But he understood what she meant. He’d only said it because he knew, suddenly, with absolute conviction, that he didn’t want her to leave.
“Back to my home in Northumberland. It’s beginning to seem as though my London season is a farce. If it was a horse, it would have been shot for lameness before now.” She gave a short, ironic laugh. “I would love to come to know the city, and I do not usually give up easily, but I am beginning to believe I might not be cut out for the place. I’m wondering if it’s worth it, after all.”
He remembered his prediction to himself days ago: she wouldn’t last the month in London.
Two impulses warred in him: to encourage her togo home, before London could take that light out of her face forever. It seemed to him that one never stopped needing to conquer London, freshly, again and again. At least this was true of the circles of London in which he was obliged to move. Perhaps it was why he felt so at home here—fighting was what he was born to do. She should go home, to the green fields and the kinder people. And away from people like him.
“Perhaps if you return next year?” he suggested carefully.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to afford it,” she said frankly. “I’m twenty-two now. Not precisely on the shelf, of course. But there isn’t enough money for another season. My father has a habit of accepting things like piglets instead of money for payment, and we are not wealthy. Mind you, welikepiglets, and don’t lack for anything we want.” She looked up at him earnestly, assuring him of this. “But he would like to see me safely settled soon because... he’s... well, it’s his heart.”
“His heart?”
“It isn’t... it isn’t what it used to be.”
His heart isn’t what it used to be.That rather described his own, too.
“His heart is... failing?” he guessed.
“He thinks so. He grows tired climbing the stairs, and he cannot travel to see patients the way he once could... well, he believes it might not be long for him now.”
And it immediately put into context what she’d said last night in the sitting room. She’d already lost her mother. She hadn’t any siblings. How the thought of losing him, too, must frighten her.
Kirke’s chest tightened. He’d heard the warmth in her voice when she talked about her father.
“I see. I’m terribly sorry to hear it.”
She searched his face. She could hear how sincerely he meant it and he saw that she was grateful for that. Her expression eased.
She nodded. But she didn’t reply for some time, and he honored her with silence.
“But that’s simply life, isn’t it?” she said finally. “One can hardly predict it. None of us are exempt from its... caprices. I have been luckier than many, I know. I try to make the best of the moments I have. I’m not certain I’m making the best of the moments here in London,” she added dryly.
She didn’t think life owed her a thing. And this, he realized suddenly, was why it was so peaceful and easy to be in her presence. Loss and experience seemed to have taught her acceptance and given her depth and strength and rare maturity.
She didn’t have to say: “And when my father dies, I’ll be alone.” But that was absolutely implicit.
It was immediately clear that this London season for her could mean the difference between a future of security and joy and ease, or a future of genteel poverty and loneliness.
He knew firsthand that life could cut you off at the knees, and you could still go on. That the human spirit could be almost stupidly, defiantly resilient and indestructible. It built up fortifications and strange adaptations to do it, granted. But the realities he’d witnessed had not made an optimist of him. Women had far fewer choices than men.
He ought to drag Lady Wisterberg away from the gaming table by her nape and get her to do her job. He could think of no way to directly approach her about Keating that wouldn’t be construed as insulting or wildly inappropriate.
“Was it... are you worrying about your father at the moment? Or did something particularly daunting happen this evening to have you contemplating the sacrifice of Helga’s magnificent scones at The Grand Palace on the Thames?”
“Oh, I am always a little worried about him. But our housekeeper is there with him and I know she’ll take good care of him, and he insisted I go to London. To be honest, I wanted to go.” She paused. “But something did happen tonight.”
She looked at him uncertainly.
“Would you like to tell me?” he asked gently.
“Just a moment ago, I learned that Lord Vaughn was interested in an introduction to me. Do you know him?”
He went still. Lord St. John Vaughn was the young, very handsome, very wealthy heir to the Earl of Vaughn.
And just like that, before he could hurl his considerable powers of reason in front of it in defense, the most shocking, black jealousy came at him like boiling oil dumped from a turret.
He went airless. His thoughts snarled as though a grenade had been hurled right smack in the middle of them. He could not get out a word.
