Page 71 of The Gentlewoman Author

His throat seared and his skin itched. His greatest skill was deceiving himself.

Perhaps he should have told Mary about his connection to Louisa. He kept it to himself because he knew that he and Louisa did not suit. He did it because of that long, charming look Mary gifted him when they first met. He did it in hopes that he could have a loving marriage and Almery. It was a guilty omission, but one he could not regret, not when it brought him Mary.

A readiness to forgive tugged at him. The tantalizing desire to surrender his anger offered to loosen the thorny tension that pricked his soul, but he yanked back the hurt, reeled it in, and cradled it. She withheld a major part of her identity from him. Yes, she would be censured for writing a romance, but not by him. He was half infatuated with every woman in that novel, so it was little wonder he loved the author. Her lack of trust in him cut the deepest wound. Wishing to keep that truth from wagging tongues in Bath, he understood, but once they began to confide in each other, the subject came up again. Ah! And he had made assumptions about Mary in that conversation, had said she would never do such a thing. Hardly a sentiment to induce a confidence. Then he blamed Lady Mary for Louisa’s behavior.

His appraisal of the situation wanted clarity. What had he done to warrant her faith? He misled her. His initial interest in marriage to her stemmed from his desire for Almery. He had not examined his motives, and they were not selfless. He must show her his worthiness and earn her trust.

Daniel found Miss Thorpe, a book in hand, staring out the window. His mother and Emma huddled around Mrs. Eliot, who was wide-eyed and gesticulating. Heaven only knew what nonsense she imparted. She was Mary’s friend, but he had yet to comprehend why.

“Miss Thorpe, would you care to walk outside with me?” She was pale and could probably use some air. It occurred to him that she must have gone through a harrowing experience with Mr. Savage. His engagement to her was of no help. In Bath, she’d worn youthful insolence layered over a bright spirit. The liveliness he’d witnessed was gone, exchanged for complete despondency.

She acquiesced gloomily to the walk. They strolled mindlessly through the grounds, talking of nothing in particular, until Daniel looked up and realized they were in the rose garden. A pang of loss shot through him. How he missed Mary.

“Miss Thorpe, may I call you Louisa?”

“We are engaged.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

She hesitated. “It is the right thing to do. The only option after…”

“So, you see this as a punishment?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him, shocked. “I mean, it is a duty I fulfill with happiness.”

“If you could do anything, what would you do?”

She laughed, dry and cynical. “No one has ever asked me that.”

Her plight clarified, and Daniel understood her for the first time. “Your father arranged your marriage without asking your consent. Your aunt took you to Bath when you did not wish to go, and now you are being forced into that arranged marriage with a man you do not like.”

“Oh! I do like you. But not for a husband.”

“What do you want?”

She pinched her lips between her teeth and began unravelling a ribbon sewn to her gown. “I want to go back to Stroud and be a lady’s companion.” She blushed and looked at the ground.

“What would your father think?”

She wilted and pulled harder at the bow. “You see, my wishes are of no consequence.”

“Let’s make them matter.”

She jerked away from him. “Don’t tease me.”

“I would never make light of this, Louisa.”

“What do you propose?”

“I suggest we both get what we want.”

“Impossible.”

“I cannot accept that. Do you know I want to marry your aunt?”

Louisa stepped back, but a tiny smile grew. “You are joking.”

“I love her more than life.” More than this castle. “What can we do?”