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“But you’re not in love with him.”

She made a comical grimace. “Any illusions I might have had about romantic love were demolished after the first month of working at a solicitor’s office.”

“You don’t believe in love?”

“No, I do . . . I just don’t believe it lasts.” After a self-conscious pause, she asked, “You’re not a romantic, are you?”

Pembroke took his time to reply. “Not in the way of soulmates or fairy tales. But I believe in love that grows over time, and holds together through all the mistakes and hardships, with forgiveness.” His lips quirked as he studied the depths of his wineglass. “True love is like a good old coat, patched and well-mended in every part.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs toward the hearth.

“Have you . . . have you ever loved someone that way?” Reina dared to ask.

“Not yet. But someday, when I have a job that lets me stay home of an evening and be a proper husband . . . I’ll find a good woman to marry and love her for the rest of my days.”

She gave him a doubtful glance. “Is it so easy to find someone?”

“Aye, for the lower classes. It’s the higher-ups who have to look for love outside marriage.”

“As my father did,” Reina said pensively.

Evidently fearing he might have offended her, Pembroke said carefully, “The remark was meant in general, of course. I wouldn’t presume to judge your father.”

“I would. I judge him severely for it. He certainly didn’t consider what was best for his wife or my mother. The only person it benefited was himself.”

“Your mother was unhappy?” Pembroke asked.

“Desperately. Not at first, I suppose.” Her gaze went to Manuela’s portrait. “She was only eighteen when they met. My father had gone to Paris to meet with the Rothschilds on banking business. One evening he saw her perform at the Folies Bergère, and he was so taken with her that he arranged for an introduction.”

She paused, tapping the propelling pencil against her lips absently. “My mother said it was love at first sight,” she continued, “but I suspect it was more a case of being overwhelmed by the attentions of a forty-year-old bank director.” She let the pencil drop on its chain. “He convinced her to abandon her career and move to England as his mistress. He promised she would always be taken care of. But that turned out not to be true.” After taking a sip of wine, she said, “We learned of his death three days after the funeral. Even though he left Mamaíta the deed to our town house, he’d given his executor the discretion to sell it off, if necessary, to take care of debts and taxes. So my mother ended up with nothing and no means to provide for herself.”

“I’m sorry,” Pembroke said gently.

Reina shrugged. “It was a valuable lesson. My father might have cared about us, but we weren’t his priority. We should have been our own priority.”

His astute gaze didn’t move from her face. In a moment, he said in a low voice, “Adfyd a ddaw a dysg yn ei law.”

The rhythm of the words, the texture of them, was brisk and tender and lilting. “Welsh?” she asked, oddly breathless.

“Aye, an old proverb: ‘Adversity visits with learning in its hand.’”

“The language sounds beautiful,” she said. “Like music to my ears.”

“Mêl ar fy mysedd.” Pembroke smiled slightly. “Instead of saying something is ‘music to my ears,’ we say, ‘honey on my fingers.’ ”

The remark provoked a pang of pleasure at the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say, just stared at him, transfixed. Silence unrolled like a bolt of delicate gauze and settled over the moment.

“Welsh has words with shades of meaning that have no equal in English,” he continued. “There’s glas, which is the word for blue. But it’s also for something with a bit of shimmer, like the gleam of a fish in the water, or the rain on oak leaves. Cwtch is the word for a cubby to store something safe. But it also means closeness . . . an embrace that’s . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right way to express it. “A safe place in my arms.”

She felt another pang, deeper and warmer.

“We have at least forty different words for rain,” Pembroke added.

It was possibly the most delightful thing she’d ever heard. A slow smile spread across her face. “Forty kinds of rain? Tell me a few.”

“Curlaw for belting rain . . . hegarlaw if it comes and goes . . . or glaw mynydd, the rain in the mountains.”

“What’s your favorite kind?”

“Glaw tyfu. The rain of April that makes things grow.”