She said nothing, merely snuggled up against him, relishing the smell of him, the scent of their lovemaking permeating her skin. His hand absently stroked her back. “No one would blame you for working for the Raven,” Esme said softly.
He only squeezed her closer to him in response.
She longed to say more. To say something that would ease the guilt she knew ate at Fielding, but she found herself at a loss.
They lay in silence for so long Esme would have guessed he’d fallen asleep.
“So tell me, Esme,” he whispered. “What secrets are you hiding?”
“Secrets?” she asked. “Tit for tat, I see. Well, I don’t suppose it will hurt to supply you with the details of the Worthington family secrets.” She still lay in the crook of his arm, snuggled against his chest.
“Worthington family secrets. Sounds intriguing. Tell me, why is it that you refer to yourself as a woman without a name?”
Her right hand made lazy circles through the hair on his chest. She was not in the habit of revealing her own humiliation. But she had claimed to be forthcoming with him; she couldn’t very well make herself out to be a liar. And he’d shared something with her, something he evidently was not proud of.
“Obviously I do have a name, although it is a name with no protection, as it were,” she began. “My father was a baron, but we lived a comfortable life. He and I were quite close; it is from him that I inherited my extensive library.”
“You mentioned he was a professor, but a landed gentleman professor.” He released a low whistle. “That’s interesting. I would wager that caused quite a stir among his peers.”
“Yes, and with my mother as well. It was not what she’d agreed to, she always told him. He came to teaching only after my sister and I were born. My mother, well, she and I never did see eye to eye on much of anything. She and my sister, Elena, were very much alike, though. Both beautiful and charming and able to persuade men to do their bidding with little more than a flutter of their eyelashes.”
As much as she’d hate to admit it, the pain was still there, pinching her like a broken corset bone.
“Spoiled and tiresome,” he muttered.
She merely smiled and kept going. “Elena is five years older than I am, and as a little girl I wanted nothing more than to be just like her. She was so pretty and graceful. I couldn’t wait until I grew up and had my coming-out so that I too could be courted by a line of suitors.
“I can still see her coming down the stairs in our small townhome, her soft curls pulled up in an intricate coiffure decorated with jeweled hairpins, her rose-colored ballgown brushing the rails of the stairwell as she left for a night of dancing.” Esme paused a moment to enjoy Fielding’s fingers as they traced haphazard patterns on her back. “It wasn’t until later,” she continued, “that I realized blood was the only commonality Elena and I had. In any case, it only took her one season, and she married one of those suitors.”
“Lord Weatherby,” he provided.
“Yes. The wealthiest and perhaps the most handsome of all her suitors. I was all of fifteen. Shortly thereafter, our mother and father both fell ill and died. Scarlet fever.” She tried to speak quickly so the tears wouldn’t come. “My father left no other heir, so my brother-in-law took immediate control of our household and became my legal guardian. Very quickly, he sold my parents’ home and all our belongings, save the items my sister wanted, and my father’s books.” For which she’d had to beg.
“Your sister’s handsome, rich husband turned out to be a scoundrel,” Fielding said.
Esme shrugged, trying to appear as if she didn’t care. As if the last twelve years had meant nothing to her. “Oh they’re quite happy with each other. Both looking pretty in their big house with their expensive furnishings and hordes of servants. I’d wager their children are perfect as well.”
“And what of your own debut?” he asked. “Why did you never marry?”
She exhaled slowly. “My debut was a disaster. My mother had spent the better part of ten years instilling in me the teaching that I should not flaunt my education around men. She reminded me time and again to hold my tongue, and that if I could do so, I might make a decent match.”
Fielding had already started to chuckle. Esme frowned. “What’s so amusing?”
“I can sense trouble coming,” he said. “There’s no situation in which you could keep your opinion to yourself.”
She could have been offended, but instead Esme warmed under his assessment. There was no judgment in his tone, but rather a matter-of-fact understanding of who she was.
“What happened?” he asked.
“After an extensive lecture from my sister, reminding me to heed all Mother’s advice, I went with Raymond and Elena to an exclusive dinner party hosted by the Duke of Devonshire. For most of the evening I managed to smile and nod and be the perfect dinner companion. I nearly survived the entire meal, but as they were bringing out the seventh course his lordship was touting his knowledge of all things Egyptian. Then he boldly, and foolishly I might add, claimed that Cleopatra had never been pharaoh. I saw Elena shake her head, but I could not abide his ignorance. So I corrected his facts.”
Fielding tilted her chin so she looked up at him. “You corrected the duke in his own house at his own party?”
“I did,” she said slowly. “And I paid dearly for it.”
He kissed her forehead.
“It was a scandal I could not recover from. No matter how much Elena and Raymond apologized on my behalf, they knew better than to ask me to do so. After that dinner, no man would have me; they were far too concerned with the stigma marrying me would carry. A woman with opinions of her own.” She sighed. “A month later they gave me my dowry and told me to go live in the country. I was given three estates to choose from. I chose to stay in London.”
