“Why the devil not?”
Their eyes met. She saw frustration in those hazel depths, which had always been, when they gazed on her, both kind and curious in equal measure. God, he was handsome. Although in truth he was nearly as pale as herself, his complexion always had a gold tint to it, as if he had recently been in the sun. Even in the dead of winter, when most other men in London appeared pallid and sickly under the gray sky, Trem always looked like he was enjoying a private summer. His hair, a luscious umber color, was a bit longer than fashion, and it framed his face, which even now, in his exasperation, was all sly, elegant lines.
She had adored him since she was a girl. But she had never expected him to notice her. She wasn’t that arrogant. To her, he was a kind of minor god. Coveting him for herself in earnest had always felt a bit like heresy—she would have been mortified to own her fantasies of marrying him. She had, of course, imagined twists of fate that would lead to their being joined as man and wife. But, even in these daydreams, he was only looking for a bride and had decided that she would do. He and John would work it out in a trice and her brother would come to her and present it as an option. John would make it clear that it was a choice. And casually she would take it. In these reveries, Trem didn’t want her—at least, not at first. It was only over time that he came to love her.
But he had never noticed her. Not even as her popularity in the ton had surged and many other men had vied for her dances, her at-home hours, even her hand. He had been supportive during her debut, dancing with her at the right moments, using his power to bolster her position. She had known this behavior was just a favor to John or, at best, out of a kind of brotherly affection he bore her as a girl he had watched grow up.
Now, though, his gaze didn’t feel brotherly. She had seen it in flashes over the past year, this strange new look from him. She hadn’t known what it meant.
But her recent experience with Justin had changed her. She understood the look now.
It was desire.
He looked like he wanted her.
The shock of this possibility coursed through her.
The prospect that finally, finally, Trem might be looking at her as more than John’s little sister sent a spasm of pain through her body. Because she wanted that more than she wanted anything. And it made what she had to say all the harder. It didn’t seem likely that this new look would survive her revelation.
“Because he isn’t lying.”
Tremberley reeled back.
“I do not understand. You said that you don’t want to marry him.”
“I don’t,” she said, slowly, feeling like she was testing each word as she said it. “But he isn’t lying. About the—the carnal relations.”
The silence that filled the room after these words was too heavy.
She looked into his eyes and saw rage.
“Forgive me, Henrietta,” he said, his voice deadly in its coiled control. “You are informing me that you lost your virtue to that little wastrel?”
She felt that her cheeks might burn off her face—her embarrassment was so immense. And, yet, even in this moment of stillness, even with his solemn use of the word “virtue,” she could still see a hint of that same old kindness in his eyes. The same look that had made her understand all those years ago that she could trust him about the Christmas baskets.
She gave a quick nod.
He closed his eyes, as if trying to master himself. Then, just as quickly, opened them.
“And why, in the name of God, would you have done that?”
She stepped back, instinctively. It was as if he had struck her. The question, so contemptuous, was so unlike him. So unfamiliar from anything she had ever known him to be. Anger, seething, broke through her. It wasn’t just her anger at Trem, but at Justin, too, for the way he had hounded her to marry him, not taking her refusal for an answer.
“Why?” she echoed, her indignation nearly hysterical, her voice past shrill. “Why did you begin an affair with Lady Lexington two weeks after her husband died? Why did you slide into the bed of Lady Fairfax, right after she married Lord Fairfax, who everyone knew was far too old to carry out his husbandly duties? Why did you keep Lydia Sheerling as your mistress, right after she was ruined by Lord Simmons? Why did you parade around with Mr. Sweetish and his lover Mr. Porter, all while carrying on an open entanglement with Mrs. Sweetish herself? Why, Trem? Why?”
With each question, she took a step towards him, until she was right in front of him. She was gasping for breath, as if the words had been ripped out of her. She had watched him embroil himself in complicated situations for the past four years while her brother, Montaigne, and Leith had merely laughed and shaken their heads. Nothing Trem likes more than a complication, Montaigne had said once, and it was true. And yet he dared to question her choices.
He stood silent before her. She could still see the anger burning in his eyes, but she now saw a little embarrassment, too. And she realized what she needed was a response from him.
“Why?” she repeated. “Why did you do it?”
“Henrietta.” His voice was almost a plea. Then, he scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning away from her. Somehow, he managed to be both defiant and ashamed at once.
“Answer the question,” she pressed. “Why did you do it?”
“Henrietta,” he repeated, “I—”
“Answer it,” she hissed.
