Discovering the Devil

T h i r t y - s i x

XXXVI

HARRY had expected many things from heartbreak, but he hadn't expected anger. It had come over him in virulent waves since he'd given his proposal and it only seemed to be getting stronger.

The defining question was simple—how dare she? How dare she allow him to fall in love with her when she thought he was a monster? Harry had allowed himself to believe that she was the only person who saw him—truly saw him—for what he was instead of what he had been construed to be. He could not have been more wrong, and it wounded him like nothing else ever had.

He could've survived the rest of his life loveless, save for the affection of his friends, he had done so already. But to have tasted something so lovely and to have it ripped away? No, he would never forgive her for it. Harry detested her attempts to try and see him. Actually, he detested her presence at Hawthorne altogether. The longer she stayed, the deeper he hurt. That was what Harry had believed at first anyway. The next weekend that the servants were let off, Harry fled Hawthorne and stayed at an inn. He opted for a village a ways away from Milford—he wasn't sure he could bear the curious glances of Milford innkeepers or staff. No need to generate unnecessary gossip—the truth would be out soon enough. Berkeley was out of the question. If Harry shrank at the idea of being examined by strangers, he certainly couldn't suffer the attention of his friends. It would prove too much.

When he finally returned home, he was eager to end his respite. The inn had been as poor as he'd expected. And, perversely, he missed the heart-wrenching tension of occupying the same roof as the woman he loved. As soon as Harry crossed his doorstep, he sensed that he was alone. Instinct told him to go to his study where he found a letter waiting on his desk. After ingesting it, Harry promptly tore it to shreds (but not before bringing the paper to his nose, which still smelled of lavender).

So, she had left him once and for all. The rage that swept over him was painfully acute. How dare she?

Harry stewed over this latest disappointment for another day before deciding to do something about it. It only took a few hours to find the town where the newly wedded Abernathys were honeymooning. As Harry approached a lovely quiet cottage in a meadow, he wondered if Penelope would appreciate the same rustic simplicity on her honeymoon. The thought was a dagger to the heart, a double helping of bitterness and sorrow. It wasn't as if she would ever get married anyway for, according to her, the institution would never take. The two of them were wrapped quite snugly under a tree when Harry saw them. It was Andrew who saw him first, and at his appearance, he merely raised a brow.

"Hawthorne," he greeted. It wasn't cold or angry, both of which Harry deserved. He'd felt guilty ever since sullying their nuptials with Solomon's stabbing. Andrew did look concerned, if not curious.

"Abernathy," Harry returned awkwardly.

Polly's eyebrows furrowed. "Oh my goodness, Harry! What are you doing here?"

Andrew planted a kiss on his wife's forehead. "I'll leave the two of you alone." He gave Harry a pat on the shoulder as he went into the cottage. Harry awkwardly joined Polly underneath the tree.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Harry said. He really was sorry. He had already ruined the poor girl's wedding, now here he was pleading his case on her honeymoon. "I didn't know who else to turn to."

Polly, for her part, didn't look particularly annoyed, or overly sympathetic, which Harry appreciated. "Penelope mentioned that you like brandy. Would you like some?"

"No." Harry smiled bitterly. "I've had enough to drink in the past week to last a lifetime."

"I understand." Polly gazed at him softly. 'Let me guess—you asked her to marry you"