Breathing hard, she wrapped her arms around her shoulders, trying to rein herself in.
“I wish I had,” he said quietly. “I know now that I was wrong, not—” Upon her starting to speak, he raised a hand. “Please let me finish. I was wrong, not only because maman was a saboteur, but in principle. Even had she been perfectly innocent, still I would have been wrong to favor her distress above yours. You are the woman I should have vowed to love, honor, and keep, not her. Perhaps it required the shock of her treachery to teach me that, but I have learnt the lesson.”
To this speech Claire could make no response. She was too confused. Esteem and the glow of validation were at war with doubt and indignation, and if the seedlings of forgiveness or affection were anywhere to be found, she could not perceive them.
Correcting his error now, she reflected bitterly, after the damage was already done, did not oblige her to forgive and forget.
Jonathan seemed to take her silence as encouragement enough to continue. “I realize there is nothing I can do to erase my past offenses, though I can promise never to repeat them. Your pardon would be a kindness rather than a justice, and certainly more than I deserve. I only desire you to know that I’ve changed, and—well, that I’m still here. I’m still yours. If you’ll have me.”
Still mine.
Something shifted—just a hair’s breadth—within her. She was not disarmed, but she felt the first inkling of danger. It would be so easy, such a relief, to fall into his arms and let him soothe away all the hardships of the past year. All the constant little stings of deprivation…
Her eyes, deprived of the sight of him.
Her body, deprived of his touch.
Her heart, deprived of the bubbly joy that had carried her smiling through all her days, from the day they met to the day he left.
For a moment, she let herself imagine those comforts could be hers again. He could be hers again. It seemed impossibly indulgent—after yearning so long for just a word or a glimpse of him—to instead imagine him always by her side. Always there to talk with, to touch, to hold, whenever she wanted. They would be quickly married. They would ride off in a carriage together. They would embark on a blissful new life, just the two of them at?—
At Twineham Park.
“What of your mother?” Claire asked abruptly.
Jonathan raised a brow. “What of her? She’s nothing to me now.”
Claire saw right through his indifferent façade, but decided not to remark upon it at present. “Has she given up the dower house?”
“No, but that doesn’t signify.”
“Does it not?” Claire planted a hand on her hip. “She’ll be living a quarter mile from our—that is, your doorstep.”
“So?” He twisted his mouth into a sneer. “A quarter mile is distance enough if we decline to acknowledge her. I was at Twineham just yesterday and never clapped eyes on the woman.”
“You’re certain she was at home?” Claire pressed. “And didn’t try to see you?”
“I’ve no idea. I instructed my butler to turn her away and henceforth never utter her name to me.”
Claire laughed without humor. “And this is your plan? You’ll spend the rest of your life tiptoeing round your own house and pretending she doesn’t exist?”
“Only the rest of her life,” he retorted. “Unless she should decide, on her generous widow’s portion, to remove somewhere else—to Brighton, perhaps, or even Neuf-Marché. Then all parties would be satisfied.”
“Satisfied?” Claire scoffed. “You think your mother will ever give up on reconciling with her beloved son? Or that you and your tender heart could just throw her off with nary a scruple?”
His eyes flashed. “I can be as stout-hearted as the next man.”
“I’m certain you can, in support of a just cause. But avoiding your mother because you’re scared to face a quarrel is not what I would call a just cause.”
“I’m not scared!” He took up the poor napkin again, wringing it without mercy. “I simply don’t care to waste my time. There’s no reasoning with her.”
“How do you know? Have you tried?”
“No, Claire,” he said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Incredibly, I somehow managed to live with the woman for twenty-nine years without ever engaging in a single reasoned discussion. You know, just because you were right about my mother’s deception does not mean you’re an authority on everything.”
“No, not on everything.” Claire drew herself up. “But I am most certainly the highest authority on my own feelings. And I feel your mother’s shadow still hanging over us—and between us. The problem hasn’t gone away; it’s only been swept beneath the carpet.”
He fixed her with an exasperated scowl. “I don’t understand what you want from me. Maman tried to keep us apart, so I severed ties?—”
