“You have too much confidence in me,” she said, softly. “It will take me some time to learn.”
Simon pursed his lips. “Whenever you feel small in front of them, remember who you are.”
And with that, he left her standing there.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rachel had meant only to pass through—to find a book, perhaps, or simply to steal a moment of solitude after the exhausting visit with her family. But as she stepped inside, her breath caught.
Simon was already there.
He sat in the high-backed chair, one long leg stretched out, the other bent slightly as he held a glass of whiskey between his fingers.
He did not look at her immediately. Instead, he swirled the amber liquid absently.
She hesitated, torn between retreating and stepping forward.
“You may stay,” Simon said, his gaze finally lifting to hers.
Oh, so he had noticed her lurking.
Rachel swallowed, her pulse skipping.
She was not sure what made her move, but she walked slowly toward him until she reached the other chair. She sat, smoothing the fabric of her night robe over her lap, trying to ignore the way her stomach fluttered at the sight of him.
For a long moment, there was silence. Then Simon broke it.
“Your family,” he observed. “They are… difficult.”
Rachel let out a soft, humorless laugh. “That is a kind way of putting it.”
He watched her, waiting.
She exhaled, letting her fingers trace the edge of the armrest. “My mother was not of the peerage,” she said finally. “She was a maid. And my father—” Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to continue, “He never let me forget it.”
Simon remained silent, giving her the space to go on without imposing.
Rachel took it as an opportunity to continue.
“Still, he raised me and Marina after my mother died.” She hesitated. “For that, I suppose I am grateful.”
Simon’s fingers tightened around his glass. “You suppose?”
“Is it not possible to be both grateful and resentful? To know that someone has given you something, yet still you wish they had given you more?”
His jaw clenched slightly, and Rachel wondered if her words had struck something in him.
“And what of your mother? What was she like?”
Rachel blinked at the question, caught off guard. Few people had ever cared to ask. Even fewer had waited to hear the answer.
“She was… kind,” Rachel said softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Gentle in ways my father never was. She used to hum when she worked, little melodies that I never knew the words to.”
She let out a quiet breath. “She was happy, or at least, she pretended to be.”
“Pretended?”
“I suppose it is not possible to be truly happy, knowing that she was only a shadow in my father’s life.” She swallowed hard. “She knew her place. She never demanded more than what he waswilling to give. But I think…” She paused, gripping the armrest of her chair. “I think she wanted more.”
