Free Heartless by Mary Balogh

Luke, though I had business that forced me up to town for a couple of days anyway. It brings me here about twice a year, which is twice a year too many for my liking. I have a letter from Henrietta.”
    â€œAh,” Luke said, ignoring the feeling that a heavy fist had collided with his stomach and taking the offered paper from his friend’s hand. He slipped it inside a pocket of his robe. “That was good of you, Will. How is she? And how are you? Married with half a dozen hopefuls in your nursery already?”
    William’s already ruddy complexion flushed. “Not married,” he said, “and not really looking. The only place to do that properly is London, and I cannot bear the thought of spending time here and trotting off to balls and such all done up like a painted maypole. Oh, sorry, Luke.”
    Luke motioned to a chair and rang for refreshments as Lord Severidge seated himself. “I appear like a . . . ah, painted maypole to you, Will?” he said. “Goodness me, and I am not even dressed in all my finery.”
    William looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Henrietta is well,” he said abruptly, answering an earlier question.
    Luke sat down and crossed one leg over the other. It had seemed incredible to him even as a boy that William and Henrietta could be brother and sister. Henrietta was exquisitely small and slender. He wondered if she was still as slender.
    â€œShe was never happy,” William said. “She lost the child, as you doubtless heard. They never appeared close and he changed—became more morose.” He paused to cough. “You do not want to hear this, do you?”
    Luke’s hand was opening and closing on the arm of his chair. “’Tis old news, Will,” he said. “Very old news.”
    His friend was mopping at his forehead with a large handkerchief. “She has been restless since we heard you were back in England,” he said. “She thinks perhaps it is she who is keeping you from coming home.”
    â€œAh,” Luke said quietly. “No, Will. I have as great an aversion to the country as you do to the city. I belong in Paris, or at the very least in London. No, she is wrong.”
    They sat in silence while a footman carried in a tray and poured them each a drink—wine for William, water for Luke.
    â€œI do not know what she has written in the letter,” William said, nodding his head in the direction of the pocket into which Luke had put it. “Though it looked to be long enough. Pox upon it, but women can ramble on when they have a pen in their hands, Luke. I point the quill at the air when I try to write a letter while my mind draws a total blank, and I end up squeezing out two stiff sentences in an hour if I am lucky.”
    â€œI shall read the letter later,” Luke said.
    â€œBut she would insist on my bringing it in person,” William said, “and delivering it into your own hand, Luke. She would have me tell you in words, too, that Bowden is yours, that you belong there, that she is pleased you do, and that it would hurt her to feel she is keeping you from what is rightfully yours.”
    â€œShe is not,” Luke said. “You may tell her that, Will.”
    â€œIt hurts her to know that you are in England but have made no move to go to Bowden,” William said. “She might have come here with me, Luke, but she would not force you to meet her again. She seems to feel that perhaps you blame her . . . Ecod, but this sort of thing is not to my liking. As I live, this will be the last time I carry messages for anyone.”
    â€œIf you will give me time to change,” Luke said, “we may proceed to White’s together, Will. Are you a member? I have been newly accepted there.”
    â€œAye.” His friend was visibly relieved at the changing of topic. “There is frequently good conversation to be had there.”
    â€œLand and crops