* * *
The downstairs parlor of the boardinghouse—Hera’sboardinghouse—was modestly furnished, although the paneling and the mantle suggested the dwelling had once had grander pretentions.
His gaze traveled through the room, unintentionally identifying each article of furniture. Hera’s chair. Hera’s table. Hera’s rug. Hurtheven was conscious of a feeling of discomfort—of taking up space in a place he neither belonged, nor could command.
He shoved one hand into his pocket and, with the other, gripped a chair.
He—who prided himself on his perception—had never truly experienced the humbling nature of existing under someone else’s roof. Even when Hurtheven had been a boy, Sir Lawton had taken up residence at Hevenhyll, though matters of business necessitated his frequent absences. There had never been a question of the Duke of Hurtheven—no matter how young Godric had been when he’d subsumed the title—leaving his domain.
The final labor.
Although this, of course, was not the descent into hell. That would come later. What had he told her once? That love would not fail, but courage might. He’d no idea how prescient his words.
When she entered, he was glad he’d taken hold of the chair. Two weeks, that was all they’d shared at Hevenhyll. And yet, his body reacted not dissimilarly than when, after a seven-year absence, he’d found the presumed-dead Chev very much alive in a smuggler’s cottage on the coast.
The back of his knees weakened. His mouth lost moisture. He braced his shoulders and leaned on the chair for support.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied.
Curtsied. The gulf between them yawned wider than ever.
“Mrs—” He realized he didn’t know which name she’d chosen to use.
“Montrose,” she finished.
“Hera,” he said weakly.
She closed the door behind her and then drank him in with wary eyes. “Won’t you have a seat?”
He’d prepared a speech. He’d forgotten every word. His hands had grown damp. His heart thrummed faster than a hummingbird’s wings. What would he do if she denied him?
“Are you...and your daughter...comfortable here?” he asked.
“In the boarding house, yes,” she replied. “Other mothers live here. Some widows, some...not. We look after one another’s children. Annis is, at present, gone with one of them to the park. But if you’d come back tomorrow...”
“I am anxious to meet Annis, and conscious of the honor?—”
Her brows scrunched skeptically together.
“—but I also wish to satisfy myself thatyouare well.”
“I am...” She dropped her gaze. “...content.”
Was she content? Was she trying to tell him she no longer needed, nor wanted him? “The neighborhood seems?—”
“I realize it’s not in thefirststare of fashion,” she interrupted. “But do not suggest it isbad.” She pursed her lips and a tell-tale flush of anger flared within her cheeks. “Oh, certainly, it is not as gleaming as Mayfair, but neither do the people who live here have armies of servants at their disposal. It isnotinherently bad, it is simplyneglected.”
He blinked. “I—I wasn’t about to cast aspersions.”
“I apologize.” Her shoulders slumped as if a wind had shifted course, deflating her anger. “I am, perhaps, overly alert to criticism.”
“I am quite familiar with the state, as you know.” He smiled wryly. “I only wish to be assured that you...youandyour daughter...are safe.”
She did not return his smile. “You have no obligation to either of us. That last night...” She bit her lip. “There is no consequence.”
His heart sank. His purpose, however, remained strong. “We have an agreement. A contract, in fact?—”
“That’s over,” she interrupted again.
