He was silent for a long moment. Then he crossed the room and threw open the heavy curtains. Pale daylight spilled across dust and memory.
“It’s smaller than I remembered,” he said quietly. “Less… ominous.”
“Most childhood terrors are.”
“This was no childhood terror. This was an adult catastrophe inflicted upon a child.” But his voice had gentled.
Celine moved to the desk and began gathering the scattered papers with calm, deft hands. “What do you wish to do with all of this?”
“Burn it,” he said at once—and then, after a pause, “No. Archive it. Painful history is still history.”
“Very philosophical.”
“Very practical.” He joined her, helping sort the papers with careful deliberation. “Those who forget the past repeat it. Though I doubt I’m in danger of developing a gambling addiction.”
“No, you’ve developed the opposite problem. An addiction to control.”
“Better than the alternative.”
“Is it, though?” She paused in her sorting. “Your father lost control and died quickly. You’re maintaining perfect control and dying slowly. Neither seems ideal.”
“And what would you suggest?”
“Balance. Moderation. The occasional risk that won’t destroy everything if it fails.”
“Such as?”
“Such as marrying a woman you barely knew because her father lost at cards.”
He actually smiled—a real, full smile that transformed his face. “That was calculated risk, not impulse.”
“Was it? You knew nothing about me except that I’d refused three suitors and had a tendency toward stubbornness.”
“I knew more than that.”
“Oh?”
He moved closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne, that mixture of smoke and winter she was beginning to associate with danger. “I knew you read Gothic novels in conservatories to avoid dancing. I knew you wore colours thatsuited you rather than what fashion dictated. I knew you visited your friend Miss Hartwell every Tuesday even after her father’s bankruptcy made her an exile. I knew you donated your pin money to the orphanage on Drury Lane rather than spending it on ribbons.”
Her breath caught. “You investigated me?”
“I noticed you.”
“For how long?”
“Three Seasons.” His hand brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I watched you refuse Ashworth for being dull. Faxtone because his mother disapproved. Sir Gerald because he reminded you of your father’s weakness. Yet you never noticed me watching. Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“I didn’t know—until your father sat at that card table and I realised circumstance might place you within my reach.”
The words were outrageous. They should have offended her. Instead, heat curled through her.
“You planned it.”
“I anticipated the inevitable. Your father was a mathematical certainty. That matters unfolded when they did…” His mouth twisted. “You may call it fate, if you like.”
“You don’t believe in fate.”
