All of Eoin’s swirling thoughts settled. An empty coldness rushed to take their place. He turned helplessly toward Hannah. “Did you know about our mutual family histories when you agreed to help me?”
All color had fled from Hannah’s normally pink cheeks, and her freckles stood out against the pale whiteness. She looked younger and vulnerable, and the sight sliced at Eoin. He didn’t want to hurt her. For a moment, her eyes flicked away, but she clearly forced her green gaze back in his direction. She did notverbally answer his question, but she nodded—a short, fast bob, but it was an affirmative.
“Then why—why did you help me?” Eoin’s throat ached as if he’d pushed giant boulders up his esophagus instead of words. He dreaded the answer, yet he needed to ask the question. Not just for his sake but for hers. Eoin didn’t want Hannah to be forced into playing a charade. She shouldn’t have to feign to like him to achieve recompense for what his grandfather had done to her family.
“At first—and I mean at first—I wanted to learn more about your uncles,” Hannah explained.
Eoin’s rationality returned and, with it, almost blinding pain. “That’s why you knew about the rumors that my family was involved in illicit activities. You were hoping to destroy the Aucourte name just as you did with Viscount Hawley.”
“I cannot deny that’s why I initially agreed to help, but even in the beginning, I—”
“You promised—” Lizzie began to rail, but their mother grabbed her arm.
“Lizzie, you are not helping. Let your brother and Hannah discuss this.”
“But—” Lizzie began to protest, but their mother simply marched over to the open door with her daughter in tow. She splayed her hand over Lizzie’s head and half guided, half shoved her through the narrow opening. Lizzie’s protests were muffled by the thick stone walls, and Eoin’s mother quickly exited the room after her eldest. When she pulled the oak panel shut, the chamber fell silent.
“Father, you should follow Championess Quick’s suit. She is right. This is a matter between Eoin and me.” On the surface, Hannah’s voice sounded crisp, but Eoin didn’t like the brittleness that he detected. Perhaps he did mean something toher, but now… now he doubted everything. He’d been a fool to think that someone had wanted him simply for himself, not because of the happenstance of his birth. Even in Hannah’s eyes, he’d always been his grandfather’s heir.
“Hannah, as your father—”
“You have taught me how to defend and think for myself, Papa. This is the part where you let me make mistakes and clean them up myself.” Hannah pushed her father toward the exit.
“But—”
Before Mr. Wick could finish his protestations, Sophia popped into the room, followed by an older version of Hannah. Mrs. Wick looked precisely like her daughter and her niece Charlotte except that silver mixed with her red hair and she also moved in a quieter, more contained manner. There was no marching, no bold jerks, and no shoulders thrust forward as if in preparation to charge the enemy.
“I am sorry,” Sophia burst out as she gasped for air. “We tried to stop Uncle. We’ve been chasing him all the way from London. I’d hoped that he would calm down after I revealed your location and plans, but as you see, the information only escalated matters.”
Hannah’s mother sailed over to her husband like she was crossing a ballroom. She lifted her hand as if executing a move in a country dance. In one quick, elegant action, she snared her husband’s ear. Then she swept back toward the staircase.
“Owwww!” Mr. Wick roared, but he did nothing else to stop his wife. For a pirate, he had a very low pain tolerance.
Mrs. Wick paused at the threshold. “I do apologize for any interruption. Please continue your conversation in peace.”
She shoved her husband toward the exit with a lot more force than Eoin’s mother had used with Lizzie. Mr. Wick’sshoulder cracked against the stone, but he did not cry out this time. Instead, he obediently left. His wife followed. Sophia only lingered long enough to mouth “I’m sorry” and “good luck” to her cousin.
Sophia tugged the door behind her, yet neither Eoin nor Hannah spoke. He listened as the footsteps grew fainter and fainter. Dread filled him, and part of him wanted to bolt. But he’d never fled in his entire life. No matter what, he’d endured.
Hannah finally broke the awful quiet. “I am sorry. I truly am. From the beginning, I did intend to help you locate your sister and mother. That wasn’t a lie nor are my feelings toward you.”
Hannah looked earnest standing there, her hands clenched and tears glistening in her eyes. She’d always showed her emotion readily. Hell, she’d won Eoin over with her boldness on the night that they’d met. The instant she’d run her eyes unabashedly over his body, he’d fallen for her. She hadn’t hid her appreciation for him… or, at least, her appreciation for his physical form.
It had felt good, so good to be wanted for exactly who he was. But it had been a lie. Perhaps not then, on that road. But later, when Hannah had discovered his identity. How could she have still desired him? She’d even planned to betray him or, at least, his family. She wouldn’t have known then that he held little affection for his aunts and uncles.
Eoin glanced away from Hannah. He normally read people so clearly but not her, apparently. He’d never sensed her lies, not even when she admitted to knowing rumors about his family that she’d never shared with him prior. Their trust had never been mutual.
“I’ll leave if you want.” Hannah’s voice sounded small, and itripped at him. He didn’t want her feeling diminished. He loved her brashness and confidence. Yet still he could not look at her.
“Don’t go. Not yet.” He barely recognized his own voice. It sounded as shredded and mangled as his insides. “I need a moment to compose myself.”
“I do not blame you for being angry. You do not need to hold back for my sake.” The softness of her tone caused another deluge of pain.
“I’m not angry,” he said. And he wasn’t. His grandfather had destroyed her family and the lives of countless other tenants. He wanted to be a different duke—a better one, who bore his responsibilities to society, not to well-heeled London Society but the one that included everyone, no matter their wealth or circumstance of birth. But even if he understood her motivations, he still felt not just hurt but rejected.
He stared at the bare stone walls, tracing the mortar joints and cracks with his eyes, just as he had when his grandfather and tutors listed all his faults.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally asked. “I know why you said nothing in the beginning, but why not when we”—Kissed. Embraced. Shared secrets—“grew closer. Did you think I would want to hide my family’s crimes?”
