“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he said, his voice a low, soothing rasp. He dipped the cloth into the warm water, wrung it out, and gently reached up to wipe a smudge of mud and a streak of salt from her cheek. “That’s better.”
Imogen flinched at the first touch, then melted into it, her eyes closing. “I am so sorry, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I should have told you of my parentage when you took me in on that very first evening.”
“Please, do not cry,” he said softly.
“But I lied to you every day I sat at your table! I let you believe I was someone I am not. A lie by omission is a lie all the same. Oh, I feel horrid!”
“Tell me now then,” he said gently, moving the cloth to her other temple, his touch as light as a feather. “The whole of it. No more shadows between us, Miss Lewis. Imogen…”
The dam finally broke with the sound of her name on his lips. The words spilled out of her in a frantic, weary rush.
“I never knew the sound of my mother’s voice,” she said softly, her voice barely rising above the crackle of the hearth as she sat in the chair beside it. “She was a dancer. I was told she was the kind who moved like she was made of air.”
“She sounds like a fairy. You must’ve inherited her gracefulness.”
“But she died bringing me into this world, leaving my father with a daughter he hadn’t the courage to claim. At least not properly.”
Ambrose leaned forward, his brow furrowed in the dim light as he handed her a cup of tea. “The Viscount, then. Did he… did he at least provide for you?”
“He did. But in the dark,” she whispered, finally meeting his eyes. “When the house was sleeping, and the servants were dismissed, he would call me into the library. He’d sit me on his knee and read me poetry or press a sugared plum into my hand.In those rooms, behind the heavy oak doors, I was his precious girl. But the moment the sun rose, and the drawing-room doors opened, I became the ward. A burden. A ghost to be walked past without a glance. I learned incredibly young that his love was a thing of shadows. Nothing more.”
Ambrose’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the arm of his chair. “To keep a child as a secret… that is a particular kind of cowardice. I do not understand it.”
“I didn’t think so, at least not then. I lived for the nights in the library,” she said, a jagged breath escaping her. “They felt special. But when the fever took him when I was fifteen years of age, the library doors were locked to me. He died with my name on his lips, or so the physician said.”
“And your stepmother?” Ambrose asked, his voice hardening.
“Oh, she was Lady Marden then,” she said. Imogen’s hands trembled slightly. “She didn’t wait for the black crepe to be hung. She stood in the center of my bedchamber and watched the maids pile my dresses, the ones he’d bought me in secret, into the hearth. She married soon after, to Lord Presholm.”
“How can this woman become more despicable in my eyes?”
“I can still smell the burning lace. She told me I had been a parasite for years, eating the bread of a man who owed me nothing. My father, if I can call him that, left a small pittance for her to care for me. So, she had to let me remain. Once those funds ran out, she forced me to be her maid.”
“Oh, Imogen,” he sighed, handing her a crumpet. “Please eat.”
She took a small bite, then a sip of tea.
“I wasn’t a ward anymore,” she continued, the sustenance grounding her. “She moved me to the scullery and told me I would scrub the grease from the copper pots until my debt was paid. She thought that by forcing me to my knees in the soot, she’d make me forget I was ever a Viscount’s daughter.”
She looked up, a spark of quiet defiance cutting through the pain. “But I remember the poetry, Your Grace. Even when my hands are bleeding from scrubbing without end. I remember every word. He taught me so much. If only things had been different…I could have really been someone.”
“You have been through so much, I cannot bear it. And you are someone.”
“I have never belonged anywhere, Ambrose,” she said quietly. Tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. “In my father’s house, I was a mistake. In Lady Presholm’s, I was a mere burden. Here… with the boys… it has been the first time I felt respected. The first time I feltwanted. I was so afraid that if you knew the truth, you would see only the bastard and not the woman I endeavor to be. I only wish to be of use, to have a purpose greater than myself.”
Ambrose reached out, taking her trembling hands in his. She looked down at the callouses from her years of work in the Presholm’s scullery, a map of her struggle.
“I would be lying if I said I didn’t wish you had told me sooner,” he said, his voice steady and low. “I dislike deceptions. But Imogen…” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers, closing his eyes so he could feel the frantic heat of her skin. “Blood and titles are accidents of birth. Honor is a choice. You have one of the noblest spirits I have ever encountered. That you survived that woman’s cruelty with your kindness intact is a testament to your soul, not a stain on it.”
Her breath shuddered, and he squeezed her hands tighter.
“Now,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to reach for the tray. He refreshed her cup of tea, the steam curling between them. He pressed the warm porcelain into her hands. “Drink more. And eat more. I saw the cook making these for the boys, and I stole a plate from Mrs. Higgins. Enjoy them.”
“It is lovely,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
He held out a small plate of more crumpets, dripping with honey and clotted cream. When she hesitated, he broke off a piece and held it to her lips, his gaze demanding she accept the care he was offering.
“You have spent your whole life looking after everyone else, Imogen,” he said softly, watching as she took a small, shaky bite. “Let someone look after you tonight.”
