It was only when the unexpected, unplanned words were spoken that he understood why he had not broken the news to his family, why he had been unable to let go of the charade. He had learned something of infinite value during the summer—he and Lauren had both learned it, he believed. He had learned the importance of openness, of talking to the people he loved, even when habit urged him to keep everything locked up inside himself. He had a good relationship with his father and with Syd today because Lauren had coaxed him into talking with them after a three-year estrangement.
Yet he had never spoken the full truth to Lauren herself. He had withheld it for her sake, because it was something she did not want to hear, because she might find the knowledge a burden, because it might influence her into sacrificing what was of greatest importance to her—her freedom.
But perhaps she had a right to the truth. Freedom surely involved the right to choose.
Or perhaps he was simply deluding himself into self-indulgence.
But if it was self-indulgence, he thought as he rode into the village of Upper Newbury two days later on a blustery day and took a room at the inn on the green, it felt remarkably uncomfortable. The village was picturesque, and there was another part of it—Lower Newbury?—at the bottom of a steep hill, he could see from his room, its small houses clustered about a sheltered harbor, which nevertheless could not disguise the roughness of the sea.
He was undecided about whether he should call first at the dower house or at Newbury Abbey itself. But the dower house, he found, was just a short distance inside the gates of the park. He went there first. The ladies were at the abbey, a servant informed him, and so he rode the rest of the way along a lengthy, winding driveway and presented his card at Newbury Abbey with the request that the Countess of Kilbourne receive him.
He was kept waiting for only a couple of minutes before being ushered up to the drawing room, where several people were awaiting his appearance, all on their feet. Lauren was not among them.
She had not been as reticent as he, he could see immediately. These people all knew. Lady Muir was looking pale, the Dowager Lady Kilbourne grave, Portfrey poker-faced. But the small, blond-haired, exquisitely pretty young lady who hurried toward him, her hand extended, was smiling.
“Lord Ravensberg?” she said. “What a pleasure this is.”
“Ma’am?” He bowed over her hand.
“Ravensberg?” A tall, blond man, about Kit’s own age, came up beside her and bowed without offering his hand.
“Kilbourne?”
He was in the presence, Kit realized, of the man who had meant so much to Lauren all her life, whom she had been within a few minutes of marrying, whom she had loved and probably still did. And of the infamous Lily, who had blighted all Lauren’s hopes and dreams.
“What a pleasant surprise,” the countess said. “Do come and have a seat. It is rather chilly outside today, is it not? You know everyone else, I believe?”
The ladies curtsied. Portfrey inclined his head. He was holding a small child against one shoulder, Kit noticed for the first time. The duchess smiled warmly.
“You have come, Lord Ravensberg,” she said. “I am so glad as I have predicted it.”
“And I,” the countess added, taking Kit’s arm and leading him toward a chair. “Lauren wrote to you before telling any of us—even Gwen—that she was going to end her betrothal. We have all been mystified and very sad because Gwen and my mama-in-law were both firmly of the opinion that it was a love match and very much approved of by your family. Lauren insisted that the breakup was all her idea, that none of the blame must be laid at your door, but of course we have been doing just that. We love Lauren very dearly, you see, and it is always easier to blame strangers. But now you have come, and you may defend yourself in person.”
“Lily!” Kilbourne said. “Ravensberg owes us no explanation at all. We do not even know why he has come.”
“I came,” Kit said, “to speak with Lauren. Where is she?”
“What is it you wish to say?” Kilbourne asked. “She has ended the betrothal. None of us knows why exactly, but we can safely guess that she has no further wish to see or speak with you.”
“She is best left alone, Lord Ravensberg,” the dowager added. “She was quite adamant in her insistence that she had not acted out of impulse when she wrote to you. I do not know what happened at Alvesley, but she is quite determined not to have you despite the social stigma of a broken engagement. If this is a courtesy call, I thank you on behalf of my niece. If it is not, you see a formidable array of her concerned relatives before you ready to protect her from you.”
“Poor Lord Ravensberg,” the duchess said with a sympathetic laugh. “You will be thinking you have stepped onto an Arctic continent. We are being unfair to you. Lauren really has insisted that none of the blame for what has happened is yours.”
“She is down on the beach,” Lady Muir said quietly from some distance away.
Kit looked at her and inclined his head. He still had not sat down.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
“She said she wanted to be alone,” Kilbourne said. “She said she did not want to be disturbed.”
“And so, Lord Ravensberg,” the countess added, smiling, “you will have all the privacy in the world to say to her what you have come to say.”
“I’ll not have her upset,” Kilbourne said.
The countess relinquished Kit’s arm in order to take her husband’s. She smiled up at him. “Lauren is twenty-six years old, Neville,” she said. “She is very sensible and has just spent weeks convincing us that she is in control of her own life and can make her own decisions. If she does not want to speak to Lord Ravensberg, she will tell him so.”
When Kilbourne looked down into his wife’s eyes, Kit realized two things. Lauren was very much loved here at Newbury Abbey, especially perhaps by the two who had caused her the most pain. And Kilbourne was consumed by guilt for what he had made her suffer. Consequently he was doing all in his power to see to it that she did not suffer again.
“I will walk down to the beach if someone will show me the way,” Kit said.
“It is going to rain,” Kilbourne said, glancing toward the window. “Tell her to come home without delay.”
The countess smiled dazzlingly at her husband though she spoke to Kit. “Tell her to take shelter in the cottage, Lord Ravensberg. It is closer.”
“Walk down over the lawn,” Lady Muir instructed him, “bearing right as you go until you reach the cliff path.”
Kit bowed to them all and made his exit.
It was not really raining when he reached the steep path down the side of the cliff. It was not even quite drizzling. But his face felt damp and his ungloved hands clammy. It was certainly going to be raining soon.
He realized where he was when he was halfway down. Lauren had described it once—the short valley with a waterfall and pool at the inner end and a picturesque cottage beside the pool. It was where she had once seen Kilbourne and his countess frolicking and had concluded that she was incapable of that kind of passion herself. There was no sign of Lauren. He turned his gaze to the beach and shaded his eyes as he looked along the wide stretch of golden sand.
And then he spotted her. And smiled. And knew beyond all doubt that the summer had not been in vain for her. Wearing a cloak but no bonnet on a blustery, damp day, she was in the middle of the beach, facing a wild, tumultuous sea, and perched at the very pinnacle of a great tall rock, which from this angle appeared to have almost sheer sides.
At the same time the scene chilled him. This she had done alone. She had not needed help or support—not from him or anyone else. Seeing her thus, he knew that she had achieved self-knowledge and peace. That she was capable of living her life her way. That she needed no one.