Could, in fact, still destroy the two of them even now.
He has affairs, dear.That’s what Lady Wisterberg had said. She hadn’t understood until now that the word missing from that sentence was “only.” Heonlyhas affairs, dear.
He allowed himself these fleeting associations. What had he said about Lady Pilcher?It wasn’t right.He was seeking something, and yet denying himself that very something at the same time.
“The man I am now is nothing like the boy I was. And I willnevermake that kind of mistake again.”
She met his eyes.
She was silent. Too many thoughts and feelings, all enormous, excruciating, and beautiful, crowded around her heart, clogged her throat. She was impotently furious at the inadequacy of words and her own experience at that moment. She felt callow and young.
She understood now that everyone—Dominic, Lady Pilcher, Lady Wisterberg, her father, everyone at The Grand Palace on the Thames, even herself—struggled to always make sense of their lives, tomanage and salve the blows and disappointments the best way they knew, to seize what pleasures they could in the time they had. Wisdom was seldom innate, she understood. It was hard-won. It was acquired through a process of elimination. Of learning from mistakes. Some people only ever lashed out, and thereby stole a little relief. Like Lady Pilcher.
“After a fashion, I suppose you’ve been fighting for Leo your whole life,” she said slowly. “And against the injustice done to you and Anna. For the vulnerable.”
He turned slowly and stared at her. Utterly still.
And she could see that this had never once occurred to him. That flicker of comprehension, then abstraction, in his eyes as he took this in. Considered it. A hint of reluctance, of wry appreciation. She loved the light in his eyes when she’d impressed him.
And maybe you’ve been fighting for yourself, too. Because no one else ever has,she thought.
She wondered if he also understood that he’d been punishing himself for it his entire life as well.
She wasn’t brave enough to say any of that out loud. It seemed very close to the bone. Likely he would deny it.
“There are very few people who know I have an... illegitimate... son, but you’re the only one who knows the entirety of the story. I have a feeling my erstwhile mistress somehow got a peek at my letter from Anna, which is how Farquar came to know of it. While I’m not proud of how it came about, I’m not ashamed of him, nor am I deliberately keeping him a secret. But for his sake, I want to protect him from gossip and speculation as much as I can, for as long as I can. I should begrateful if you would not share this information with anyone else.”
“Of course. I’m honored that you trust me with it. I’m glad to know of him.”
They sat in silence a moment.
Finally, some instinct made her gently thread her fingers through his. It was lovely just to touch his warm, strong hand, to twine with those surprisingly elegant fingers that had known her body so intimately. Her throat was tight. He would forever be the first man to ever touch her that way. Even now, when she thought about it, her body pulsed with longing.
Then she lifted his hand and brought it to her cheek. She held it next to her skin.
She felt him tense in surprise, perhaps, but she didn’t release him. Presently, as surely as if the two of them were of a piece, she could feel the tension in him melt away. He took a long breath. Exhaled at length.
And she supposed this was why she’d instinctively done it. Somehow she’d hoped to transfer peace to him through her skin. Balm ancient aches. She hadn’t anything else available to her to communicate how she felt.
But she also just wanted to feel him against her: The thrum of his ferocity and passion. His strength, his precious, irreplaceably unique, maddening spirit. He scared her so.
“Ilike you,” she said quietly.
He smiled faintly. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
Tumbling about with all the other things she felt—aching pity and ferocious admiration andjealousy, the restless, consuming desire that stirred every time he was near—was guilt. Guilt about the relief she felt that her life was a relatively clean slate, empty as a blue summer sky. She could marry a nice young man who had plenty of money and no regrets or demons or guilt. Who wasn’t a crusader or controversial. Who hadn’t maddening complexities. Who hadn’t yet been shot through like a battle flag by grief or terror or love or any other emotions to which all humans are subject, and from which they may never recover. She could grow up together with this nice young man, build a family, have a peaceful, cheerful life. This possibility remained to her and she turned toward it like it was an open window she could climb back into after taking a few steps out onto a tightrope.
This was why Dominic had told her about his son. So she would finally understand the depths of his struggle when she was near. The extent of their danger. And perhaps, too, the limitations of what he was able or willing to offer her.
He’d given her a taste of her own power and introduced her to the pleasures that could be had from her own body.
But he wanted to protect her the way he’d been unable to protect Anna.
And she wanted to protect him, too.
Which meant leaving him be. Walking away forever.
Have mercy, he’d begged. She could do that for him.
