How long—how long had Winnie feared to ask for help in this way? How long had she been afraid to tell the truth and to venture even this small risk of rejection? It seemed to Winnie that her whole life had been built upon the desire to protect herself—to act the way she was supposed to act, to court only approbation and never judgment.
It went against the fundamental precedents of a lifetime to ask the duchess for this favor. And yet the woman had granted it so easily. As though it were not an importunity to be asked. As though her help were freely given.
Winnie wanted to find Spencer. She wanted to tell him everything, wanted him to sweep her into his arms, wanted to celebrate with sweet champagne on their mouths and their mouths on one another.
But she could not do it.
She turned to leave and found herself looking into the stupefied face of an elegant older gentleman in a floral waistcoat.
“Eliza?” he whispered.
She heard a strange buzzing in her ears. She took a step back. “No,” she said. Her fingers clutched a lock of her hair, a desperate frantic grab, but the old soothing gesture did not work. Her grip might as well have been on air. Fear stiffened her spine, made her mind sluggish.
“No,” she said again, “I’m not Eliza.”
“Who are you?” the man said.
“My name is Winnie Wallace,” she said hoarsely. “Eliza was my mother.”
“Brownbrooke,” the dowager duchess broke in, “this woman is my guest.”
“Lisbet—” The man’s voice was choked, his face growing flushed. “Do you know who this is? This is Eliza Spencer’s daughter. She’s the very picture of her mother, that goddamned scheming little adventuress.”
So this was Brownbrooke—this pale, almost delicate-looking man. He had loved Eliza, or thought he had. He had been one of the most furious when he’d discovered Eliza’s theft—furious and heartbroken and disbelieving. He’d believed she’d loved him too.
I know,Winnie thought.I felt the same way when she left.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go.”
“You’re damned right you have to go!” Brownbrooke’s voice had increased in volume. “You don’t belong here. How dare you? How dare you even think to show your face here?”
And then there was a warm hand at her back, a strong solid form pressed up against her own.
Spencer. Here to rescue her. Again.
“Brownbrooke,” he said. His voice was low and pleasant and terrifying. “I suggest you think carefully about how you speak to the Countess of Warren.”
Brownbrooke made a choking sound. “TheCountess of Warren? Jesus Christ, Warren, you’vemarriedthe little cat? Don’t you know who she is?”
The buzz in her ears had become a roar. No. No. She could not let Spencer do this again.
“No,” she said. “No, he hasn’t. I’m not the Countess of Warren.”
Spencer caught her elbow. “Win—”
“We were married under false pretenses,” she went on. It was only the practice of a lifetime that kept her voice calm now. Each word was a raw scrape against her throat. “The earl did not know my true identity. We have already begun the annulment proceedings.”
“Winnie—”
“No,” she said. She turned her gaze from Brownbrooke to Spencer. His face was tight, his eyes intent on her. “I have already written to a solicitor.Mysolicitor, not yours. I have made my confession. It’s done, Spencer.”
“Jesus.” His voice had gone strained. “Why?”
“I could not ask you to sacrifice any more of yourself,” she whispered. “I knew you would, if I let you. So I took matters into my own hands.”
Spencer stared down at her. His hand was still on her back, and every muscle in his body felt tense, almost vibrating with suppressed emotion. In the glittering gaslight, his eyes were the color of yearning, the color of a summer storm.
And then he turned away from her.
