Dizziness swamped her, and her hand slid up to her forehead. “I—I don’t understand.”
“I know.” His voice dipped low. “Come inside, have a seat, and I’ll explain.”
Hemming’s—Henrik’s—face shimmered before her, and her knees wobbled. She did need to sit down, so she nudged her feet forward. “I don’t think I like you anymore.” The words sounded childish, but she couldn’t stop them.
He cleared his throat. “You’ll like me even less when I finish. But that will make it easier for you when I leave.”
“Leave?”
“I’m moving to a new boardinghouse. It’s necessary, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Yes ... no ... She couldn’t think straight, and she shook her head as if she could settle her thoughts.
He climbed the steps to the front door. “I’d planned to leave without revealing my identity. I convinced myself silence was courageous. But I was wrong. It’s cowardly.”
Her feet found their way up the steps. “I don’t understand.”
He grasped the doorknob and paused with his back to her. “I didn’t mean for you to ever know—it’s dangerous for you. But when we kissed...”
Else cringed, but she couldn’t block the memory of that kiss.
His shoulders shifted and rolled. “When we kissed, I realized that though I’d fallen for a real woman, you’d fallen for a man who doesn’t exist.”
“Doesn’t exist?”
“Hemming Andersen doesn’t exist.” He flung open the door and held it for her, his chin high again and his gaze now steady but with vulnerability washing across the surface.
The mystery of the man propelled her through the door and into a large entryway with a parquet floor of golden wood.
Hemming-Henrik led her into a spacious drawing room decorated in the simple and elegant Danish style. A fireplace occupied one end and arched windows overlooked the terrace. “Please have a seat.”
Else lowered herself to an armchair near the fireplace without removing her coat, and she hugged her purse to her belly.
He strolled to the fireplace and clasped his hands in the small of his back as he studied a portrait of a young couple wearing fashions of the 1920s. “My parents.”
“I see,” she said. He had inherited their blond hair, his father’s deep-set eyes, and his mother’s long and narrow nose. The baron had a forceful, unsmiling look about him, but the baronesse wore an expression gentle and warm.
The young baron sighed. “My mother died in 1932 while I was sailing home from America after graduating from Harvard.”
“America? Harvard?” The man she’d thought uneducated and below her social level was educated and high above her social level.
He raised one shoulder. “My father is a hard man. Complex but hard. A man with high standards I couldn’t meet without violating my own standards.”
Was she not understanding because she was reeling from his revelation or because his words weren’t clear? “What do you mean?”
“That is a story for another day.” He huffed and glanced back over his shoulder at her. “Ah, there are no other days, but so be it.”
“Because you’re moving.”
He turned to his parents, and one hand clenched and flexed at the small of his back. “Since I couldn’t meet Far’s standards, I rejected them. In so doing, I not only rejected all that was wanting in his character but all that was good. After my mother’s death, I punished my father by embracing the role of wayward son. The stories you’ve apparently heard of the dissolute playboy—they’re true. I am not a man Dr. Else Jensen should associate with.”
Sadness swelled inside, not only because of who this man was but because Hemming ... wasn’t. Her dear friend didn’t exist. “Why—why did you pretend to be Hemming?” Her voice broke, and she covered her mouth.
His shoulders slumped, and he faced her. “I’m sorry, Else. I never meant to—”
She slapped her hand down in her lap, and her eyes burned. “Why? Why did you pretend?”
His chest puffed out, then collapsed. “When the Germans came, I couldn’t stop them. I hadn’t even tried. I suddenly hated myself, hated having wasted my life. I wanted to do something good, to be someone—” He jerked his head toward the doorway.
