But what if the past her husband concealed was something that tainted him? What if the kindness was a façade to conceal something darker? Something that was his true nature.
He dabbed at the front of her dress.
“Oh dear, you have a spot here. I reckon it might stain.”
She looked down as he gently blotted the wayward wine. His hand was inches from her bosom. She wondered if there was any stain on the dress or if this was just an excuse. If it was the latter, she did not care to challenge it.
“Once stained with wine, a dress should be laundered at once. Like tea,” she smiled. “Should I remove it?”
He looked into her eyes and grinned. It was the grin of a rogue, and she could not help but return it.
She shrugged. “And it hardly seems fair that I should be the only one…”
His hand had stilled; now it was simply pressed against her chest.
Catherine dipped her fingers into her glass and sprinkled a drop onto Aaron’s shirt. Her eyes never left his as she did so. The tension between them was immense. She felt that the air separating them crackled as though lightning had infused the air.
The moment was lost with a knock at the door. A servant entered with a further course. Aaron sat back with a sigh. After the man had left, he shared a perfectly innocent smile with her.
“Servants can always be relied upon to throw cold water on an evening,” he began, dryly.
“Speaking of the servants, I wondered at you uprooting the entire household and hiring an entire new batch of staff some years ago,” she pounced smoothly at the opportunity. “It must have been inconvenient to not have any member of staff who knew the house.”
Aaron sat back, toying with the stem of his wine glass.
“It was, but I decided I no longer wanted any part of my father’s household.”
“It does not sound fair to deprive all of those people of their livelihoods.”
“They were recompensed. Generously. And new employment was found for all those who sought it.”
“I asked Mr. McKay about one of them. He denied all knowledge.”
Aaron’s eyes narrowed, and Catherine saw the gates slamming shut. She felt a burst of resentment.
“Did you order Mr. McKay to deny the letter?” she asked boldly.
“What letter?” he parried.
“The one sent here, addressed to a former servant by someone who clearly did not know that they had been dismissed. Mr.McKay forwarded it on. Yet he told me that it never existed. Did you give him such instructions?”
His eyes darkened. “Are you a Bow Street Runner too, now? Or a magistrate? No, I did not. Why would I?”
“Then why would he lie?”
“Perhaps because you pressed him with questions. People do strange things when interrogated.”
Her fingers tightened around her napkin. “I am not interrogating. I am only trying to understand.”
“You suspect me,” he said, his voice low. “You watch me, you ask questions, you weigh every word I speak. Tell me, Catherine, why is the man I am now not good enough for you?”
Her breath caught. The words pierced her.
“That is not it,” she whispered.
“Then what is it?” He leaned forward, his eyes searching hers. “What can be so terrible that I must keep it hidden? You demand answers, but you will not say why the truth matters.”
She trembled, caught between fear and yearning.
