“I hope I can prove you wrong about some other misconceptions you have about me, darling.”
“Which misconceptions?” she asked.
“That I have ever been unfaithful to you while we have been together,” he said softly, his expression earnest and tense all at once. “From the time I was with you at Farnsworth Hall, I never touched another woman, aside from what you saw in the street that day. I did not initiate that kiss, and I ended it with all haste.”
Emotion rose, churning, turbulent as storm-tossed seas. “Think of it from my perspective then. The first woman you saw when you returned to London was her, and the first woman you kissed was also her. After everything we had shared at Farnsworth Hall, it was devastating.”
“But instead of confronting me, you clung to your pride,” he pointed out, without malice. “You believed the worst of me and told me to go to the devil, and then you sailed across a bloody ocean to get away from me.”
“I was frightened and heartsick. It is not an excuse, but I did what I thought best at the time.”
“And when I came chasing after you, I clung to my pride as well. I could kick myself now to think of what a colossal mistake I made. I should have gone to you, demanded answers, and to the devil with whatever American arsehole was squiring you about. I wanted to tear off his arms and beat him with them, you know.”
She winced. “Thank heavens our daughter is sleeping.”
“I am being honest. I can promise to temper my vulgar tongue if you promise not to leave me.”
His expression was solemn, almost bleak. He was breaking her heart, but the reason was different this time.
“Oh, Sidney. I have no intention of leaving you.” The urge to go to him, embrace him, was strong, but she denied it.
They needed to have this talk calmly and rationally. Without attraction interfering. She required a clear head.
“Do you swear it, Julianna?” he asked. “When you left this morning after everything that had happened, I was terrified you were going to take Emily and return to New York City despite our marriage contract. I could not bear that. I will do anything to keep you both here with me. I need her, and I need you.”
More of what she wanted to hear. Because she needed him too. Emily needed her father. Julianna needed the man she had loved for so long. The luster of leaving had dimmed. Instead, something else shimmered. Alluring. Just out of reach.
“I do not want to return to New York City,” she confessed, the simultaneous admission and realization taking the weight from her chest. “I had not realized how very much I missed London and everyone in it until I returned. This is my home.”
“What of your cold cream business?” he asked.
“I can run it from here, and there is always the possibility I can find a way of producing it in England as well.”
“Speaking of which, when you were gone, I met with Mr. Elijah Decker.”
He was Lady Jo Decker’s husband, the businessman and publisher.
She frowned at this sudden change of subject, failing to see the import. “Why should you meet with him?”
“I told him about your cold cream.” He flashed her a roguish grin that melted the ice around her heart. “I am deuced proud of you, you know. Mr. Decker would like to meet with us for supper, and the two of you can further discuss your plans. He is well-connected, and he owns a number of factories. It may be possible for one of them to produce your cold cream. Or he may know of a space you can lease as you begin production. Your uncle’s inheritance has been placed in an account that is in your name alone. The funds—and your business—are yours to do with as you like. I am merely the facilitator.”
She stared at him, trying to reconcile the doting father holding their sweet baby girl with the drunken reprobate she had met the first night she had confronted him upon her return. She could not. He had changed in the past few weeks. It was as if he had found a purpose.
And that purpose was being a father and a husband.
“You are proud of me?” she asked.
“So fucking proud,” he affirmed.
“Your language, husband.” But though she chastised him, her heart gave a pang.
He grinned. “My apologies. Our beloved angel is still, you will note, sleeping soundly. Nary a chance of her overhearing.”
“Nevertheless, ‘tis a dreadful habit.” She frowned at him, once more at sixes and sevens. It was easier to dwell upon his ill-mannered habits of speech than the rest of what he had said.
“I have had worse habits.” He was solemn once more.
“Drinking?” she guessed. “Hellie told me you have not been yourself these last two years. I paid a call to her at Wickley House.”
