Read Online The Countess's Groom by Emily Larkin - Free Book Online Page B

from his seat alongside Edward.
    Edward agreed. A gust of wind whistled across the bare fields, and with it, the first icy drops of rain. He shivered and urged the horses up the driveway. Guilt , a familiar companion since Waterloo , seemed to wrap more closely around him with each step the weary horses took. The hall disappeared, then came into sight again, looking even more grim and inhospitable. He drew the curricle to a stop in front of the frowning, iron-studded door, handed the reins to Tigh, and clambered down.
    “Take it round to the stables.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The rain came down steadily as the curricle moved off. Edward rubbed his aching thigh. Guilt settled more heavily on him as he limped up the steps. Creed Hall loomed above him. It was ugly, but even so, it was Toby’s home. It should be him here, not me .
    The door opened on grating hinges before he reached it. “Mr. Kane.”
    Edward stepped inside, shivering. He handed his hat to the elderly butler, shrugged out of his fur-lined driving coat, and peeled off his gloves. Oil paintings hung on the dark paneled walls, barely discernible in the gloom.
    “Sir Arthur is in the library, sir,” the butler said, receiving the gloves and managing not to stare at Edward’s butchered hands. Or perhaps he didn’t notice the lack of fingers in the dimness.
    “If you would follow me, sir?”
    Edward followed.
    The library was almost as dark as the entrance hall. The curtains were drawn against the dusk, but a lone candle burned on a side table and a meager fire smoked in the grate. A figure sat in a winged leather armchair beside the fireplace, shrouded in shadow.
    “Mr. Kane, sir,” the butler said, and departed.
    Edward bowed toward the armchair. “Sir Arthur?”
    As Sir Arthur levered himself from the armchair, Edward tried to find some points of similarity between his host and Toby. Height, leanness, a long face, but there it stopped. Arthur Strickland was thin to the point of emaciation, his high, domed skull bare except for a few wisps of white hair, his skin withered into pale, desiccated folds. Where Toby had liked to laugh, it appeared that Arthur Strickland preferred to frown. Lines of disapproval were engraved on his face, pinching between the feathery eyebrows and deeply bracketing his mouth.
    Sir Arthur held out his hand, leaning heavily on his ebony cane, noticed the three fingers missing from Edward’s right hand, and hesitated.
    “It doesn’t hurt, sir,” Edward said. Not much .
    Strickland shook hands with him, a dry, limp clasp.
    “Waterloo?”
    “Yes.”
    Interest sharpened in the old man’s eyes.
    Edward braced himself for the inevitable questions, but instead Sir Arthur said, “Sherry?”
    “Please.”
    Strickland rang for a servant. Edward sat silently while the butler bustled into the library, poured two small glasses of sherry, and left. Sir Arthur’s gaze was on his face. Edward watched the old man trace the scars, seeing him note the missing ear. Finally the perusal ended.
    “Waterloo as well?”
    Edward nodded. He sipped his sherry. It was mouth-puckeringly dry.
    Strickland sighed. He leaned back in his armchair. “My son...you were with him when he died?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Sir Arthur glanced at the fire, blinked several times, swallowed, and brought his gaze back to Edward.
    “Would you mind...telling me?”
    A rush of memory ambushed Edward. For a brief moment he was back at Waterloo. The smells of blood and cordite filled his nose. Toby’s shout rang in his ears. Get up, Ned! was as vivid, as clear, as if the battle had been yesterday, not five months ago.
    Muscles clenched in Edward’s stomach. He gulped a fortifying mouthful of sherry.
    “Not at all.” He looked away from the old man’s face and began his tale.
    …
    There was silence for a long time after Edward had finished, then Arthur Strickland cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
    Edward nodded.
    The old man stood slowly. “We dine at six.”
    Edward