“I know.” She tried to control the tremor in her voice. “I needed the job and thought that being a widow would be an advantage. That it would make me seem older and more respectable.”
“To be clear.” He pinned her with his gaze. “There is no Mr. Wood.”
She gave a small nod.
“Are you twenty-seven?”
She shook her head. “I am twenty-three.”
His brows formed an ominous line. “You lied. About everything.”
“Not about everything?—”
“You’ve never been a housekeeper before, have you?” He surged to his feet, glowering at her. “Iknewthose bloody references were too good to be true.”
“I’m sorry. I just needed the work so badly?—”
“That gave you the right to lie to me?”
His rage chilled her to the bone.
“No, what I did was wrong.” Her throat tight, she tried to explain. “I didn’t know you then. At least, not the way I know you now. After our first meeting, when you left me in the rain, I thought you were an arrogant blueblood. When I ended up interviewing for the job, I didn’t feel I owed you anything?—”
“Least of all the truth.” Icy flames leapt in his eyes. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because…because things have changed. For me, at least.”
Her heart hammering, she rose and reached for him. He stepped away. Looked at her as if she were something he’d found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
“I have no tolerance for liars,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I’ve made a hash of things, but the primary purpose of my disguise wasn’t to spite or deceive you. It was to protect myself.”
“Right. You hadno choicebut to pull the wool over my eyes.”
His bitterness made her shrink inside.
“I had a choice,” she admitted. “And I made the wrong one. I told you before: I have a habit of making bad decisions.”
“I suppose you’ll blame me for that. For giving you no option but to deceive me.”
“No.” She frowned because the notion hadn’t occurred to her. “The decision was mine alone, and I regret deceiving you. In the past, you see, I’ve worked in places where being myself put me at risk, and I thought?—”
“What happened?”
She blinked at the ferocity of his question. “I beg your pardon?”
“Did some bastard make advances on you?” he bit out.
Which bastard are you referring to?
When one worked in seedy establishments, unwanted attention was a way of life. She flashed to Wallace’s Bookshop, her last place of employ in London. She saw the sneering, aristocratic face of her assailant, felt his smothering weight, tasted the blood in her mouth as she’d tried to fight him off. She felt the overwhelming, paralyzing terror.
“Recently?” Ethan asked, as if he’d read her mind.
“A few months ago.” She exhaled, shaking off the past. “Luckily, another patron came to my aid before the assault could progress.”
“Did you report the bastard?” he demanded.
