“So are you,” he said softly.
She was. She hadn’t realized it, hadn’t noticed that she was shaking, but now…now that she knew…it seemed to grow worse. And then…even worse…and she thought she might cry, but she had no idea why. It was just there, inside of her. Too much feeling. Too much…
Just too much. It was just too much.
She nodded jerkily. “Good night,” she said, rushing out the word. The tears were there, too close, and she didn’t want him to see them.
“Good night,” he said, but she’d managed to pull down her window before he finished. And then she ran to the bed, and buried her face in her pillow.
But she didn’t cry. Even though now she wanted to.
And she still didn’t know why.
Harry held the blanket close as he trudged back out of his office. He was no longer quite so cold, but he felt awful. His chest had an unsettling, hollow feeling to it, and it seemed to intensify with each breath, sliding up his throat, drawing his shoulders up into a tense, unyielding shrug.
It wasn’t cold, he realized. It was fear.
Prince Alexei had frightened Olivia today. Harry wasn’t sure what exactly he’d done or said, and he knew that she would minimize her feelings if he pressed further about them, but something untoward had occurred. And it would happen again, if the prince was allowed free rein.
Harry moved through the front hall, holding the blanket with his left hand while he used his right to rub the back of his neck. He needed to calm down. He needed to catch his breath and think straight. It would be up to the bath, and then into bed, where he could calmly assess the problem and-
His front door began to rattle.
His heart slammed in his chest, and his muscles leaped to readiness, every nerve suddenly poised for a fight. It was late. And he’d been out following mysterious Russians. And…
And he was an idiot. If someone was going to break into his house, he’d not use the bloody front door. Harry stalked over, turned the lock, and pulled it open.
Edward fell in.
Harry stared down at his younger brother with disgust. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Harry?” Edward looked up and squinted, and Harry wanted to know who the hell else he was expecting.
“How much have you had to drink?” Harry demanded.
Edward tried to pull himself to his feet, but after a moment gave up and sat right in the center of the hall, blinking as if he weren’t quite sure how he’d got into the position. “What?”
If anything, Harry’s voice grew quieter. And more deadly. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Uhhhh…well…” Edward’s mouth moved, almost as if he were chewing his cud. He probably was, Harry thought with disgust.
“Don’t bother,” Harry said curtly. What did it matter how many drinks Edward had tossed back? It had been enough to render him senseless. The Lord only knew how he’d got himself home. He was no better than their father. The only difference was that Sir Lionel had confined most of his drunkenness to the home. Edward was making an ass of himself all over London.
“Get up,” Harry ordered.
Edward stared up at him, his face blank.
“Get. Up.”
“Why’re you so angry?” Edward muttered, reaching out for a hand. But Harry didn’t offer one, and so he struggled to his feet of his own accord, grabbing hold of a nearby table for balance.
Harry fought to keep hold of his temper. He wanted to grab Edward and shake and shake and bloody well scream that he was killing himself, that any day now he’d die the way Sir Lionel had, stupidly and alone.
His father had fallen out a window. He’d leaned too far out and broken his neck. On the table nearby, there had been a glass of wine and an empty bottle.
Or so he’d been told. Harry had been in Belgium. A letter had arrived from his father’s solicitor with the details.
From his mother he had heard nothing.
“Go to bed,” Harry said in a low voice.
Edward wobbled and smirked. “I don’t have to do what you say.”
“Fine then,” Harry spat. He’d had enough of this. It was like his father all over again, except now he could do something. He could say something. He didn’t have to stand there, helpless, and clean up someone else’s mess.
“Do what you want,” he said, his voice low and shaking. “Just don’t puke in my house.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Edward cried out, lurching forward and then grabbing the wall when he stumbled. “You’d like it if I left, so everything could be neat and tidy. You never wanted me.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re my brother.”
“You left. You left!” Edward nearly screamed.
Harry stared at him.
“You left me alone. With him. And her. And no one else. You knew Anne was leaving to get married. You knew I’d have no one.”
Harry shook his head. “You were leaving for school. You only had a few months before you would be gone. I made sure of it.”
“Oh, that was just-” Edward’s face contorted and his head moved about unsteadily, and for a moment Harry was sure he was going to vomit. But no, he was just trying to find the right word, the furious, sarcastic word.
And drunk as he was, he couldn’t do so.
“You didn’t…you didn’t even think.” Edward shook a finger at him, then shook it again. “What did you think would happen when he dropped me off?”
“You weren’t supposed to let him drop you off!”