“I am a lady,” she agreed, hating how her voice quivered, “Yet you had no trouble crossing such lines with the other ladies that attend this club.”
She felt his grip on her arms relax.
“They were different,” he muttered.
“Right,” she said with a bitter laugh, “Because you did not despise them.”
“I do not despise you!” He insisted, his grip on her arms growing tighter again. Then he let out a growl of frustration as he turned his face to the side and fumed.
“I do not know what I feel with you,” he confessed. “All I know is that every time we try to push one another away we end up in one another’s arms.”
“Why did you agree to hire me in the first place?” She demanded, wrenching out of his grasp.
“Because you blackmailed me!” He exclaimed.
Ophelia flinched at the truth; knowing she could not deny it. She had been so desperate for work that that was exactly what she had done.
“You want to accuse me of hating you?” He went on, his tone turning bitter, “Let us talk of your hatred for me. Surely you must have quite a bit of it if you are willing to expose me for a pay day.”
Guilt poured through her. So much that it made her head ache and her throat tight. Worst of all, it shredded her already wounded heart into pieces.
“I had no choice,” she whispered.
“Yes you did,” Tristan stated. “You could have told me the truth. You could have let me in onyoursecret. That your family’s fortune is gone.”
Though she had been avoiding his gaze since the start of their argument, Ophelia suddenly wrenched her eyes up to his in shock.
Hurt was etched all over Tristan’s face as he glared back at her with his jaw clamped tight.
“How do you know that?” She whispered.
Something dark passed through Tristan’s eyes.
“A woman bound and determined to live her life as a free woman is suddenly agreeing to be married?” He asked.
“I have known you nearly my entire life, Ophelia. I know how much your freedom means to you. It would take so much more than a plea from your ailing father to get you to change your mind about that freedom.”
For some reason his confession about understanding her hurt more than anything.
“I have to go,” she whispered, tearing out of his grip.
“Ophelia, wait,” he insisted, but she kept walking, out of the bedroom and back to his office.
“I will finish this piece,” she said, packing up her art supplies. “I will take it with me and send it to you when it is finished. I will use discretion, so worry not.”
“I understand that your future is in peril right now but I need to ask you for a favor,” he replied.
She threw him a glare.
“Did I not just say that I would use discretion?” She snapped. “Worry not,Lord Perfect,your secret is safe.”
Another bout of guilt washed over as Tristan flinched at her words.
“That is not the favor I am requesting,” he answered, his tone heartbreakingly defeated. “I trust you with my secret.”
“Well that is something,” she retorted, her voice beginning to tremble.
Ophelia picked up her mask and put upon her face, hoping it would hide the tears that were starting to run unchecked down her cheeks.
