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She peered up at him, her eyes glossy with tears.
He hesitated, a battle raging inside him, common sense against his heart. He knew which one ought to win, and yet, the victor was already clear. For how could he deny his heart what it truly wanted—who he truly wanted?
“Please, Miss Coventry, allow me to explain.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Marianne’s cheeks burned with heat despite the cold air nipping at her skin. She never should have mentioned the comb. Deep within her heart, she knew it had meant more than a simple farewell between friends.
And yet, his response had revealed his true desires—that even if he did wish for something more between them, he didn’t want to want it. That had pained her more than anything.
“All is well, Mr. Steele,” she said as he approached. “You were right. We shouldn’t be seen out here together.”
“No, we shouldn’t,” he agreed at once. “But I…” He broke off with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck with his gloved hand. The wariness was etched so clearly across his brow, he could have carved it himself. “I have been an utter cad to allow a friendship to occur between us. You do not even know how you risk your own reputation simply by speaking with me.”
Her mind sifted through his words, attempting to make sense of them. “You are speaking in regard to the rumors about your father?”
His silence answered her question.
“But they were false,” she said.
He removed his hat, raking his fingers through his hair. “False or not, the reputation remains. I care about you too greatly to allow our association to continue.”
Her heart lifted. He did care for her. “Surely the rumors will fade as the years pass.”
He paced back and forth as if he had not heard her. “If you only knew what has been said, Miss Coventry. You would leave this moment and never converse with me again.”
That would not happen, no matter the rumors. But she knew he would not believe her until she had proven her devotion. “Then tell me, Mr. Steele. Tell me what the rumors claim.”
He stopped walking and stared at her, clearly debating whether to speak. Finally, with fallen shoulders, the defeat in his stance was apparent. “Father was accused of…being with the wife of one of his employers.”
The blood drained from her face, though she forced herself to react unaffected. “But…but you were not.”
He glanced at her sidelong. “No, my sin is one of mere association. If they believed Father could do such a thing, why would his son not?” He sniffed with derision. “Upper class logic at its finest.”
Marianne watched him, the pieces falling into place within her mind. That was why he had been so careful with her, so hesitant in everything he did—because he did not wish to taint her name as his had been tainted.
Was that also why he could not admit his feelings for her? Or was there something more? “Can you tell me more about the rumors?” she asked with care. “How they came about?”
He stared off toward the gravel lane nearby, rain bouncing up from the small rocks in minuscule splashes. “Mr. French commissioned work from Father for many years. Mrs. French would often speak with Father when he’d install various furnishings around their house, but she began to linger too greatly in his presence. Father always brought me along or sent me alone to try to ward the woman off, but one day, when I was occupied elsewhere, Mrs. French attempted to…to encourage Father to behave improperly. Father instantly refused, declaring his devoted love for his own wife and his respect for Mr. French.”
His lip twitched down in disgust. “Mrs. French, obviously humiliated, told her husband that Father had been the culprit. Mr. French was furious, and rightly so—had she been speaking the truth. Unfortunately, the gentleman created story after story, discouraging anyone from accepting work from Steele and Son again.”
He shook his head, still clearly affected by the horrifying details. “Mrs. French’s conscience eventually got the better of her, and she apologized to Father in a correspondence, declaring his innocence in the whole situation. But it was too late. We lost every last one of our well-paying, long-standing customers.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “The physician said Father died from a fever, but Mother and I know what really killed him was his grief. He simply could not understand how his friends and associates, people he had known for years, could truly believe he would do something so heinous.”
Marianne’s chest ached as she imagined the anguish his family must have endured. She longed to reach out, to caress Mr. Steele’s furrowed brow and ease his wounds. “I’m so sorry. I cannot imagine having to go through such a terrible experience. But…not everyone believes such things.”
His eyes found hers.
“As you can see, I am still here,” she continued, “despite the rumors, despite what it might do to my name and reputation. Surely that tells you something.”
He sobered, a gaunt look in his eye. “Yes, it tells me that I was selfish to seek a connection with you from the start, knowing your name would be sullied if connected with mine.” He shook his head. “I should have been honest with you. And I certainly never should have given you that blasted comb.”
The words fractured her heart, and she scrambled to put the pieces back together. She could see Mr. Steele’s reasoning. If he pursued any sort of relationship with Marianne, he would lose any chance of maintaining his work at Daffley, thereby forfeiting his and his mother’s home and his own future at his shop.
She could not ask him to do that.
She took a step away from him, embarrassment rushing through her limbs as swiftly as the drops fell from the sky. How could she have been so selfish to have even considered them being together?
