It was ridiculous, and yet Blythe couldn’t rid herself of the memories. They scratched against her mind as she watched Everett cup his hand around Charlotte’s face, reminding Blythe of a time when a faceless someone had held her like that. A time when the heat of his kiss had blazed through her body, and she wanted nothing more than to drown herself in his touch.
Memories was the wrong word for what these images in her head really were, because they didn’t belong to her. Surely Blythe wouldn’t forget falling in love. Especially not with someone whose hands felt so strong against her cheek, or so powerful as they slid down her hips and lifted—
She shook away the image, hoping no one noticed that she was blushing. If she could take a shovel and dig the thoughts out, she would have by now, for they were doing her and her late-night fantasies no favors. She threw her attention instead to the happy couple, clapping with the others as the newlyweds kissed.
After everything that had happened over the past year, the Wakefield manor felt too beautiful for comfort. Its glassware and gilded cakes were too glittering, and the audience too opulent in their suits and gowns. Blythe kept expecting something to break, or perhaps for fire to rain from the sky, which wasn’t at all helping her to focus. That spring within her coiled even tighter, and she wanted to turn around and follow her unease. It felt like someone was watching her, yet she couldn’t sense where those curious eyes were coming from.
“It’s a beautiful wedding, isn’t it?”
Blythe flinched, recognizing the voice as Signa’s a moment too late. She took in Signa’s dark navy gown, a sharp contrast to her own, which was a shade of blue so icy that it almost looked silver. Elijah stood a short distance behind Signa, animated as he spoke to a laughing Eliza.
“He’s going to make a fantastic grandfather,” Signa continued when Blythe didn’t say anything, eyes narrowing on her cousin.
“He will,” Blythe agreed, turning her attention to the bride and groom. “And I daresay Charlotte has never looked happier.”
Blythe’s chest swelled as the couple held each other in tender arms. It was good to see Everett with a light in his eyes, again. The death of his father had been labeled a natural cause. The rumor was that the alleged poison was nothing more than a mistake made by a hasty coroner, thrown off by the body belonging to such a high-profile figure. A lie, of course, but one Blythe knew she and Signa would take to their graves.
Or at least she would. She wasn’t certain whether Signa would even have a grave.
“Has a name been chosen for the baby?” Signa asked a touch louder, earning the attention of the other Hawthornes, Eliza included.
She and Byron had announced their marriage days after Elijah’s return to Thorn Grove. They claimed to have been married months prior, citing Elijah’s imprisonment and Lord Wakefield’s death as the reason they’d kept the news from the public. There were whispers, of course, given the prominence of Eliza’s belly. But there would be no way to disprove anything; the two planned to take an extended trip to the countryside for the birth so that no one would know when the child came.
It may not have been the marriage that Eliza envisioned for herself, though it was one that had saved her. There was no romance between her and Byron, and as Eliza had told the girls already, Byron expected nothing that she was not inclined to offer. He had loved Percy, and all he wanted was to be there for the child.
“Cyril for a boy,” Eliza said with tender eagerness, grinning as she looked to Byron. “We’re still deciding for a girl.”
“It’s a strong name,” Elijah said before excusing himself to congratulate Charlotte’s father. All the while his grin was so wide that Blythe feared his face might split in two.
The excitement in Byron’s eyes, too, was undeniable. Signa prodded at it, her voice teasing, “Are you ready for their arrival? I imagine it feels like the child will be here any day.”
Byron placed a hand on the small of Eliza’s back. “It’ll be a relief to have them here.” He tried to sound casual about it, though casual for Byron meant that he might as well have been shouting from the rooftops.
“The day cannot come soon enough.” Eliza’s voice softened, ensuring no curious ears were paying them any mind. “I fear I will not know peace until this child is delivered safely.”
“They will be.” There was an edge of hardness to Byron’s posture. “There is no one to threaten the child’s life anymore, Eliza. You may sleep easy.”