At last she dipped a sycophantic curtsey that made him grind his teeth together, and she murmured, “Good evening, my lord.” Skirting as close to the stairs as she could, as if she suspected he might make a grab for her, she turned away from him and disappeared up the stairs and into the depths of the house.
Only when she had gone did he let out a sigh. He had no right to his disappointment; he had nurtured her reticence with his disregard. He could hardly expect her to extend a hand to him when it had been bitten before.
Still he stood at the base of the stairs long after she had departed, the futility of his aims crashing down around him. With only a fortnight to sway her, and a wall of mistrust and hurt between them, it seemed a Sisyphean labor.
But he owed it to her to try. To show her the same consideration she had shown him, even when he hadn’t deserved it.Especiallywhen he hadn’t deserved it.
And he whispered, “Good night, Claire,” though it was a useless gesture when she could not hear it, and took himself off to bed.
∞∞∞
Ten more days. Claire rubbed at her eyes and folded over the letter from Lady Westwood, tucking it away in a drawer. She could last that long. Unpleasant though it might be, she had suffered through worse. In the grand scheme of things, it was virtually nothing.
At the very least it was a few more days with Matthew. But to spend it pretending that her heart wasn’t breaking in her chest? That it wouldn’t destroy her to leave? Rationally, she might know that she had made the right decision, that it would be unreasonably selfish to compromise Matthew’s health and happiness, the very security of his future, by trying to remain in his life, but it made little difference to her heart which shattered at the thought of relinquishing any claim on her little boy.
She started at the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside her room, tensing as she waited for the door to open, for Gabriel to slip inside and hold her hostage to his whims. For a terrifying moment the footsteps stopped, pausing outside her door. With one hand clutching her nightgown to her chest, she hesitated even to breathe.
A soft sound drifted through the door, like a weary exhale. A moment later the footsteps retreated, fading into silence. She wilted onto her bed, the protesting squeak of the ropes beneath her grating her nerves.
She let the soft, worn fabric of her nightgown fall into her lap, released from the crush of her fingers. It was hardly a mystery precisely who had been standing outside her door, but she wondered what had kept him anchored outside. It wasn’t as if he had hesitated before, as if she had the right to bar him from any corner of his own house.
But he hadn’t come in. It felt like a missed message, an attempt at communication in a language she did not understand. And still he waited for her at the foot of the stairs each evening, quietly requesting her presence, which, thus far, she had declined to provide. She wished he would return to ignoring her. She had no desire to suffer the lash of his anger ever again, no wish to continue tearing out pieces of her soul to return to him pieces of his.
She only wanted to serve out the remainder of her tenure in peace.
∞∞∞
Gabriel stood once again at the base of the stairs, determined to catch Claire once more before she retreated to her room. Last evening she’d refused him again, and now there were only nine days remaining. Desperation had begun to set in. Thus far he had avoided approaching her during the day, when his attention might have pulled her from duties that she would then have to attend to later in the evening, or where they might be observed by the staff with whom she already found herself on tenuous grounds.
He had been waiting for nigh on an hour now, and the rest of the staff had long since disappeared back to their quarters. Claire seemed to work longer hours than all of them, pushing herself from dawn until well into the evening. She often retired long after the rest of the staff now, having determined, no doubt, that some task or other required her urgent attention. He suspected she worked herself into exhaustion to avoid spending too much of her time considering the decision she had made and its inevitable consequences.
At the very least, she always made time for Matthew—though, notably, she never came near the nursery whenever Gabriel was present. Indeed, she went out of her way to avoid him whenever possible.
He heaved a sigh and tunneled his fingers through his hair, keenly aware that he was at a hell of a disadvantage. What could he do to dissuade her from her course if she would not speak with him? For that matter, whyshouldshe speak with him, given his recent inability to hold his tongue and temper both? He should be so lucky—
At last Claire came into view, a circle of light engulfing her from the candle she held in her hand, the flame casting golden notes like a halo over her hair. She crept toward the staircase with a sort of queer trepidation, her eyes scanning the darkness. She blanched when she caught sight of him, her footsteps halting.
“Claire,” he said, “would you—”
“Good evening, my lord,” she interrupted, swinging toward the staircase.
For the first time, he reached out and touched her. Just a hand at her wrist, deliberately light. “Please, Claire.”
With a swift, indrawn breath, she paused on the first step. She could have thrown off his hand easily enough; his grip was not tight, not restraining—only entreating.
“Why?” she asked at last, but the word was just a whisper, and her eyes were fixed to his hand on her wrist as if she could not bring herself to meet his gaze.
The last time she had evinced the slightest vulnerability, he had leapt upon it like a wild animal scenting weakness. Now he would have to humble himself before her, to reveal his own weakness and hope that she would not repay him in kind. “I owe you an apology,” he said softly. “I told you that I would be better. And for a while, Ididtry. But the moment something truly challenged that resolution, I slid straight back into that pit that I had resolved to climb out of.” He let his thumb rub over the inside of her wrist in a stroke he hoped was soothing. “You deserved better than that.”
She blinked—not in surprise, not in relief, but a long, slow blink accompanied by a steady breath, as if she were gathering strength within herself. “I believe,” she said, slowly, “that your final determination was that I could go to the devil.”
He winced. “I said many things of which I am not proud,” he said at last. “Worse still, Ididthings I knew would hurt you. I would ask your forgiveness for them if I thought I was deserving of it. As things stand currently, all I can do is to give you my word that it will not happen again.”
Her face was blank, expressionless. Probably his word was worth nothing to her—of what value was a promise from a man whom she did not trust?
Her breath staggered in her chest; a rare show of emotion. “I don’t—I don’t want to speak of the past.”
Of course she didn’t. He’d pried into old wounds, dredging up private memories that hurt her to recall, bitter reminders of everything she had lost. “I was wrong,” he said, “to foist that on you. What I may or may not recall was never your responsibility. I won’t make demands of you.”
