Strange, conversing with a man she could not see... The experience contained echoes of another night, long ago.
“You still have not told me how you came to meet?”
“If you are seeking a light, buoyant tale,” she replied, “you will be disappointed.”
“Perhaps I merely seek to listen.”
To listen. How long had it been since anyone listened?
She’d hadn’t allowed herself to think of that year. Of her father’s death and her introduction to the bewildering, crowded city. Of the wretched loneliness. Of the grueling work. Of the nights she’d escaped to the public assembly rooms and danced with abandon. Her only hope? A few, elating moments of forgetting.
“First,” she replied, “you must know something about my past. My mother died when I was a child. My father was a farmer—though not of any consequence. And, when I was fifteen, Parliament passed an act of enclosure on behalf of our absent landlord. The loss of the right to pannage rendered father incapable of paying rent. He lost the farm.”
“So, your father was a pig farmer. And yet you married the son of a duke.”
“Well”—she raised a brow—“I’m back raising pigs, aren’t I?”
With help, this time. No matter what her troubles, she refused to take for granted the means to pay for help.
“I am certain that is a disappointment.”
“A disappointment?”
“Had your husband lived, you could have been a duchess.”
She scoffed. “Why does everyone assume I married Cheverley in some bid to be rescued by wealth? Cheverley wasn’t heir when we married. I did not marry him because I was poor. I did not marry him because I was alone.” She backed up against the rock by the captain’s side. This hurt too much to stand.
“Why did you marry him?” he asked quietly.
“I married Cheverley because I was in love. Because Cheverley chose me, and I simply couldn’t refuse.” The rock was cold against her back, and its rough edges bit into her arms. But it was the captain’s proximity that discomfited. “Truth for truth,” she said. “And, after all that, you owe me abigtruth. A monumental—”
“I have been in love, too.”
Her heart stopped.
“But,” he continued, “I’m afraid it is too late.”
Her heart broke for the young woman he had loved. Her heart broke for him. “What was she like?”
“She was beautiful. Mysterious. An enigma. I thought”—he snorted—“I thought she believed I was her hero.”
“What did she believe?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I ever thought to ask.” He paused. “What did you believe about your husband?”
How could she answer that?
The night they met, every woman—eligible or not—had taken note of Chev, Hurtheven, and Ashbey the moment they entered the public assembly rooms. She’d only seen Chev—his blonde hair ruffled, his curls falling askew just-so over one eye, poet-style.
Chev’s swagger had amused, but Chev’s focused admiration? That had been sweetness that left her craving more.
Alwaysmore.
When they finished their second dance—all pink and panting—he’d met her gaze with an intensity that still caught her breath. She’d led him into the alley behind the assembly rooms, where the air was cool and the concealment complete.
“Would you like me to kiss you?” he asked.
“Would I have led you here if I did not?”
