“You agreed,” he reminded her, more harshly than he had intended.
“Yes,” she hissed. “I agreed in desperation. That does not mean I cannot remedy my own folly.”
Folly.
He had not thought himself capable of feeling wounded by such a simple word. Yet hurt settled in, low and unfamiliar.
“You regret everything, then?” he asked.
She hesitated. Her mouth trembled. For a moment, the truth shone in her eyes. “Yes,” she lied.
He saw it. The small flutter at her throat. The way her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass until her knuckles blanched.
She did not regret a thing. She was suffering. There was a difference.
I know you do not.
He crushed the thought.
“If that is your wish,” he said, forcing his tone into cold courtesy, “then the arrangement ends.”
She swallowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“You will not accept more money?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “I will keep what you have already given. It will help. The rest I will obtain elsewhere.”
“By becoming a governess,” he said flatly. “In a house with children and unfamiliar men and no one to shield you from insult.”
“I do not require shielding,” she snapped. “I am not a child.”
He leaned back, studying her. Her chin was tilted stubbornly. Her eyes shone suspiciously.
To his surprise, He found that he did not wish to let her go.
“This is foolish,” he muttered. “You could be safe with me.”
“At my own expense,” she retorted. “You are not safety, Victor. You are a reprieve.”
The use of his name did something uncomfortable to his ribs.
“And what exactly do you imagine Cheltenham will be?” he asked. “A paradise?”
“A beginning,” she said. “One that belongs to me.” She rose, setting her untouched wine glass on the table with care. “I have told you what I came to say. Our… arrangement is at an end. I wish you a good night, Your Grace. And good fortune with whatever perfectly suitable bride your mother chooses for you.”
He stood up as well, his irritation flaring hotter. “You walk into danger out of pride.”
“And you invited me into sin out of curiosity,” she returned. “We are both at fault.”
She turned away before he could reply. The swish of her skirts stirred the air. She crossed toward the door with the same grace she had entered, but he could see the tension in her shoulders.
He could let her go. In truth, it was the simplest thing. She wished to leave. He had already told himself he must not care.
Yet, as her hand reached for the knob, another image rose in his mind unbidden: Howard Tull’s temper. The sharp, cold way she had spoken of it. The vulnerability of a young woman traveling alone to a town where she knew no one but a distant relative. The way rumor clung to her name like burrs.
He also saw with unwelcome clarity the way she had looked when she shattered under his hands. The trust she had not meant to give and he had not deserved.
If she left under the cover of some hastily devised plan, with little money and fewer allies, a single misstep could ruin everything she had bled to preserve.
