His gut clenched on a wave of sympathy. Losing Hattie had been like losing a part of himself. But Verity…he could not fathom the loss of his daughter. Could not bear to imagine it.
“You need not explain yourself,” he hastened to say, feeling like a cad for sitting here with her, manipulating her, deceiving her, when she was a mother who had lost her child.
No amount of information he could glean from her was worth hurting her or forcing her to relive the agony of her loss.
“Her name was Pearl,” she said, almost as if she had not heard him. “She was nine months old, the light of my world. I was young then, so very young, and the woman I left her with while I worked and rehearsed could not wake her from her nap. When I returned from rehearsals that day, she was already an angel.”
God, the pain in her voice, in her expression. She looked, suddenly, so fragile. As if a touch would break her. As if she were fashioned of the finest crystal, and one kind word would make her shatter.
He stood, not thinking about his mission. Not thinking about his duty. Not thinking about her connections to the Fenians or his need to prod information from her. All he thought about in that moment was her.
Rose Beaumont had lost her daughter. And though the wound was an old one, he knew from experience that grief was a scar upon the heart that never truly healed. One false move, and it tore open again, bleeding everywhere.
“Rose,” he said, all he could manage as he skirted the table. “I am sorry.”
He did not need to say more. Could not if he tried. But it did not matter, because she was in his arms, and he was embracing her. The sweet, familiar scent of rose petals hit him, and he could not deny the rightness of her in his arms, her soft heat melded to his rigid planes.
Her arms wound around him, and she pressed her cheek above his heart, as if she found comfort in the steady thumps, the affirmation of life. “I have not spoken of her in a long time. It was eight years ago, but I have not forgotten.”
“You will never forget,” he said, his hands traveling up and down her spine in soothing strokes. Against his better judgment, he buried his face in the fragrant golden upsweep of her hair. “And nor should you. We carry the ones we loved in our hearts and our memories always.”
There was no mistaking the trembling shaking her. She was sobbing. A cynical part of him recalled how great an actress she was, capable of a vast portrayal of emotions. That part of him said this, too, could be an act.
But somehow, he did not believe that.
“Who have you lost that you loved?” she asked, her voice muffled by his waistcoat, but the sadness within it could not be feigned.
“My wife,” he admitted.
How strange it seemed to be discussing the woman he loved with another woman. A woman who was his enemy. A woman he could not trust. A woman he was bound to betray.
She stiffened. “You had a wife?”
“Yes.” Felix searched for words, an explanation. How to give voice to the best years of his life? He had been besotted with Hattie from the moment he had met her.
Her father had earned his fortune in the mills he owned. He had believed in educating his daughters. Hattie had been intelligent, opinionated, and unique, mirth always dancing in her eyes. She had been the brightest star in the night sky. She had been the only star in the sky.
And then, she had burned out.
And now, here he stood, alone in a private room at Markham’s with a woman he was destined to betray, taking comfort in her embrace.
“I am so sorry, Felix,” Rose said.
The genuine compassion in her voice, it could not be feigned. He had no doubt.
Just as the sympathy he felt for her was real. Despite the situation, the obligations weighing heavily upon him, the facts he knew about her, the doubts he had… On this, their mutual grief, they were united. The rest did not matter. They were two people who had lost, who grieved, who understood each other on a level that surpassed all else.
He was still holding her, his hands stroking her back, her scent enveloping him, when he realized she had called him Felix. And she had tipped her head back, her bright-blue gaze holding him captive.
“I am sorry for your loss, Rose,” he said thickly. “That you lost your daughter. I, too, have a daughter. If I lost her… I cannot imagine the pain you endure, the anguish.”
“You have a daughter?” she asked, her eyes searching his. “You never said so before. Why not?”
Because Verity had no place between them. She was all he had left of Hattie. All he had, aside from his duties, his fortune he had acquired prior to inheriting the dukedom. Verity was precious. Special. Mentioning her to Rose Beaumont seemed wrong. A sacrilege. A betrayal of his wife.
Rose’s face shuttered then. “I understand.” Her tone was tinged with bitterness and, unless he was mistaken, hurt.
She attempted to extricate herself from his embrace, but he held fast, not wanting to put an end to their connection just yet. And not in this fashion, her feeling betrayed and foolish. For some reason, he could not bear that.
