Carlisle’s big hands gripped the stone railing. “Wick would never hurt someone… knowingly.”
She swallowed because she’d been thinking the exact same thing. “But what if he and Monique were together and... an accident happened? And then he ran because he was afraid?”
Moonlight couldn’t hide the pain that flashed in Carlisle’s gaze.
“I’d trade my soul,” he said in low, hoarse tones, “for that not to be true.”
He looked so grim, so in need of comfort, that she reached out a hand to his lean cheek. The bristly beginnings of a night beard quivered beneath her palm.
“You’re a good man, Carlisle,” she said. “A good brother.”
“I failed Wick. Father’s parting words were to look after the estate and the family, and I’ve done a shoddy job of both.”
So hehadlost the family fortune… just as Wick had claimed. From the interaction with Turbett, she knew that he’d arranged for Wick to marry Miss Turbett, too. Wick had been telling the truth about Carlisle forcing him to wed.
Seeing the self-blame in Carlisle’s eyes, however, she didn’t have the heart to take him to task. Clearly, he regretted his behavior toward Wick. Moreover, she was beginning to see just how heavy his mantle of duty and responsibility was. He’d been left in charge of everything and everyone. Like a lonely giant, he shouldered the weight of his entire family.
“No one’s perfect,” she said softly.
“If anything happens to Wick, it will break our mama’s heart. He’s always been her favorite. By not protecting him, I’ve failed her too.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” she protested. “Who made you king of everything?”
“Er… pardon?”
“King of everything,” she repeated. “You know, someone who thinks he rules everything in his sphere. Who takes responsibility for everything… even when it’s not his to take.”
He blinked at her. At least she’d succeeded in halting his spiral of self-recrimination. Wanting to draw him out further, she said impulsively, “I used to have other names for you, too.”
“Did you now?”
“Well, they were names I only called you in my head. And maybe once or twice aloud in front of my sister Polly,” she amended. “When I was really angry.”
“Now I’m not sure I want to know.” He seemed fascinated. “But go ahead. Tell me.”
“My favorite was ‘Viscount Killjoy.’ ‘Lord High Horse’ or its variation ‘Lord High and Mighty’ came a close second,” she said candidly. “And, of course, there was the old standby.”
His lips twitched. “And that was?”
“‘Pompous prig’,” she informed him.
He threw his head back and laughed.
The rich, rusty sound reached all the way to her toes, curling them.
Eyes gleaming, he inquired, “No ‘Tyrannical Troglodyte’?”
“An excellent suggestion.” She grinned. “I’ll have to add it to the list.”
“By Jove, you are an ease to me, Violet.” There was a note of wonder in his voice.
It was the second time he’d said such a thing to her, and her heart burgeoned. She realized she’d never been that to anyone before, never felt… needed. Blood rushed beneath her skin, desire mingling with something deeper, headier.
They looked into each other’s eyes. He bent his head slowly toward her. Before their lips could meet, something flashed over his right shoulder, distracting her. She blinked and instinctively shifted her head away to get a better look. A moving light in the courtyard below… a man with a lamp.
“Er, Violet?”
“Wick,” she breathed.
