“Why not?”
He was being serious, his expression unreadable. His eyes glittering.
He overwhelmed her. Not with his physical size, though it was plain to see he was stronger than she was and could subdue her with aplomb. However, it was his quiet, his calm, which frightened her more than anything. He did not seem angry. Nor cool and calculated.
The Duke of Northwich was a complicated man.
“You know very well why I do not trust you,” she countered, trying to match him in calm and failing abysmally, she was certain.
“Because you trusted George Shaw, and he proved himself to be a loathsome liar?” he asked.
She flinched. “Because of the deceptions you perpetrated against George and my brother. Though it hardly requires an explanation. The past is where it belongs.”
“Is it?” he asked, his tone silken. “Perhaps you could enlighten me concerning these deceptions. What were they, specifically?”
How dare he question her now, here, like this? Her outrage made her tremble. She inhaled shakily, drawing breath into her lungs. Seeking composure she could not seem to find.
“The railroad stocks,” she said. “The loan on Wardley Abbey. Do you truly need me to elaborate, or have you perpetuated so many falsehoods that you have forgotten by now?”
He frowned. “The railroad stocks your husband sold me, which were fraudulent? I fail to see what role I played in that farce, other than being stupid enough to believe George Shaw my friend.”
Something inside her froze. Surely not her heart. That had already been turned to ice. Another part. The last remaining shred of her which was still capable of believing her husband had not been a complete scoundrel, perhaps. Either way, there was no denying the sudden coldness within. The shock of it.
“You are the one who sold George the fraudulent railroad stocks,” she countered, lips numb, even as the dawning sense of dread and understanding hit her.
Crushing in its weight.
Northwich’s countenance changed, smoothing, the confusion which had furrowed his brow dissipating. “Ah. Is that what he told you? How clever of him to accuse me of the same crime he had committed. And Wardley Abbey. Your brother’s estate, yes? What did he tell you about that?”
Her chest was tight. Breathing had become difficult, and not because of the duke’s proximity, but because of the ramifications of everything he had just said.
“Pippa?” His voice was low, tinged with concern.
The room was swirling about her, perhaps thanks to the lack of air in her lungs. Or the shock. Or the bitterness of her realization. She was scarcely aware of him taking her arm and leading her to a chair. She had to answer him, and yet her mind was still in a frenzied whirl, attempting to make sense of everything he had just revealed.
“Sit,” he said gently. “You look as if you are about to swoon.”
“I do not swoon,” she countered.
For she did not. Had never. Would not now.
But she sat all the same.
Northwich was holding her hand, hovering over her, his face pinched with worry now. Strangely, she had no wish to sever the connection. There was something so very reassuring about his touch.
“Breathe, Sunshine.” His voice was kind. Warm, even.
For a heartbeat, she did not take notice he had referred to her as the long-ago sobriquet she had once loved. But then, she did, and still she did not release his hand. She clung, heeding his advice.
Breathing. Relearning herself. The truth she had believed had been a lie. Perhapseverythingshe had believed had been one massive deception.
Perpetrated by the man she had married.
“Shall I ring for some tea or a glass of wine?” Northwich asked, solicitous and quiet.
The aloofness he had initially exhibited was nowhere to be found, and she was glad for it. She liked this Duke of Northwich far better. He seemed…different, somehow. Less harsh. More like the carefree young man she had first met in Oxfordshire.
“I will be fine,” she forced out, hoping it was the truth. “I do not require refreshment.”
