Chapter Seventeen
To understand him? William shut his eyes, letting the warmth of her wash over him. What was he doing, dwelling in the memories Lanora inadvertently dredged up? He was permitting the marquess to ruin even this, his chance to win the woman he loved.
He opened his eyes and saw her worry. He claimed her hands in his, rubbed his thumbs over smooth skin, reveled in the softness. “And I wish for you to understand, to know me. I came today to convince you I am the man I claim to be. I didn’t mean to become trapped in the past.”
She offered a tentative smile. “I shouldn’t have pried. It’s not my place.”
“It is. I want it to be.” He would lay every secret bare to her, even the ones he’d already sworn not to, if he could have her by his side. “I brought these.” He released her to pull out the letters. “You know Darington is my confidant. I have only his side of our conversations, but I think they will reassure you.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to give them to me.”
“No, but I wish to. These are only the latest few. They talk of the home for displaced women.”
Her eyes dropped to the letters he proffered. She frowned. Snatching them from his hand, she brought one close, scrutinizing his address. “What is this?” She flipped it open, her eyes darting about the page. “Is this some mad game?” She looked up at him, angry.
William shook his head. He’d hardly recovered from the feelings she’d stirred, the bitter memories. Now, she was angry. He felt as if he stood in the ring, but couldn’t see the opponent who kept pummeling him. “I don’t understand.”
Lanora held up the open letter, Darington’s scrawl filling the page. “What is the meaning of this?”
“It’s a letter from Darington. I believe he speaks of the home for women, and his daughter, as well as some of his latest finds. There’s also an ongoing discussion on Euripides and the impact of Athenian culture on—”
“This is my father’s handwriting.”
William stared at her. “No, it’s Darington’s.”
She turned the letter back around. She shook her head. “It’s my father’s. I would know it anywhere.”
William had no idea what to make of her words. Had she gone mad?
“Wait here.” She jumped up. She was out of the room, his letters still in her hand, before he grasped her intent.
He looked about, bereft. He took several slow breaths to try to calm his roiling thoughts. Sitting there alone, he finally noted the details of the parlor. Before, he could see only Lanora. Now, he took in the fine furnishings. Elegant but outdated. Not from lack of funds, that was clear. From lack of anyone caring. Long dead family members looked down from the mantel, not Lanora’s mother or father.
His eyes fell on her book. Ancient Greek again. What woman read Ancient Greek?
One who’d gone mad and run off with his letters. Should he go after her? What was she playing at? Maybe this was the torment she’d devised for his imagined transgressions.
He shifted in the chair. His side throbbed. He’d suffered worse, but not many times. Cecilia had been an excruciating near half hour digging the bullet out. Not that he regretted the injury. Dodger was a good lad. William meant to see him brought up well, educated.
Where the devil was Lanora?
Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall. Though they were light, and alone, he braced himself. Only Lanora entered, bosom heaving from running. He forced his attention back to her face. This was not a time for distraction.
She perched on the edge of the sofa, crowding him, which he didn’t mind. He did mind the wild look in her green eyes. She dropped a stack of letters in her lap, waving one at him.
“You see?” Her voice was as animated as the rest of her. “This? This is a letter from my father.” She fluttered the letter he’d brought in her other hand. “This is your letter from Mr. Darington. What ridiculous thing have you done, William? Did you copy my father’s penmanship in some bid to make false letters appear more convincing?”
Reaching out, he captured her slender wrists. “I can’t see anything with you shaking them about.”
“Tell me what you’ve done. I believe you have a good heart. I really do. I’m sure you did this out of affection.”
“I haven’t done anything,” he said, scrutinizing the letters.
The handwriting was the same. Irrefutably so. An expert forger or…. Releasing her, he took the letters, turning them over and back. The same paper. They shared an office in Cairo. “A clerk?”
Lanora shook her head. “No, that is my father’s hand. I’ve seen it my whole life. I can bring you old letters, from years ago.”
“Could Darington dictate to your father for some reason?” But why dictate letters for so many years, and why would Lord Solworth play the role of scribe?
