She let her mouth slip open. Gone were any emotional declarations of anger or upset. She didn’t know what to say.
“My father had a brief affair and fathered a child some sixteen years ago. Upon his deathbed, he revealed as much and pleaded for me to look after her and her mother.” He could barely look at her as he made his confession. “I have tried my best to stay true to my promise.”
“All this time…” She pressed her hands to her face, then let them drop. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Edward’s mouth twisted. “I knew what your father had done. The impact it had on you. I did not want the scandal to touch you, to make you think…” He sighed. “I did not want you to think badly of my father, nor of me.”
“For looking after your sister?”
“You might believe that I would be like my father.”
She snorted. “I didn’t until you started vanishing on me.”
For a moment neither spoke, the only sound the wind and the distant call of a bird.
Beatrice reached out, almost involuntarily, and brushed the lapel of his coat. Her hand trembled. “I’m angry with you,” she said.
He nodded, gaze fixed on hers. “You have every right to be.”
“I wish you had just told me.”
“I was afraid.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Of me?”
“Of losing you,” he whispered.
She opened her mouth to reply, but the words would not come.
They stood together in the cold, among the stones and the dead, and the wind curled around them, forcing them closer.
“I didn’t want to make you live with the consequences of a father who—” He hesitated, glanced at the grave. “A good man, in his own way. But weak. He never said no to anyone, least of all himself.”
Beatrice found herself unable to maintain her anger. The truth was too raw, too familiar. She let her gaze drift from Edward to the grave, then back. “I know about weak men,” she said quietly, gesturing at the headstone. “I loved one.”
Edward’s laugh was almost gentle. “I suppose we are well-matched, then.” He tugged her closer—so close that she could see the dark crescents under his eyes, the strain that this secret had taken. “I don’t want to live apart from you.”
Beatrice’s pulse thundered in her ears, but her body remained motionless. She was terrified—of being hurt, of not being hurt enough, of wanting more than she dared admit.
“If I promise to be honest from now on,” he said, “will you stay?”
She let herself lean into the space between them, just a fraction. “If you lie again,” she said, “I’ll kill you and bury you beside my father.”
Edward’s face cracked into the first true smile she’d seen in weeks, lopsided and bright. “Fair warning.”
She swallowed. “I mean it.”
“I know,” he said, and reached for her hand. His palm was cold and rough and trembling.
Edward bent his head, so close she felt his breath on his lips. For a heartbeat, he hovered there, letting her decide. She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she could give of herself yet. Not after so many weeks of pain.
“Tell me about your sister,” she said, drawing back a little.
He covered his disappointment quickly but kept his fingers looped with hers. “I will. But let us return home first. I think this conversation could be conducted in the warm.”
“You don’t like the cemetery for fine conversation, my lord?” Beatrice teased.
“I really do not.”
