I look up at him in surprise and he looks away uncomfortably and gives a small, awkward shrug. “Apparently, I cannot bear you thinking badly of me.”
Then why tell me dark things? I nearly say, but I don’t. I like him being honest with me. I don’t want there to be secrets between us.
“I’ve been reading about that consent word you shouted at me in the library,” he says. “It’s not a concept I was familiar with, to my shame.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s not a courtesy that was afforded to me when I was young, so I did not know to extend it to others.”
He comes to a shuddering halt. He is not looking at me and his shoulders are drooped. Is he telling me what I think he is telling me? Is that what Rathbone did to him? I reach out and place my hand over his. He exhales heavily.
“I have done wrong to so many. I completely mishandled what happened to Jem. I have not treated you well.”
My heart is beating like crazy. I’ve known men raised like Harry, my whole life. I know how very hard it is to say all this, and I’m touched that he is willing to do so for me. Just because he can’t bear the thought of me thinking poorly of him.
“I forgive you,for the mistakes you made with me,” I say earnestly as I give his hand a little squeeze.
He looks up at me and the yearning I see in his eyes steals my breath away. He looks so much younger. More vulnerable than I have seen him before. It feels like I am looking at the real Harry. The man behind the walls and armor and the trappings of rank.
“I can’t let you go,” he whispers. “Not until I know for sure.”
I nod at him.
“Hathbury belongs to an opposing political faction. I have to be sure it was nothing to do with that,” he clarifies.
My eyes widen. Was there a political motive that I’m oblivious to? It hurts a little to think that helping me was just a cover, but I’m not so naïve as to dismiss the idea.
My mind whirls. I know Harry is a Revivalist, does that mean that Hathbury is an active Anti? Or is there a completely separate political difference between them? I have no idea. And I’m not even supposed to know about the Revivalist stuff.
“I understand,” I say calmly.
I take a bite of the rapidly cooling dinner. I feel bad for not confessing what I know, but I want Harry to trust me, not grow more wary.
“How are you so damn nice?” asks Harry, sounding equal parts baffled and bemused.
“Just fell from heaven this way,” I say with what I hope is a cheeky grin.
He laughs and my heart skips a beat.
“But you did fall?” he asks and his eyes flash with clearly naughty thoughts.
“I most certainly did,” I agree, as I feel tingly all over.
He turns his attention to his lunch and I feel a flare of jealousy. I want his attention on me. I want the heat of his gaze. I want his hands all over my body.
I swallow over my suddenly dry throat. I’m not ripe. Just suddenly horny. I wonder what having sex with a collar on would be like. Gosh, I need to stop that train of thought. My cheeks are heating. Thank heaven’s Harry is looking at his food. Seems it is a good thing after all.
“Have you received your invitation for the king’s coronation yet?” I ask.
A nice safe topic of conversation. Even I can’t turn this one filthy.
Harry nods. “Our invitation,” he corrects.
I swallow. I hadn’t been sure if news of our wedding would have reached the palace officials in time for their planning. Well, I guess that means Harry will have to release me before May. Since I cannot exactly attend the coronation in chains.
That’s something to look forward to.
Chapter twenty-eight
Harry
I’mpacingmystudylike a madman but I can’t stop. I despise that I’m showing Greyfield and the others how rattled I am, but not even that loathing is enough to still my limbs. Agitation and anxiety is flowing through my veins and any moment now I’m going to scream and scream and not be able to stop.
