Her door was closed when he reached the landing.Somehow, he knew it was hers, a pale blue panel with a brass handle, unguarded, unremarkable, but itfeltlike Bea.
Nicholas exhaled once.Then he knocked.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, softer.“Bea.”
Silence.
He pressed his palm to the door.“Bea, please.”
A soft rustle came from inside.
He pushed the door open.
The sitting room was dim, lit only by a small fire and one candle on a writing desk.The faint scent of her perfume—a hint of lilacs—lingered in the air.And there she was, standing by the window, arms wrapped around her body as if she were bracing herself against a storm.
She didn’t turn.
His chest tightened painfully.“Bea.”
“Please leave,” she whispered.
“No.”
She closed her eyes, shoulders trembling.
He entered quietly, shutting the door behind him.“You’re hiding from me.”
She let out something like a laugh, thin, brittle.“Of course I am.”
He moved closer.“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what to say.”Her voice cracked.“And you have every right to be furious.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” he said honestly.
That made her whirl around.
Her face was pale, eyes rimmed red.She had not cried—Beatrix Winslow did not cry—but she had come perilously close.
He hated that he had caused it.
She swallowed.“You know.”
He nodded.
“And you came regardless.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”Her voice rose in panic.“To condemn me?To tell me how foolish I’ve been?How arrogant?How wrong?To remind me that my little drawings could ruin my family?That I’ve mocked everything my father believes in?”
Nicholas exhaled slowly.“No.”
She pressed her trembling hands to her mouth, then dropped them.“Then why are you here?”she whispered.
Nicholas stepped closer, until only a few paces remained between them.“Because I needed to see you.”
