* * *
Charity was sittingin the grass overlooking the River Derwent, tears dried on her cheeks, a pervading sense of doom weighing down her heart.
Her gown was ruined.
So was her hair.
But she did not care about either of them, because along with her amethyst silk and her Grecian braid, which had long since come unpinned in her mad flight from Fangfoss Manor, her entire life was ruined as well.
Everything she had known was a lie, and now that she knew the truth, she would have to tell Neville. Which meant that her future was ruined, too. Although he had revealed he possessed a wicked streak, and that he was not nearly as proper or as boring as she had once supposed, how could she ask him to accept her as his wife after such a revelation? She was more scandalous than he had believed.
Her parents were not her parents.
And her mother was Auntie Louise.
Charity picked up a pebble and hurled it toward the river. It fell short and bounced into the grass instead.
“Fancy that! I cannot throw a proper pebble,” she muttered to herself.
“Perhaps you ought to try again.”
With a start, Charity glanced over her shoulder to find the familiar, tall form of Neville approaching her. He was dressed for dinner, looking effortlessly handsome and elegant. She was keenly aware of the grass stains on her crushed silk, her unbound hair, and her newly discovered status.
Bastard.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He settled himself in the grass at her side, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “Lady Louise came to me.”
Her stomach clenched with dread. “She told you, then?”
“She did.”
Charity searched his gaze for censure or disapproval but found none. “You do not seem shocked.”
“That is likely because I am not. The similarity between the two of you is undeniable, and I felt an affinity toward her instantly.”
“If you no longer wish to marry me, given this unexpected development, I understand,” she forced herself to say, though the notion of him ending their betrothal before it had truly begun was akin to a dagger in her heart.
“Is that what you think of me?” He leaned his shoulder into hers. “That I would not want to marry you because of an old family secret?”
“It is more than a secret, Neville, and you know it.”
“It is immaterial to me.”
She shook her head. “I was born a bastard. I do not know who my father is.”
“From what I have gathered from Lady Louise, he was a man she loved very much. He passed away before they could marry. Her brother agreed to raise you as his own daughter so that Lady Louise would be able to know you.”
“She told you all this?” Charity frowned. “Why did she not tell me? How could she keep this secret for so many years? I had a right to know.”
“You did,” Neville agreed softly. “She had noble motives, however. She was trying to protect you from scandal and see that you would be able to travel through society unimpeded by her actions.”
“I do not know if I can forgive her for lying to me.”
“The two of you must talk,” Neville said. “When you are ready, of course.”
“Oh, Neville.” She stifled a newly rising sob. “I am so furious with her. When she told me, I was out of my head. Everything I knew to be true was a lie, and I was terrified I would lose you. All I could think to do was run. It is what I do, you see. My friends have pointed it out to me, and they are right.”
