“Yes,” she whispered.
Pippa was an intelligent woman. She understood the ramifications, he had no doubt. But accepting that all the lies she had been fed about him were precisely that—vicious lies—was likely more difficult.
“There are other secrets he has kept from you as well,” Roland dared. “The Dumas landscapes hanging on your walls are forgeries. I know because I own the same set and purchased them from a respected gallery.”
She paled. “Forgeries? He intended to sell them before his death.”
Hardly surprising to learn Shaw had been dabbling in forged artwork as well. But belaboring the man’s criminality was unnecessary. Roland needed to persuade Pippa that marrying him was the best decision she could make.
“What more reassurance can I give you?” he asked. “I will give you my name, my protection, my word as a gentleman that I never schemed to force you into a marriage with me. I was in love with you then. Charmed by the loveliest, most intriguing lady I had ever met. I have thought of you often over the years, and always with regret at the manner in which we parted, with my promise to return in two months’ time and court you properly.”
It was an understatement. He was still in love with her. Still charmed and intrigued. She was still the loveliest woman he had ever beheld. And knowing George Shaw had torn them apart with his manipulations ate him alive.
But here, at last, was the chance to right all those wrongs. To make Pippa his duchess. To keep her and her daughter safe.
To help her to heal and trust again.
And mayhap, God willing, to love again.
To lovehim.
He was a fool, yes, but he clung to hope.
“I want to believe you,” she said, sounding torn.
“Then do,” he said. “And marry me, Pippa.”
She held his stare for what seemed an eternity, the silence humming with awareness around them. “Yes,” she said at long last. “I will marry you.”
Chapter 11
It was late morning. Or perhaps it was almost noon.
Pippa stood in the drawing room of the Duke of Northwich’s townhome. She was wearing a Worth afternoon gown of light-blue silk. Her lady’s maid had threaded flowers into her hair. She wore the Morgan sapphires at her throat.
She would be marrying the Duke of Northwich soon. Covered in blue, but it may as well have been ice.
She felt…numb.
At Northwich’s insistence, she and Charlotte had spent the night in a hotel. She had scarcely slept. Each creak in the hall had made her imagine the intruders at her home had found her. Her head had not found a comfortable manner in which to rest on the pillow, thanks to her sensitive skull.
“Have some wine,” Tilly suggested. “You look as if you are about to swoon.”
Why did everyone in her life think she was the fainting sort? First Northwich, now Tilly.
“I do not wish for wine.” What she wanted instead was reassurance. Her friend’s confidence that she was about to make the right decision. The only decision. Even with the undeniable seriousness of the situation in which she now found herself, she had doubts. “And I promise you I shall not swoon.”
“You are distressed, dearest friend. What can I do for you?” Tilly asked softly, her lovely countenance fraught with concern.
“You swear to me that he is a good man?” she asked, those doubts emerging, like blood drawn to the surface.
For ever since she had agreed, over tea, to marry the Duke of Northwich, she had been beset by misgiving. She had spent years believing the worst of him. Now, she was expected to believe the best.
All you need to do is trust me.
She had trusted George. She had trusted her brother.
But what other choice did she have? She could not risk her daughter’s safety, nor could she risk her own. Pippa was all Char-char had left. She had already lost her father.
