"Your Grace."
He turned to find Mrs. Whitby senior standing there, and the disappointment in her eyes was somehow worse than Marianne's anger.
"Mrs. Whitby..."
"You're the Duke of Wexmere."
"Yes."
"You've been here for four days, pretending to be someone else."
"Yes."
"You let us feed you, shelter you, trust you, all while lying about who you were."
"Yes."
"Why?"
It was such a simple question, but he found he didn't have a simple answer. Why had he done it? What had he hoped to accomplish?
"I don't know," he admitted. "I came to review the books, to see what Fletcher had stolen. I didn't intend to stay, didn't intend to get involved. But then everyone assumed I was the new steward, as I led them to believe, and it seemed easier to play along than explain."
"Easier for whom?"
"For me, obviously."
"And it never occurred to you that the truth would come out? That people would be hurt?"
"I thought I'd be gone before it mattered."
"But you stayed."
"I stayed."
"Why?"
He looked across the square to where Marianne was viciously organizing something, her movements sharp with anger. "You know why."
"Do I?"
"Your daughter is... remarkable."
"My daughter deserved the truth."
"I know."
"She trusted you. We all did."
"I know."
"She's been hurt before. Lost her husband, had to rebuild her entire life. And just when she was starting to open up again, to trust again, you..."
"I know." His voice was rough. "I know what I've done."
"Do you? Because from where I stand, it looks like you played with her feelings for your own amusement."
"It wasn't like that."
