She worried her hands before her. “Self-preservation, I suppose.” He frowned at the idea that she thought she had to protect herself from him, even as she continued, “I-I never would have revealed my true identity to you on purpose. I shouldn’t have danced so close to the flame when I was aware it could unmask me. I should have stayed away from you, I knew better.”
He pressed his lips together at the idea that she would have rather avoided him than share the dance they’d been dancing since their first encounter at the Donville Masquerade. Rather kept away than experienced the night of passion that had been haunting him for nearly twenty-four hours.
“Then why did you?” he asked.
She didn’t answer that, but kept on speaking as if he hadn’t said anything. “I fear that you are the kind of man who is driven to try to help, even when he is actually hurting.”
He wrinkled his brow. “And what does that mean?”
Only he knew what it meant. He had tried to manage his sister over the years and sometimes had done more harm than good. Same thing with his friends. How could she see that character flaw so easily?
“Are you going to try to go to my family and involve them in some kind of attempt to save me?” She met his eyes unsteadily and the fear she had controlled was back again. Stronger.
He blinked. “I-I must be honest that I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I’m still trying to come to terms with who you are and what I now know. But it isn’t the worst idea, is it? Your family must be beside themselves with worry after your absence these last two years. Whatever separated you, couldn’t you overcome it and return to the safety of their embrace, rather than stay on the street where you must endure some suffering?”
Her nostrils flared slightly and her fingers clenched into trembling fists at her sides. “You know nothing of suffering, my lord. Nothing of the truth.”
Her voice quavered as she said it and he took a long step toward her in the face of her distress. “You owe me nothing,” he began. “But I wish you would tell me. Make me understand how all this came to be and why you are so adamant about your position.”
She let out a long sigh and a weariness came over her expression, like the weight of the world had settled onto her shoulders. “Fine,” she said, her voice very soft. “If cutting myself open is the only way to get what I need, then I shall.”
She paced toward him with long, sure steps and he straightened up as she came to a stop before him. She slipped the whisky from his fingers and took a long sip. The intimacy of her lips being pressed where his had been a moment before wasn’t lost on him.
She set the drink aside and looked up into him, those green eyes unreadable beyond their exquisite beauty. “Do you know how my father died?”
He flinched at the pain that question created. “It was…it was a sudden illness, wasn’t it?”
“That is what they say, but I don’t believe them.” She struggled for a moment before she continued, “I believe he was murdered.”
There, it was out. The words Esme tried not to repeat any more often than she must hung in the air between them and from Finn’s expression, he was as shocked and horrified by what she’d said as she was to know it.
And now she would take a true measure of him. Would he call her silly? Deny the possibility? Dismiss her? Or would he be more? She found herself wishing for the latter.
“Why do you believe that?” he said at last, his voice thick with emotion.
She stepped away from him. It was impossible to say these things when he was so close. “You knew my father—in some ways I think you knew him even better than I did. Because of that, you know as well as I do that he was healthy. He hadn’t been ill, but suddenly he was stricken and then almost immediately dead.”
Finn nodded. “Shocking, yes. But not unheard of. He was in his sixties, after all.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not a fool. I know that someone can be taken without warning. But it was such a violent illness. So…” She trailed off as she tried not to think of the horror of her father’s last days. He’d vomited blood, he’d writhed in pain. It had been horrific.
“I’m sorry,” Finn said softly, and his hand came out to catch hers. She watched as their fingers intertwined and was shocked at the warmth that spread through her with the touch. The peace.
She tugged her hand away. This man could not be her peace. No man could be, it was simply too dangerous.
“My cousin inherited. Francis and I had never had a close relationship, but once he moved into the estate just a few days after my father’s death, it was like he became a different person. Whatever veneer of civility he’d shown to me came off without my father around to protect me.”
Finn frowned. “What did he do?”
“He was incredibly abusive to the staff, he made demands that all remnants of my father be immediately destroyed or packed away. He removed my pin money and held over my head the fact that he would be in charge of my inheritance until I married. And if he drank he would…he would say things about my father.”
She could see Finn digesting all this, increasing concern lining his handsome face. She had hoped she’d never have to tell him any of it, but she found it was actually a relief to do so. To say these words out loud to a person who was from the world she had grown up in. A person who understood its ins and outs in a way Jane or Campbell Ripley couldn’t, even though they were her saviors and dearest friends.
“I met your cousin several times over the years,” Finn said at last. “I admit I never liked him. But you’re implying that he killed your father, yes?”
She nodded. “I believe it with all my heart.”
“But I don’t understand why,” he said gently.
