dark-haired—would have elicited a smile.
Not today, though. Today, he wanted them to pick up their pace, to get beyond hearing distance, so they wouldn’t feel compelled to come to their mistress’s defense should she scream.
He waited another full minute before reentering the carriage. Shutting the door, he leveled his most determined gaze on Cora. She glared back with her red-rimmed eye, the one filled with false courage and aching vulnerability. A bead of sweat edged its way over her vivid red scar, and her sheet-white face glowed in the late afternoon light. The sight of her misery stopped the harsh words in his throat.
“Save yourself the trouble,” she said. “I’m not taking any more of that poison. And you won’t bully me today like you did yesterday.”
Ignoring her, he tilted the vial of brown liquid until two drops splashed into the flask of water.
“Have you ever seen a woman who is dependent on laudanum?” she pressed.
“Cora, you won’t become an opium eater by taking measured doses for a short period of time. The women you’re speaking of have taken the opiate for months, possible years, to stave off severe headaches or unsatisfactory husbands. Neither is the case for you.” He held out the flask. “Drink it.”
Her hands remained tucked around her middle.
Disquiet pulsed below the surface of his unwavering resolve. They had several hours to go before reaching Herrington Park. She wouldn’t last another quarter hour. Nor would he.
Then something quite unexpected happened. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes, and her chin wobbled with repressed emotion.
Guy scooted to the edge of his seat. “Cora.”
She shook her head, worrying her bottom lip. “My mother”—she cleared her throat—“my mother used to—”
He touched her knee, stopping her difficult confession. “I know, sweetheart.”
“You do?” she asked in a shaky voice. “How?”
He rubbed his thumb in large, soothing circles. “Men talk, too.”
“Ethan.” She stared into space. “I’ve never spoken of it.”
“Many years passed before Danforth revealed your mother’s dependence.” Guy watched her expression, gauging her reaction. “Heavy drink tends to loosen a man’s tongue.”
Her gaze focused on his left shoulder. “Until the year before her death, my mother was perfectly normal. She was loving and happy. Bigger than life in some ways.”
Guy balanced the flask between his feet and drew one of her hands between his. He waited for her to withdraw, but she never noticed his bold touch. Her thoughts had turned deeply inward.
“During that last year, she alternated between being the mother I had always known to a cruel and sullen creature. It didn’t take me long to connect the brown bottle sitting on her bedside table, the one she ripped from my hands when I dared to inquire about it, to the volatile woman who sent me fleeing for the security of my chamber at every turn.”
Guy’s throat clenched against the image of a young Cora hiding from her beloved mother. He chafed the ice from her fingers. “Hold the good memories of your mother to your heart. Those are the ones she would want you to remember.”
She nodded, her gaze falling to their clasped hands.
“You’re not your mother, Cora.”
“I know.” He heard little conviction in her tone.
He picked up the flask and wrapped her fingers around the metal container.
“If you won’t do this for you, do it for Dinks.” And me. “She worries about you.”
She closed her tempest-filled eyes. “Not fair.”
Relief banished his disquiet. Even as a girl, Cora had been headstrong, but she had always favored others’ needs above her own.
When her eyelids finally lifted, he saw resignation in their blue-green depths.
“Trust me, Cora.”
Upending the flask, she downed the bitter concoction as if she raced against time, then offered the empty container back to him. “That’s vile.”
He smiled. “I wondered if it tasted as awful as
Not today, though. Today, he wanted them to pick up their pace, to get beyond hearing distance, so they wouldn’t feel compelled to come to their mistress’s defense should she scream.
He waited another full minute before reentering the carriage. Shutting the door, he leveled his most determined gaze on Cora. She glared back with her red-rimmed eye, the one filled with false courage and aching vulnerability. A bead of sweat edged its way over her vivid red scar, and her sheet-white face glowed in the late afternoon light. The sight of her misery stopped the harsh words in his throat.
“Save yourself the trouble,” she said. “I’m not taking any more of that poison. And you won’t bully me today like you did yesterday.”
Ignoring her, he tilted the vial of brown liquid until two drops splashed into the flask of water.
“Have you ever seen a woman who is dependent on laudanum?” she pressed.
“Cora, you won’t become an opium eater by taking measured doses for a short period of time. The women you’re speaking of have taken the opiate for months, possible years, to stave off severe headaches or unsatisfactory husbands. Neither is the case for you.” He held out the flask. “Drink it.”
Her hands remained tucked around her middle.
Disquiet pulsed below the surface of his unwavering resolve. They had several hours to go before reaching Herrington Park. She wouldn’t last another quarter hour. Nor would he.
Then something quite unexpected happened. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes, and her chin wobbled with repressed emotion.
Guy scooted to the edge of his seat. “Cora.”
She shook her head, worrying her bottom lip. “My mother”—she cleared her throat—“my mother used to—”
He touched her knee, stopping her difficult confession. “I know, sweetheart.”
“You do?” she asked in a shaky voice. “How?”
He rubbed his thumb in large, soothing circles. “Men talk, too.”
“Ethan.” She stared into space. “I’ve never spoken of it.”
“Many years passed before Danforth revealed your mother’s dependence.” Guy watched her expression, gauging her reaction. “Heavy drink tends to loosen a man’s tongue.”
Her gaze focused on his left shoulder. “Until the year before her death, my mother was perfectly normal. She was loving and happy. Bigger than life in some ways.”
Guy balanced the flask between his feet and drew one of her hands between his. He waited for her to withdraw, but she never noticed his bold touch. Her thoughts had turned deeply inward.
“During that last year, she alternated between being the mother I had always known to a cruel and sullen creature. It didn’t take me long to connect the brown bottle sitting on her bedside table, the one she ripped from my hands when I dared to inquire about it, to the volatile woman who sent me fleeing for the security of my chamber at every turn.”
Guy’s throat clenched against the image of a young Cora hiding from her beloved mother. He chafed the ice from her fingers. “Hold the good memories of your mother to your heart. Those are the ones she would want you to remember.”
She nodded, her gaze falling to their clasped hands.
“You’re not your mother, Cora.”
“I know.” He heard little conviction in her tone.
He picked up the flask and wrapped her fingers around the metal container.
“If you won’t do this for you, do it for Dinks.” And me. “She worries about you.”
She closed her tempest-filled eyes. “Not fair.”
Relief banished his disquiet. Even as a girl, Cora had been headstrong, but she had always favored others’ needs above her own.
When her eyelids finally lifted, he saw resignation in their blue-green depths.
“Trust me, Cora.”
Upending the flask, she downed the bitter concoction as if she raced against time, then offered the empty container back to him. “That’s vile.”
He smiled. “I wondered if it tasted as awful as
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