She nodded. “Mother always had difficulty with her.” Elena picked up the framed photograph that resembled Esme.
“Is that Esme?” he asked.
For a moment confusion marred her features, then, as the realization struck her, she smiled. “Actually, no, this is one of our daughters. Rose. She is very similar to her aunt.”
“Headstrong, just like Esme,” Raymond said.
“Perhaps it’s a matter of understanding her,” Fielding suggested.
“There was nothing to understand about Esme,” Raymond said. “Women are not complex creatures, though some, like Esme, insist otherwise.” He chuckled. “It takes a firm hand to hold the reins on a woman like that, something their father should have done instead of encouraging her behavior and indulging her every whim.”
Fielding felt the anger simmering under his skin. “And you agree with all of this,” Fielding pointedly asked Elena.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Fielding saw the gentle squeeze her husband gave her shoulder. She pasted on a smile. “My sister and I are very different.”
“I can see that.”
Angered by their complaisance, Fielding stood. “I thought you would be concerned for her welfare, but I see I was greatly mistaken.” He scowled down at them.
“Please know that while I am taking responsibility for her well-being at the moment, I will not be called upon at a future date and expected to wed Miss Worthington,” Fielding said.
They might not concern themselves with Esme’s life, but he could sense immediately that should a circumstance arise that would better the welfare of the Weatherbys, they wouldn’t hesitate to use Esme to achieve that goal. Well, he would be no such circumstance.
“Eldon,” Raymond said with a chuckle, “we would never impose on anyone of your status or wealth a troublesome girl such as Esme.”
“No, of course not,” Elena agreed.
He took one more look at Esme’s sister. It was hard to believe the passionate and vibrant Esme was related to this simpering fool.
“I believe I’ve said enough,” he said. “And I believe I’ve taken up enough of your time. Good day.” Without allowing them to respond, Fielding turned and left the Weatherbys’ presence.
He’d thought only of himself when he’d driven here this morning. He tried to remind himself he’d still done the right thing. There was simply no room in his life for a wife.
What woman wanted to be left at home alone for several months of the year? Or worse, travel with him to sandy, remote locations full of exotic insects and even stranger foods?
A flash of Esme digging in a tomb popped into his mind. She wore a ridiculous hat and was covered in sand. Then she smiled at him. It was a most unsettling image.
Fielding entered Max’s home after being gone the entire day. It remained unclear as to whether his visit to the Weatherbys had accomplished anything of value. He still could not completely comprehend them abandoning her to her own ruin. He supposed if nothing else, perhaps he had a better understanding of Esme.
He knew now that despite the fact that Esme spent more time with her nose in a book than in the reality of the world around her, she was also a fighter. Life had not always been kind to her, perhaps rarely been, but she’d proven herself industrious. She was a survivor.
Somewhere down the hall a clock chimed the hour, reminding Fielding that it was long past time for dinner. He briefly entertained the idea of going straight up to bed, but decided instead to stop by their makeshift study. On the off chance that Esme was still awake, he wanted . . . He didn’t know what he wanted.
Apologize was what he should do, but apologize for what, specifically? For being a complete ass? For having a past full of sins? He rubbed his hand down the back of his neck. He needed to see her.
He knocked on the door but heard no reply, so he turned to go, noticing as he did the soft glow of candlelight flickering from beneath the door. Opening the door, he stepped inside. The room was dark, with the exception of the fire in the corner, which had burned down to a handful of embers, and one candle sputtering on the tabletop.
And there was Esme, asleep on the mahogany wood, her breathing slow and steady.
Books surrounded her, one even serving as her pillow. She did not wake as his steps closed the distance between them. For a moment he stood over her, watching her sleep.
He marveled at the porcelain clarity of her skin, at the plumpness of her lips, which were parted just slightly.
This was a woman of intelligence and beauty. A woman who deserved to be admired, not dismissed as her sister had so clearly done. He reached down and pulled her into his arms, cradling her against him.
“Are you going to ravish me?” she asked against his neck, her voice still heavy with sleep.
Her hot breath streamed against his skin like a feathered caress. His body instantly responded to her, and he inwardly groaned. After years of unscrupulous behavior, why had he decided now to be a gentleman? Because while he might not know her very well, he knew that Esme—with her sharp intelligence and her absolute faith in him—deserved better. Better than a quick tumble on the floor.
