From the top of the steps, the double entrance doors swung open simultaneously. An older gentleman emerged, dressed in tan pantaloons and black tailcoat, with eyes that rushed to hers and stayed. Tears welled, but he didn’t move.
No one had to say he was her father.
She knew him.
She knew the thick, wavy hair, now sprinkled black and white, with sideburns down his firm cheeks. She knew the tight lips. The powerful eyes. The giant set of shoulders she once rode upon.
Dear God, how can this be?She turned around, the prayer aching through her, faced the post chaise down the drive. If she had more strength, she would run for it and dash away and never look back.
“I knew what you had done, Northwood.” The deep voice filled the air with tension. “By all that is holy, you had no right to do this.”
Felton said nothing. No defense. No explanation. Why had he brought her? What could he possibly want so much that he should be willing to bring her this hurt?
“Eliza.”
The name, spoken so huskily, turned her back around. Her own tears blurred her father’s face—but even though she could no longer see him clearly, she felt years’ worth of pain and suffering and longing emanate from him.
Longing she was doubtless supposed to fill.
Pain she was brought to end.
“I should not be here.” She pivoted a second time and started to run, but Felton seized her before she’d gone halfway down the drive. When he whirled her back around, the entrance doors were still open. But Lord Gillingham was gone.
Felton grabbed her shoulders and yanked her close. “You belong here.”
“No—”
“You remember him. I saw it on your face. You knew him—”
“No, it is not true!” She struggled against him, shook her head. “Let me go. I shall escape if you do not release me. I shall beg Lord Gillingham to send me back.”
“You do that, and I’ll come after you.”
“No.”
“Wherever you go, no matter how far, I’ll find you. And I’ll bring you back. And youwillstay, if I have to stand guard outside of this manor every night of my dashed life.”
Her breathing faltered under the passion that leaked out of him. “What do you want of me?”
“I want your memory, Eliza Gillingham.”
“I have no memory of this place. I have no memory of anything.”
“That is of little matter. I only need your memory of one night.” His fingers loosened and he backed away from her face. “The night your mother was killed.”
Felton strode to the blue-paneled door of a house three times as small as Monbury Manor. The walk between the two homes, however, took him no more than twenty minutes. ’Twas a path he walked often, for Lord Gillingham was always offering a book or two from his library or beating Felton at another game of chess.
Doubtless it would be a while before the viscount would wish to do either.
In the end, though, he would be glad for what Felton had done. Even if there was a risk, was it not right for father and daughter to be reunited?
“Master Northwood, you must ’urry! The family be already on their second course, they are, and—oh, let me take that for you.” The young, high-pitched maid took his gloves, then helped him from his greatcoat. “Mrs. Northwood, she’s just been in a terrible state since you left. You ne’er said a word. But I says to them, I says, ‘Master Northwood be strong and he can take care of ’imself, he can.’ But they says to me—”
“Thank you, Dodie. I shall explain.” In the name of George, why could his mother not employ a maid less talkative? He hurried from the quaint foyer and headed straight for the light green dining room, where he found the white tablecloth-covered table crowded with colorful dishes.
His mother and father sat on opposite ends, and there were three empty chairs where their sons belonged.
“Mamma, Papa.” Felton dropped into the seat closest to his father. “Forgive my absence these past days.” No sense avoiding the inevitable. “I had urgent matters to attend to.”
