“I take full responsibility for the predicament in which you foundyourself. If not for my lengthy absence, you would not have begun the practice of funding your father’s ill-begotten habit, and thus would not have had need of advice as to how to resolve matters.”
“It’s not your fault, and you mustn’t blame yourself,” she argued, thoroughly vexed at hearing his harsh self-indictment. In truth, she had not visited the Black Widow in search of advice regarding her father, but out of desperation for news of him—not that she could tell him.
“It is,” he said gently, reaching to smooth his thumb over the space between her brows. “If such a meeting is required in future, as your husband, I shall see to it. Not that I foresee such an event as you seem to have managed everything in my stead. Perhaps, though, now that I am home, and so long as you are my wife, you might allow me the privilege of taking care of you, Lady Arlington?”
At once, her eyes burned and she felt herself ridiculously on the verge of tears. Spoken just like a husband with the best interests of his wife in mind. When was the last time anyone had looked out for her?
She turned her face away from him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
A low curse sounded. In the next instant, the sofa creaked as he moved to her side. His large, warm hand covered both of hers, currently gripped very tightly in her lap.
“I know you did not feel you had a choice. Drake was gone, and I…we were estranged thanks to…” He broke off.
From beneath her lashes, she glanced up at him.
He’d dropped his head in his free hand as if it truly was his fault she’d been forced to visit a gambling den on her own.
Good Lord. What a tangled web she’d woven. She certainly didn’t mean to add anything else on his plate for him to worry over.
Her gaze fell on the book that he’d dropped sliding toward her. The sketch book she’d given him several days ago.
“Teddy, what’s that you’ve brought? Have you something to show me?” So, she hadn’t gotten that wrong. Hedidhave an artistic bent.
He straightened, scrubbed a hand over his hard jaw, and releasedher to pick up the sketch pad. After placing the book on his lap, he slanted her a long, considering look.
He was so close now, she could practically count his thick, curling black lashes. She could see tiny swirls of chocolate in his liquid eyes.
“I’m no artist. I just…it feels natural. I don’t know.”
Moving slowly, she reached for the book, sensing his reticence to share, and unwilling to risk him leaving without giving her a glimpse at his drawings. “May I?”
He shrugged as she flipped to the first page.
She gasped, then grinned in delight. “But this is wonderful. It’s Drake.” She hovered her fingertips over the rendition, not wanting to touch and accidentally smudge the sketch. “It’s Drake,” she said again, more softly, “with the silly white hair powder he always complained over having to wear. He said it made no sense whatsoever. Was this Spain?”
She looked up and searched his face.
His eyes were still on the drawing. “Yes, the Spanish front.”
“You remember him?”
He shook his head. “Bits. Images. Nothing…I can’t hear his voice. Except the once.”
When he recalled Drake’s words that had sent him running from the room and caused him to avoid her ever since. She didn’t want to talk about that. Didn’t want the conversation to go sour again and have him flee from her. “It will come. In any case, this is a perfect likeness. Do you have any others?”
“Actually, I have drawn someone I wanted to ask…”
While he spoke, she turned the page, then stiffened as a horrible wave of jealousy slammed through her. He must’ve noticed because he broke off.
“Is that Lady Catherine?” he asked gently.
“Yes.”
Whatever he heard in her voice had him reaching for the sketchpad, which he took, closed, and tucked under one arm.
He was going to leave—because of how she’d reacted.
“Well. That’s it, then. That’s what I wanted to know. I’ll leave you to your—”
