She slid her arm behind her back, never mind that the action had to make her look ridiculous. “It’s fine. All healed, I promise.”
“Then why did you gasp when I touched it?”
Had she? She hadn’t meant to show any signs of pain. She’d been successfully hiding those signs from her father all week.
He sighed. “If you won’t let me see it, then at least tell me how you hurt it.”
“It was nothing. I tripped on the stairs, that’s all.” She shrugged, but her shoulders felt tight enough to snap.
“You tripped on the stairs?” Yuri’s brows pinched together.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
This man. He was so wholesome. So good. So utterly, completely trusting. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to never let go or tell him she didn’t want his help anymore just so that she’d never again find herself in the position of lying to him.
Because he was the very last man in the world she wanted to lie to.
“I really do need to get home. Father won’t be pleased if I stay out much longer.” She didn’t know if that was true or how long her father assumed the committee meeting would take. All she knew was that if she stayed here talking to Yuri, she just might end up blurting out the truth. Or begging him to take her away to San Francisco anyway.
Or both.
And she needed to find proof of her father and uncle bribing the Marshal first.
“It’s dark and raining. Do you want me to escort you home?” Yuri’s question was filled with so much kindness that she could barely hold his gaze.
But of course he would ask about seeing her home, because that was the type of man he was, kind and gentlemanly andcaring, even when he shouldn’t be. “Father’s coach is waiting outside. Thank you for the offer, though.”
Yuri didn’t move, still blocking the narrow space between her and the hallway. “If you wait for me to put this chalkboard away, I’ll walk you to the door.”
“That’s not necessary.”
But he stayed where he was, looking at her for a long moment, almost as though he could see into the dark places of her life.
That was the last thing she could have, so she stepped forward. “Please, Yuri. I need to get my umbrella.”
He swallowed, his throat working for a moment before he moved aside. “Good night, Rosalind.”
She turned without saying good-bye, rushed into the meeting room to grab her umbrella, and then headed down the stairs as quickly as she could manage. If she was fast, Yuri wouldn’t have time to catch up to her after putting the chalkboard away.
She burst through the front doors, then extended her umbrella, only to find the rain hadn’t lessened. It splattered the bottom third of her dress as she rushed toward the waiting carriage. Once inside, she closed the umbrella, sat back on the seat, and stared at her wet hemline.
The trip home was entirely too short. Even with the pouring rain, the coachman reached their mansion in less than ten minutes, and she found Foster waiting for her at the front door.
A worried look filled his eyes when he saw the bottom of her dress, but he blinked and then it was gone, his face as stoic as ever. “Your father is in his study, Miss Rosalind. He asked for you to meet him as soon as you arrived.”
Of course he had.
She tried to spin excuses in her head as she followed the butler down the hallway toward the heavy wooden door to Father’s study. But much like the carriage ride, the walk wasfar too short, and her brain was far too tired, and by the time Foster knocked and her father called for her to enter, she hadn’t managed to come up with a single excuse that might appease him.
She found him sitting in one of the opulently upholstered armchairs, smiling and sipping brandy as he spoke with another man dressed in an impeccable suit that would have cost every bit as much money as her father’s.
She’d seen the other man before, though she didn’t recall his name or how he knew her family. The main thing she remembered about him was his size. His frame was so broad it dwarfed the chair, making her father look small across from him. He wasn’t as old as her father, but the streaks of gray at his temples and creases around his eyes and mouth told her that he certainly wasn’t her age either. She guessed him to be maybe twenty years older than her.
“Rosalind, you’re back.” Her father waved her closer, a genuine smile filling his face. “Do you remember Leeland Vandermeer? He’s part owner of the Northern Pacific Railroad? He’s agreed to marry you.”
“He what?” she rasped, her breath clogging in her lungs.
