes. The meal that is served at seven in the main room.”

  He blinked, then realized she was teasing him. Just as she always had. Bloody hell, it felt like…coming home. And bloody hell, he didn’t like that one bit. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said brusquely, “Man’s gotta eat.”

  She looked uncertain, then said, “Excellent. I’ll see you at seven.”

  With Mr. Watley leading the way, Cassie and her maid climbed the stairs. Seconds later they disappeared from view, leaving only the murmur of their voices behind.

  Ethan drew a deep, careful breath. He’d be sharing a meal with her this evening. She’d be spending the night under his roof. He wasn’t certain if the heart-pounding sensation surging through him was elation or dread. A bit of both, he suspected.

  It was just one night. He’d hidden his feelings for so long, kept them in check for so many years, surely another mere twenty-four hours wouldn’t matter.

  And then, as she had ten years ago, she’d say good-bye and leave.

  He didn’t know how he was going to survive her staying here.

  And he sure as hell didn’t know how he was going to survive watching her go.

  Chapter Three

  Cassandra walked slowly around her cozy bedchamber, trailing her fingertips over the neat dark blue counterpane. Her avid gaze took in the oak night table, wardrobe, single chest of drawers, and washstand, all serviceable pieces without frills, but the furniture and the mantel gleamed with polish. The walls were unadorned, painted beige, their pale color giving the illusion of space in the small chamber. Plain blue curtains flanked the open window, through which a warm, sea-scented breeze wafted. Everything in this room spoke of Ethan’s ownership—strong, functional, tidy, and no fuss.

  Ethan…She closed her eyes and drew a long, slow breath. Seeing him, hearing his voice had brought back a plethora of memories that had threatened to render her speechless. And while she would have recognized him anywhere, he was undeniably different. Physically, he was bigger, broader, more muscular. She’d had to tear her gaze from the fascinating display of brawn showcased by his snug black breeches and dirt-streaked shirt. His disheveled appearance had in no way detracted from his masculine appeal.

  His ebony hair, which he’d always cropped ruthlessly short, was longer now, touching his collar, and looked as if he’d just run his fingers through the thick, shiny waves. The urge to touch those silky-looking strands had seized her with such stunning force, she’d had to press her hands to her midsection.

  And
his eyes…those fathomless deep brown eyes she’d seen twinkle with teasing laughter and glow with intensity, were different as well. The warmth was gone. There were secrets behind those eyes now. And suffering.

  His scar had shocked her. How had he come by such an injury? Clearly whatever had happened had caused him great pain. And she hadn’t known. Hadn’t been there to comfort him, help him, as he’d comforted and helped her so many times. Although Ethan no longer looked like a man who required comfort. No, now he looked like a fortress. Dark, grim, impenetrable. Forbidding.

  Now she had the answer to the question, Would he be here? Yes. He was here. And for this one day, their paths touched again. And she intended to make the most of it. Tonight they would share a meal, catch up with each other’s lives. And she’d find out the answers to the questions that had plagued her all these years.

  Unless she saw him even sooner.

  Yes. No time like the present.

  After making use of the washstand to refresh herself, she changed into her riding habit and headed down the stairs. When she entered the main room, Mrs. Tildon looked up from the ledger in which she was writing.

  “Goin’ riding, milady?” she asked, her gaze skimming over Cassandra’s attire.

  “If there’s a mount available. If not, then a walk will suffice.” She offered the woman a smile. “After spending so many hours inside that carriage, I long to be outdoors.”

  “Stables are just outside. Ethan can saddle a mount for ye.”

  Precisely the words she wanted to hear. “Thank you.”

  She turned to go, anxious to be off before Mrs. Tildon might think to question her about her intention of riding alone, but before she could escape, the other woman said, “Milady…”

  Cassandra paused and swiveled her head around, and noted that Mrs. Tildon was studying her with an expression that made Cassandra feel as if she could see into her soul, an unsettling sensation, to be sure. She was an attractive woman, Cassandra realized, probably no older than thirty, with brown hair and dark, intelligent eyes, her trim figure apparent even beneath the apron she wore over her plain gray gown.