“If ever the day should come and you find I’m gone …” Her voice was quieter now. “Know it wasn’t you. I’d change nothing about the night you stormed into Lord Templeton’s ballroom and asked me to dance.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned leaving.
Why did he feel her slipping through his fingers? He fought the urge to reach for her hand. To hold it tight. To anchor her to him.
He’d change one thing.
He wouldn’t have left her to find her own way. To face the gossip alone. To shoulder it all without him.
My God.He was a mess.
Maybe it would be easier if she did leave.
“I gave you little choice,” he said.
The truth sat bitter on his tongue.
“Don’t you know me by now, Mr Hawke?” Her laugh was almost playful. “I danced with you because I wanted to. The decision was entirely selfish.”
He wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or fleeced.
“I suppose you kissed me to secure your ruin.”
“And because I suffered a brief bout of madness.”
If he were any other man, he’d pull her close and kiss her senseless. Say things he’d never dared admit, not even to himself.
“And I kissed you last night for precisely the same reason.”
“Then we’re even, Mr Hawke. We need never think of it again.”
He nearly laughed.
He’d thought of little else all morning.
Lady Sanders’ tea sloshed over the rim of her china cup when she laid eyes on her niece. Dressed in full mourning, her steel-grey hair scraped into a severe knot beneath a black bonnet, she thrust the saucer at Beattie, splashing drops across his pristine coat.
“Daphne! Thank heavens you’re alive.” She rose from the velvet chair in a rustle of stiff skirts, ignoring Dominic entirely. “I feared you were lying dead in a ditch … or worse. Mr Moseley is said to favour ladies of fine lineage.”
Miss Harland didn’t cross the room to greet her aunt. She remained at his side. “I’m perfectly well. Did you not receive my note?”
“Note?” Lady Sanders’ eyes widened in horror. “Your father was murdered and tossed in the Thames, and you’re worried about a missing letter?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not relieved. He left you his worldly possessions. Surely there’s enough to rent a townhouse somewhere.”
“South of the river. What on earth am I to do in Bermondsey?” She gave a delicate shudder, as though she’d been banished to the Arctic. “And really, it’s no way to talk about the man who raised you.”
Miss Harland stiffened. “The man who planned to sell me to that decrepit, cabbage-loving oaf? Who made our lives an utter misery? Who dined at White’s while we ate bread and Cook’s tasteless jam? The man who?—”
“Yes, yes. Your father was a wastrel. Of that there’s no doubt.” The lady acknowledged him with a grunt. “And ifyou had Mr Hawke kill him, I daresay no one would blame you.”
“I have an alibi,” he said coolly. “Let me remind you, you’re in my home and will show me the respect I’m owed.”
Lady Sanders gave a mocking snort. “Mr Hawke, you run a bawdy house. Shadowmere can hardly be considered a respectable abode.”
Dominic almost smiled.
“On the contrary. I lease rooms to the elite. What they choose to do behind closed doors is their affair, not mine.”
