Eleanor, with that maddening blush, stubborn chin, and those dark eyes—eyes that turned so soft when she looked at Amelia.
Would her eyes ever soften for him like that? If they never did, it would be no more than he deserved. He’d told himself he didn’t care if she despised him. He’d told her it made no difference if she were foolish or clever, mad or sane.
He’d told her she didn’t matter.
It was a lie.
She was all that mattered.
He rose from the sofa and moved toward her. “Eleanor, listen to me—”
“No.” She held out a hand to keep him away. “I spoke with your aunt this afternoon, while you were out hunting, and she told me everything.”
Halfway across the room to her, Cam froze. “Everything.”
“Don’t blame her. I—I said I already knew. Mrs. Mullins told me about your father. Your aunt assumed I knew the rest, and I didn’t correct her. I warned you, Cam.” She gave him a defiant look, but her lower lip trembled.
Cam stared at her and noticed for the first time the hectic flush across her cheekbones, the way her fingers clutched at the folds of her gown. “Yes, I suppose you did.”
Was that why he’d brought her here? In some deep part of his mind, where he tried to keep the scales of justice balanced, maybe he’d wanted her to fight him.
It was one way to justify seducing her.
He knew she wouldn’t pass up the chance to unearth his secrets, and what better place to do so than Lindenhurst? He’d suspected as much when he discovered her in the kitchen with Mrs. Mullins last night, but he hadn’t cared—hadn’t even tried to stop her. Not really. He’d been so desperate to taste her, to touch her, he couldn’t think of anything else.
Now she knew everything.
Or she thought she did. But how much did she know? She might know what had happened to his father, but did she know about Amelia’s father? “Tell me what you know, Eleanor. I give you my word I won’t lie to you.”
She straightened her shoulders and folded her hands in front of her again, stiffly, like a headmistress about to deliver a lecture to a room full of naughty boys. “Your father died when you were nine.”
Despite her dignified pose, her breath caught a little here, and Cam felt a hollow echo of it in his chest. Was she sorry for him? For the boy he’d been, perhaps, but not for the man he was. Not for him.
“A fever. Mrs. Mullins said it was quick.”
Quick, yes. Wasn’t it supposed to hurt less if it was quick?
It hadn’t. His father’s death had nearly killed his mother, and his nine-year-old world had cracked open and splintered into thousands of tiny shards. He’d been buried in the debris. There’d been so much of it when he emerged at last, much later, he didn’t recognize himself anymore.
Had Mrs. Mullinstold her that?
Eleanor began to rush over the words now. Poison was like that. Once you’d swallowed it, you became desperate to purge yourself. “Your uncle and aunt and cousin came to live with you then, and Julian became like a brother to you. Mrs. Mullins said all might still have been well, despite your uncle’s cruelty, but—”
She stopped, and Cam saw she was shaking. She didn’t want to say it—didn’t want to know this story. Knowing it hurt her.
But not as much as it hurt him.
He laughed a little, but the sound was bitter. “But what, Ellie? You’ve come this far, and now I’ll have the whole of it. You’ll want to get such an ugly story out, you see, otherwise it will fester and burn inside your heart until it leaves a gaping wound.”
Her composure fled then, and she brought her hands up to cover her face.
He did cross to her then, to grasp her wrists and force her hands back down. “Look at me. What did my Aunt Mary tell you? Something about my mother, I think?”
She shook her head, her dark eyes huge in her white face.
“You said you wanted the truth, Eleanor. What did my aunt tell you about my mother?”
“She said—she said . . . your mother was shamed. Ruined. Your uncle found out about it and forced you and your mother from your home.”
