Unperturbed, Henry scrubbed his knuckles against the dog’s head. The beast licked his hand before running back onto the shore. Turning, Henry guided Viola back out of the water, releasing her hand so she could pick up her shoes and stockings.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “We’ve a very full picnic basket waiting for us in the boot of the carriage.”
“Sounds delicious.” She called for Rex, who was busily sniffing about between seaweed and shells a short distance away. At the sound of her voice he came bounding toward them. “I don’t suppose there’s a treat for him too?”
Reaching down, Henry patted Rex’s back and gave him a quick scratch behind one ear. “I had Cook chop up some beef and there’s also a bone for him to enjoy when he’s done.”
“You truly are an amazing man.”
He straightened himself and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. Together they started back toward the hillock. “And you are an amazing woman, which is yet another reason why we’re perfect for each other.”
When she didn’t react, he knew her brain was working away at some issue. “Penny for your thoughts?” Lowering his arm, he took her by the hand so he could help her climb back up the slanted ground to the ruin.
She watched her feet as they went, careful not to trip over rocks or other uneven spots. “I feel as though we’ve reached a point where honesty is not only very important, but absolutely necessary. There are things I must say to you, Henry. Difficult things and—”
“Tell me about this point we have reached, Viola.” He pulled her up beside him and met her troubled gaze. “I want to know how you feel. About me.”
She glanced away, seeking refuge on the horizon. “It is difficult to describe.”
“Is it really, or are you just afraid to?” He asked the question gently, hoping not to upset her, but he could tell by the tightening of her expression that it made her defensive.
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“As if it is so simple.”
Blowing out a breath, he leaned forward and kissed her brow. “It should be, but if it isn’t, then it must be because you’re not sure.”
“And you are?”
He didn’t answer, because that would be unfair and because he didn’t want her response to be influenced by what he said. But the truth was he loved her, and when she was ready to hear it, he would be ready to let her know.
“You’re more than a friend to me, Henry.” She was staring up at him now as if willing him to read her mind. “I don’t know what the future holds for us, though, and I must confess that I’m scared; scared of entering into another marriage, scared of losing you if I don’t and scared of losing myself either way. Most of all, I’m scared you might be wrong about your ability to accept me for who I truly am.”
Sympathizing, Henry drew her into a tight embrace, offering comfort while hiding his growing alarm. He didn’t want her to ruin what they had—what they were becoming—with words. He wanted to make her laugh some more and kiss away all her fears.
Instead he pulled back and did what she needed him to do. “Let us set up the picnic,” he said, “and then you can tell me everything you need to while we eat.”
Chapter 22
Even though this was what she had asked for, Viola’s heart still shook with trepidation and her hands still trembled with the knowledge that she might never touch Henry again once he learned of her mother’s identity. Part of her knew she was wrong to suppose that the good man she knew him to be would not accept her, but a dimmer, more cynical side, accustomed to Society’s disapproval of those with blemished backgrounds, fueled her concern.
Because however normal he seemed, he was an aristocrat hoping to make her his wife. His opinion would be guided by this. What she said next might make him realize that her illegitimacy was one thing, her birthright quite another, which was why she’d hedged when he’d asked how she felt about him. To confess it before she knew he’d reciprocate, no matter what, was something she could not allow herself to do.
Staring down at the rich assortment of food on her plate, she found it impossible to eat. The spot where they sat was set in a corner of the old ruin, perfectly sheltered from the wind. It would have been wondrously romantic, with the wildflowers dotting the grass beneath and mossy shades of green adding color to the ancient stones.
“Remember that I am first and foremost your friend,” Henry told her. He handed her a glass of wine. “For fortification.”
She took a sip and then another, but couldn’t really enjoy it. “What I am about to tell you could destroy my reputation forever.” She swallowed, not daring to look at him as she spoke. “It is something not even Peter was made aware of, but the fact of the matter is that my mother was a courtesan and my father was not Jonathan Marsh.”
He said nothing for a long, drawn-out moment. Eventually he asked, “Who was he then?”
She shook her head. “I do not know. A client of my mother’s, I believe. According to my... to Marsh,” she amended, “my mother didn’t know his name or where to find him. When she went into labor with me, a friend of hers went to fetch Marsh. He helped with the delivery, and when my mother died shortly after I was born, he took me into his care and raised me as his own.”
“And no one ever questioned your legitimacy?” He sounded genuinely confused. “They didn’t wonder how an unmarried man came to be in possession of an infant?”
Viola shook her head. “Marsh didn’t live in London back then. He lived in Paris, where he taught anatomy at the Sorbonne. After handing in his notice, he moved, returning to England as a widower whose experience and skill in the medical profession caught Tremaine’s attention when he was looking to acquire a new physician. No one asked any questions, and if they did, Marsh either dissembled or lied.”
