Dark circles shadowed her eyes but did nothing to diminish her beauty. She’d obviously not rested well in his absence.
A war raged within him.
“I have a small savings,” she offered. “I’ve held back from spending much of my allowance.”
He had savings as well. Not nearly enough to satisfy the Carlisle estate’s creditors, let alone begin repairs. He was a fool to delay the inevitable.
Furthermore, he could never keep her in the manner in which she’d grown accustomed. And what of her sisters and mother? And his cousins? The situation was impossible. He swallowed hard before squashing her suggestion.
But just as he went to speak, his breath caught.
Light, unlike anything he’d seen in her eyes before, glowed up at him.
Hope.
Along with rose-tinged cheeks and a certain breathlessness…
She burst out of her chair. “I could talk with Mother. I’m uncertain as to the details but I know she has oversight of some of the household funds. Perhaps she could…”
She’d told him that hope could only lead to disappointment. Justin moved to be closer to her. She tugged at him more than ever in that visceral way, like a whirlpool, a vortex.
Or gravity.
He couldn’t disappoint her now. He didn’t know the answer, if one existed, and yet he couldn’t be the one to douse her hope. Not when she’d known despair for so long.
He caught a whiff of her perfume. Standing before her now, he refused to give up.
He wasn’t ready to let her go yet.
Maybe Dev would have some ideas.
Justin could not—would not—take charity from his cousin, but he’d certainly be open to advice. There had to be a way.
“No need to be hasty.” He licked his lips and placed one hand upon her waist.
Just then footsteps sounded, increasing in volume. Feminine footsteps,
Matronly footsteps.
“Lord Carlisle! I trust your journey was successful?” Mrs. Mossant entered the room unapologetically, casting a disapproving glance in their direction.
Justin stumbled backward. “It was.” He bowed over Mrs. Mossant’s hand. It wouldn’t do to sour her mother on their upcoming nuptials.
They needed all the support she could provide.
Mrs. Mossant stood with shoulders back. He’d not once seen the woman act in an undignified manner, quite the opposite of her husband.
He wondered at Rhoda’s mother’s strength, her independence, and the hardship she faced being bound to the bastard he’d met at Pebble’s Gate.
“And Mr. Mossant.” She narrowed her gaze upon him. “Was he… amenable?”
“He—”
“Father is withholding my dowry!” Rhoda paced across the room quite suddenly.
“It is of no—” he attempted.
“Oh, dear.” This time, Mrs. Mossant interrupted him. “Not well done of him at all.”
