Chapter Two

I still remember those eyes—the deepness of them, how they told every emotion even when he tried to suppress them. I remember his touch and the sound of his voice as we indulged in our carnal desires over and over again. I still remember the taste of his kiss, of the maddening sensation of his explorative lips wandering all over my body. I have not forgotten the feel of his flesh beneath my fingertips, nor have I forgotten the heat of his breath upon my face as he thrust himself into me… the intoxicating euphoria it rendered! And I remember the warmth of his embrace afterwards, and how unwilling I was to leave it—to leave him—to return to the parlor before Mrs. Lennox could discover us.

He was only a midshipman then. He is a Commodore now; at least, that is what I read in the Naval Chronicle, along with news of his success in the West Indies. He has done quite well for himself as far as his career is concerned. In terms of securing a wife, however, he has not been so fortunate.

News of his engagement to Miss Elizabeth Swann, daughter of Lord Weatherby Swann and governor of Port Royal, was the talk of London. News of their break was all the more popular. One could hardly attend so much as a simple tea party without being subject to the latest gossip surrounding the matter. Quite frankly, I have grown sick of it.

I am neither glad nor unhappy for him; though I admit I would be lying if I confess that my heart remains unaffected, for it cannot be more so. I am still very much in love with him, in spite of the insensibility of it; of knowing that promises made in the silliness of youth are seldom kept. And yet, as I stand here listening to the sparkling waters of the river flowing steadily beneath my feet, I clutch his letter close to my breast—a letter I have not yet opened.

I know at once the hand that has so neatly inscribed my name and address on the front, as well as the seal bearing the Norrington family crest. His penmanship has greatly improved with age. He would be eight and twenty now, I believe; one year my senior.

Strange that he should write after all this time.

He called once at Wolbrighton, just before he was sent to the West Indies, but as I was nineteen, I was in London with Mama, preparing for the Season. She was quite eager for me to be "out," where it seemed every eligible bachelor in the kingdom vied for my hand in hopes of winning access to my inheritance. If one ever wishes to feel like cattle at market, the Season is the very essence of it.

One could not imagine the depths of my despair when I learnt of his visit that year, nor of my anger that I was never informed of it. It was only brought to my attention when my youngest sister Lydia let slip during our sewing circle amidst a particular fit of excitement that he called just days before I returned home. Apparently, he'd gone hunting with our eldest brother, Addison.

"Oh, you should've seen him, Anna! He's a lieutenant on the HMS Dauntless! He is to escort Miss Elizabeth and Lord Swann to Port Royal, who is to be the new governor!" she had cried before our eldest sister Bridgette and our sister Elizabeth issued a sharp reprimand about minding one's business. It was just as well, for if she had been allowed to carry on, I might have struck her out of spite.

And oh, how Mama and Papa were furious when they learnt of her blunder!

A lieutenant… and not a word of any kind from his own person regarding said promotion, nor of his promotion to captain and later, to commodore… no news of him at all, in fact, other than what I read. When he did not write, I attempted to reach out to him myself to offer my own congratulations, despite my parents' strong objections. No reply came.

Thus, I assumed he had forgotten me.

So what has he to do with me now?

I stare at the letter in my hands, baffled by his motives. Try as I might, I cannot but remember all that has transpired between us. One does not so easily forget a first love, even with the passing of time. I cannot forget his promise to me, nor of my own to him, just as my heart cannot forget the pain caused by his prolonged silence, even if I have forgiven him for it.

By all that is right, I should want nothing more to do with him. I should simply toss his letter into the river and watch it float away, never to be seen, and never to bear its burden ever again. Out of sight is out of mind, as they say.

I step to the rail, my hand poised over the river. All that is within me freezes. The letter is between my fingers. All I need to do is release it and that will be the end of it. I tremble at its prospect; of knowing that he will finally be out of my life forever… and yet I cannot bring myself to do it. I must know what he has to say!

I swallow my nerves and draw it back to me, releasing my breath. It is as if a weight has been lifted—not unlike when one is prepared to end one's life and changes their mind at the very last moment. The irony is not lost on me: he was my life, and when he did not come for me, I perished.

I stare at the seal, brushing my thumb over it, my heart beating swiftly. What could he possibly have to say? I cannot fathom it!

I can delay no longer. I break the seal and gently unfold it with trembling hands, fully exposing its contents. It is not dated and there is only one line, apart from his initials. It reads:

Are you still waiting for me?

~J.N.

My hand flies to my mouth, stifling a gasp.

A simple question, a simple phrase… yet it strikes my heart so fierce a blow that it is all I can do just to remain upright! The weight returns and is in my breast now; beating with such ferocity that I scarce can breathe, as though my stays have just been yanked taut. Tears instantly form, but do not fall. I do not let them. They burn like fire in the corner of my eyes. My mind reels; my thoughts, my emotions, are in turmoil. Everything clashes together all at once, and I cannot make sense of it.

What can he mean by sending me this? Does he not know that I have waited for him these eleven years past, enduring his silence, enduring his absence? Not a word has been shared between us, no correspondence; and now he writes this, with no explanation as to why he abandoned me, why he rejected me!

Am I still waiting for him? He did not wait for me with Miss Swann! I am surprised at my own bitterness—how long it has been pent up inside me!

He did not wait for me when he was betrothed to her, though I have waited these long years for him. He has inadvertently cursed me to forever live a life of solitude, for no man has been able to hold a candle to him. Many have tried. All of them have failed.

Except for one.

I lose myself in my thoughts, unaware of anything beyond my own inner turmoil. I am confused. I am hurt. And I am angry. I never believed him capable of such cruelty.

Did not we form an attachment built upon years of friendship, of tears and laughter, of games and happiness, of… love? I loved him as I have loved no other. I gave him my heart, and he abandoned me!

I have known him both man and boy. We were playmates before his father took him to sea at the age of six after his mother became ill, and our friendship grew whenever he was allowed shore leave; as did he. He grew from boy to man as I grew from girl to woman. Childhood playmates grew into young love… love became a promise.

Did not we form an understanding—did not I agree to marry him upon his return? I thought my answer was quite clear that day, as was his. Yet his conduct afterward suggests that maybe perhaps I was mistaken. Maybe I had not been so clear after all—no, I had been clear! I promised to wait for him, even if eternity was required. He could not have mistaken my intentions, just as I could not have mistaken his. He did not wait for me with Miss Swann, but now… it would appear the case is altered.

But what has changed his mind?

"I thought he'd forgotten me…" The words pour out of my mouth, and a single tear trickles down my cheek against my will.

I am so affected by my thoughts that I do not hear the subtle grinding of footsteps upon the gravel path. It is not until I hear a voice—a male voice—when I realize I am no longer alone.

"Who has, my dear?"

I return to the present with a start, my head snapping round to find my unexpected visitor's familiar smiling face. There is a twinge of discontent in my person, but I am neither relieved nor displeased by his presence. As he approaches, I quickly brush away the remnant of the tear on my cheek, catching sight of the letter in my hand. I twist round to fold it and tuck it away in my pocket to be dealt with later.

I am uncertain if he has seen it.

My visitor is the Earl of Barclay: the sole heir to the Barclay family fortune, and the master of Enderby Park, a grand estate of nearly two hundred acres tucked away inside the county of Kent. He is tall, extremely handsome with dark brown hair fastened into a small queue at the nape of his neck. He is well-bred with exceptional manners, with correct opinions and a vast knowledge of the world, and is quite charming. But there is something ominous about him—something dangerous—I cannot quite place. We get on rather well, but I am never quite at ease when he is near and I feel a strong sense to exercise great caution in my person, though he has never raised a harmful hand to me nor has he raised his voice.

"Good morning, Lord Barclay," I greet him with a curtsey.

His eyes are like sapphires, alight with curiosity as he nods. "Good morning, Miss Anna."

There is a roughness to his light baritone, like the gravel beneath his feet, but it is not at all unpleasant to the ear. If anything, it is one of his finer attributes, and I admit that I find it quite attractive. He is, put plainly, the exception to my list of failed suitors.

"How was your journey?" I inquire, and I do so with genuine interest.

He has just returned from Enderby to settle some urgent matter with his business partners and has been gone from Devonshire far longer than anticipated. He was expected three days ago, but no amount of time would have been sufficient enough for me to prepare for his arrival. He has been residing here for the past year at Wolbrighton solely because he has been courting me, and I have only allowed his attentions to disabuse my parents' of their foolish notions that I am on the verge of becoming an old maid and must therefore marry before my window of opportunity closes permanently.

"Long and wet," he replied. "My horse slipped and threw a shoe, so I was obliged to spend a few days in Reading until he was sound again."

My brow lifts in horror at his account. I search the Earl's figure from head to toe for obvious injuries. I am relieved when he appears to be unharmed; though upon closer inspection, I do notice something odd on the toe of his boot—a place that has been repaired quite recently.

"Oh, how shocking! But Deacon is not hurt? And you? You were not injured, I trust?" I ask.

Deacon was a magnificent animal: a beautiful Friesian stallion as black as ebony. He carries himself with such grace that one cannot help becoming enchanted by his movements. It is almost as if he were from a fairytale, especially with his long, flowing mane streaming against his thickly arched neck, like the brave steed a knight would ride into battle.

"No. I was very fortunate to avoid anything beyond a few bruises and scrapes. And after a few days' rest, we were both good as new," he reassures.

I allow a small smile. "Then I am relieved, and I welcome you back to Wolbrighton wholeheartedly."

He nods. "It is good to be back. Now, on the subject of being forgotten: you were saying you thought someone had forgotten you."

I blush upon being reminded of it, of the cause behind said thoughts, and drop my gaze to my feet, unable to hide my embarrassment. "My apologies, I was—" I meant to say I was thinking aloud and that I thought I was alone, but he stopped me.

"—I can only assume it is not I to whom you were referring. Am I correct?"

I nod. "You are."

Relief tugs at the edges of his smile and reaches his eyes. "Good; because I am convinced that no one in their right mind would ever forget you."

I am certain my face has turned crimson, for I can feel the heat of it burning in the tip of my ears. "Lord Barclay, you flatter me entirely too much."

"Well, I only do so as a means of making you smile. You seemed to be quite out of sorts when I arrived," he said. He paces a few steps with his hands behind his back, looking quite sure of himself. "And were I a betting man, I would wager that whatever you've just stowed away inside your pocket is the cause of it."

He fixes me with a look that confirms my suspicion: he saw me put it away. I try to mask my guilt, holding his gaze until I can no longer handle its burning intensity. I look to the river, to the grove, the lake—anywhere but his face. I try to organize my thoughts as James' message manifests itself in my mind's eye. The familiar, elegant sweep of his hand is as clear as though I were reading it again for the second time. My feelings resurface, and the squall of my emotions rages on. I suddenly feel the letter's shape pressing against my hip, feeling quite exposed.

"Ohh, what is this look?" he chuckles softly. He lifts my chin with his thumb, encouraging our eyes to meet. "Come now: I know it's a letter of some sort."

"It's nothing, Edmund, I assure you," I confess with reserve. I do not intend to reveal anymore than what is necessary. He does not know of my past with James, and I would prefer to keep it that way. The less he knew of him, the better it would be for both of us, as the Earl of Barclay—Edmund—was known to have a jealous side.

"Strange… for something that is supposedly nothing, you are oddly discomposed over it," he observes with an air of sarcasm. "A bit suspicious, don't you think?"

I frown. "No, I do not; nor do I fully understand what it is you are insinuating."

I bristle inwardly at his judgment, at the prospect of being accused of unfaithfulness; perhaps the most vulgar insult a man can bestow upon a woman, beyond calling her a whore outright. It would be a mark upon my character that could prove devastating for my future, but even in the face of complete ruin, I still cannot bring myself to be wholly candid, for I am not yet decided upon my own feelings regarding the matter.

"I insinuate nothing; if, indeed, there is nothing to be insinuated," he says, bracing his arm against the pillar of the bridge. In this state, he appears even taller.

"Well, I believe I have already explicated it is nothing that bears significance. It is a letter, yes, but it is no more than a letter from an old friend and therefore holds no consequence," I explain calmly.

His eyebrows flick towards his hairline, setting his jaw as he ponders my answer. "An 'old friend?' Anyone I know?"

I consider the possibility of him having stumbled across my former lover, but as James has spent the majority of his life at sea, I find it unlikely. To my knowledge, the Earl has spent very little time aboard a ship, and his connections to the Royal Navy are limited, at best.

"I doubt it," I say.

He smirks. "Well, now I'm intrigued! It's not every day I am afforded the opportunity of making a new acquaintance."

"Regretfully, I fear I must rob you of that, sir," I tease, allowing a smile of my own.

He laughs, his eyes twinkling. "Oh come now! Tell me, who is it? Miss Emily, from Oxford? Marianne, your old companion? Your spinster aunt in Taunton? … A former suitor, perhaps?"

I am well aware of the humor in his voice, but I am equally aware of an underlying jealousy clinging to his last suggestion, and I feel that the dangerous nature which lurks about in his being may be beginning to show itself. Nevertheless, I scowl at the thought of the aunt in question, as it is a well-known fact that she is a busybody who has a nasty habit of sticking her nose in places where it does not belong. Her company is more often disagreeable than not, and though she is Mama's oldest sister, they always fight whenever she visits.

"Heaven forbid I should ever receive a letter from Aunt Jane!" I exclaim.

"Oh, yes. That would be terrible, wouldn't it? Dear old Aunt Jane!" he agrees wholeheartedly and then adopts an extremely posh voice, his entire being becoming extremely rigid and sneering in such a comical way that instantly makes me smile as he points a finger at me. "'Now Anna, look here, child: have you washed your neck for the hundredth time today? No? For shame! You are a naughty, naughty girl!'"

I laugh at his not altogether inaccurate impression. "You are truly incorrigible, sir."

"Ah-see! There! There's that smile I've been searching for!" he declares victoriously. "I knew you couldn't hide it from me."

I revel in his praise, blushing.

He allows the moment to linger… and then returns to his prying. "But really. Who is it? I want to know."

I roll my eyes. "Your persistence is insufferable, Lord Barclay."

"Well, persistence can be a virtue. How else is one to get what one wants if they are unwilling to fight for it?" he observes. "To fight for you, as it were."

"But there is a fine line between persistence and impertinence, Edmund," I remind carefully. "And you've no need to fight for me, for there is currently no one in competition for my hand."

"Would you tell me if there was?" he inquires.

I do not know what to make of his line of questioning, just as I do not know what to make of James' letter. It is all so very confusing, and the Earl's pushiness is wearing on my nerves. I say nothing more, unwilling to expound upon the subject any further than what has already been established and I silently beg that he will perceive my desire to drop it entirely. He must not know about James and me; not because I fear for James' safety but because of the potential for my own ruin… that I am not 'pure.' A bit selfish perhaps, but if the indiscretions of my youth were made public knowledge, I would become the laughingstock of the entire county. It would forever put a black mark upon my family name, and on James. He would inevitably be labeled as a rake.

Amidst my contemplations, I am aware of the silence between us. I am also aware that the Earl appears to be studying me rather intently—no doubt attempting to decipher the identity of the letter's author. All the while, memories of James continue their invasion on my mind, growing more rampant the more I try to push them aside.

"You are determined to keep me in suspense, I see," the Earl breaks the stillness at last.

"I assure you, it is not my intention," I admit. I watch his eyes flick down to my skirts as a mischievous smirk plays upon his lips.

"Perhaps I ought to see for myself, instead of being left to suffer the injustice of being kept in the dark." He speaks with an air of good humor, but I do not find it at all amusing when he encroaches upon me and makes a halfhearted reach.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?!" I cry at his intrusion, slapping his hand away. My heart begins to race. He persists, chuckling as he seizes me about my waist. I writhe in his grasp, trying to push him away. "Lord Barclay!" He growls into my neck, gripping my sides with such strength that it hurts. I beat my fists upon his chest, trying to escape. "Lord Barclay! Get off! Get—!"

He finally releases me and backs away, his lips twisted into an exasperated grin. "—Oh, calm yourself, Anna! I only jest."

"Sir, you have forgotten yourself! How dare you manhandle me! Your behavior is completely inappropriate!" I exclaim.

"Oh, for heaven sakes calm yourself, woman! Don't get your petticoats in a knot. I mean no harm," he folds his arms over his chest, his lips twisting in annoyance.

I fix him with a disapproving scowl, struggling to regain my composure. "Well, forgive me if I do not find your conduct amusing."

"My, we are quite vicious today, aren't we? You act as though you have something to hide," he declares. "And I am not entirely sure I approve of your conduct, ma'am. I am sorely tempted to demand you hand over the letter so that I may examine its contents for myself—"

"—I will do no such thing!" I cry indignantly.

"And why is that? If you've truly nothing to hide, then I fail to see what harm it would do."

"Because it is my personal business, Edmund! That's why!"

"Personal business?" He scowls. "You forget your place, Miss Sharpe! What 'personal' business could you possibly have that does not allow you to inform me of it? I tell you that smacks of deception, Miss!"

My mouth falls agape, taken aback completely by his accusation. "Deception? Sir, if you are implicating that I have been unfaithful or that I am entertaining the attentions of another gentleman, you are poorly mistaken! I have never once been unfaithful to you or to anyone else. You see, Lord Barclay, when I devote my attentions to someone, I do so wholeheartedly and without reserve. Your allegations are completely unfounded and you have insulted my honor, sir! For this, I feel the only appropriate course of action is for you to render an immediate apology and remove yourself from my presence at once! Lest I shall be forced to inform my father of your offense; in which case, I am most certain, he will demand satisfaction."

He falls silent, and it seems he is content to remain in it. It is just as well. I am seething at his blatant and unjustly attack upon my character! My anger is at such a level that I feel as though I have very little control over my own person. Clouds of red are teeming at the edge of my vision, pulsating behind my eyes. I am not entirely convinced that I am not trembling.

He has already insulted me, on top of nearly frightening me out of my wits. Anything else he has to say or do will most certainly mean the end of our courtship, though I am fully aware of the potential impact it may have upon my future, nevermind having to bear the disappointment of my parents knowing that I have refused yet another suitor.

But in spite of everything, he merely smiles.

"See, this is what I love most about you. You act reserved, quiet and withdrawn. But I see now that it is only a way of masking that fire that burns so brilliantly in you. You emanate life, Anna; you are the very essence of life itself! I have known you this year and more. I was struck by your beauty from the very moment I first laid eyes on you. But even so, the beauty of your face cannot compare to the beauty of your character. You are kind, compassionate, intelligent, spirited… and I have never been as attracted to you as I am now."

I say nothing, hardly believing what I am hearing.

"You are right: I shouldn't have made such judgment against you without first having exhausted every avenue in seeking the truth. I humbly beg you will forgive me for the wound I've inflicted upon you. I've no interest in causing you pain." I tense as he takes my hands into his own, fixing me with a look that I cannot deny is not unlike that of love. "In retrospect, I believe there is yet another course of action which I feel must necessarily be taken in a moment such as this, and it is my sincerest hope that what I am about to ask will fully exonerate me of my wrongdoings."

"Lord Barclay—"

I attempt to pull away, but he only pulls me closer so that my hands are trapped between us. My heart beats so fiercely that I scarce can breathe. His grip loosens, his touch becoming tender as he drags his fingers up my arms, causing me to shudder. His hands pause only for a moment at my shoulders and then continue up my neck to cradle my face between his palms. I notice him leaning in, his face mere inches from my own. His eyes find mine, holding me in a moment in time where the entire world fades from existence. I want him to stop—to take his hands off me, but…

My mouth moves in a futile attempt to protest, but no words are uttered, and whatever I intended to say becomes a jumbled mess as he presses his lips to my own. My entire body freezes. I gasp into the warmth of his mouth. I have not been kissed by anyone except James. The suddenness of it, such tenderness, shocks me.

It is not unpleasant… so I kiss him back.

My hands find his chest as his tongue caresses my lower lip; not to push him away but to… I'm not quite sure… to feel him. I feel every breath he breathes. I feel those powerful muscles beneath his waistcoat as he leans into my touch. I feel his heart racing against my fingertips… was he as nervous as I? I close my eyes, sinking into his kiss, into the taste of his mouth as I hesitantly allow my tongue to meet his. What is this feeling that has come over me?

The kiss seems to last forever, and it is disorienting when he finally pulls away.

"Anna Victoria Sharpe…" his voice is soft and deep, tender and caring, "…will you marry me?"

I am completely stunned.

I cannot think. I cannot speak. I cannot move—I am hardly breathing! The silence between us is deafening. I am barely aware of the rushing waters of the river or the sounds of spring, or the whisper of the wind in the willows. I see him searching my face, looking for an answer—an answer I cannot render. I do not love him—at least not as I have loved James nor am I sure I want to—but there is… affection there. Over time, we have developed a sort of friendship, and certainly, I care for him, but beyond that… beyond…

Did I truly want to marry him? Could I truly be happy with him? Do I trust him? Do I trust the darkness within?

What of James' letter, our past, my feelings for him—my love for him? His promise—no! No, I cannot do this now! I simply do not know! My mind is overwhelmed, and I can handle no more. It is too much!

"Excuse me!"

He does not fight as I tear myself from his grasp, fully aware of the hurt and confusion on his face. Seizing the hem of my dress, I flee as fast as my legs can carry me. He calls to me but I do not stop nor do I look back. I can't.

My mind reels with thoughts of James, of his letter; of the Earl, of the kiss, of the proposal, of my life—everything! My world feels as if it is crumbling all around me. The foundations of all that I have known, all that I have believed these years past, are shaken. I cannot make sense of anything, and I feel completely helpless.

I race down the path and through the Garden. I bound up the steps, and in my present state of mind, I have not the sense to stop my feet, causing me to crash into the doors. I fumble with the handle, releasing my frustration with a stifled cry. At last, it gives way to the black and white chequed marble floor of the Great Hall. The sound of my feet pounding against the surface echoes like gunfire through the ornately carved dome. I continue my mad dash through the dizzying halls of the stately mansion and fly up the spiraling staircase until I am at last arrived at my bedchamber. I thrust open the door and slam it shut behind me. I cannot stop the tears flowing freely down my face as I collapse against it, breathless, trembling, and pale.

How could this day get any worse?

It was not a question I expected to be answered, and unfortunately, it came as I was shifting my clothing for supper later that evening. To my horror, I made perhaps an even worse discovery: I had lost James' letter.