He lifted one eyebrow.
“They wereprivate,” she shot back.
“You committed them to paper.”
“I did not send them into the world!”
“No,” he said. “You merely left the door open and walked away.”
She blinked—once, slow—like someone slapped and unsure if it was deserved. “I—” She stopped herself. “It was not intentional.”
“No, I am sure it was not.” His voice was colder than he meant. “But negligence rarely is.”
She flushed, too quickly to hide it. “You think this is my fault?”
Of course it was. The words had her signature all over them—her humor, her sharpness, her disdain. He did not want to speak the answer aloud. But she had asked, and so he gave it.
“I know it is. You wrote them down.”
Her head snapped to the side, as if she could deflect the blow by sheer will. When she turned back, her voice had steadied, but only just.
“I did not sayallof that. More than I ought to have, but… well, I suppose you have never made a mistake?”
He had. He was looking one in the face.
His fists clenched. “Iwarnedyou.”
“Heavens, you were in jest! I distinctly remember that non-smile of yours, and perhaps even an amused grunt. You wanted to goad me into reading them aloud to you because you cannot stand feeling as if someone is speaking of you and you cannot hear their compliments!”
He almost laughed. Almost. That was the insult she settled on?
“Hardly. I know very well your phrasing was anything but complimentary. Andthat,Miss Elizabeth, is the very problem. Your pen is sharp and your wit was duller than you thought!”
She stared at him, unblinking. Her arms crossed. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She looked—hurt.
Good. She ought to be.
But she looked smaller, too. That was the part he had not expected. He had confronted her, prepared to find her defiant, scornful, blazing with outrage. Instead, she stood still, shoulders set, defending her pride because she had nothing else left.
He knew that posture.
Georgiana had worn it the night she told him what she had written, what she had lost. He had not raised his voice then either.
“What would you have me say?” Elizabeth asked. “That I was foolish? That I believed it would never leave my hands? That I thought—”
She stopped herself.
He did not answer. He did not trust what might come out.
“But youwillsay something,” she almost begged. “You will not let that blasted pamphlet ruin me, surely?”
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say it in the same breath as a dozen other things—reprimands, confessions, regrets. But he could not. He was too aware of how much had already slipped beyond his control.
“I will not see you shamed,” he said finally. “Not publicly.”
Her throat moved, once.
“But do not ask me to pretend it was harmless.”
