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He wore a dark coat and a gold-hued waistcoat under. The cravat at his neck drooped so it hardly stood out from the shirt. But when he moved his arm, the sleeve fell back at his hand. She could see the broadness of his wrist and the shape of the bone resting under the darkened skin. Hair spattered the back of his hand, hardly showing. Even the leanness of his fingers gave him a look of strength.
And if she doubted his power, she had only to let herself gaze at his shoulders or across his chest. He was born with command.
He’d not spoken during the whole meal. She’d not felt ignored because she had her own thoughts to consider. When she stood, he immediately put down his fork and rose. Grim eyes met hers.
‘We should go to the sitting room.’ Warrington stepped beside her, not touching, but close enough she could see a darkness of his jaw, hinting of stubble.
She paused, studying his face. He smiled—one he might have given a convict headed for the gallows.
She didn’t move. ‘What is it?’
‘I was just thinking of...’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. My wife. It’s too late to ask her questions now, and even if it weren’t, her answers... Why would anyone ask a question of someone who has repeatedly told lies—unless to see if the answer is so preposterous as to be laughable?’
He put a hand to Melina’s back and shepherded her towards the sitting room. Two candles were lit to dispel the gloom from the drizzling rain outside. ‘A man might ask a question of his wife and in his heart he knows the answer, but he wants to hear something to convince him he’s wrong.’ His voice was low, laced with ruefulness as if he couldn’t believe he spoke. ‘I suppose Shakespeare has written a play about it, or he should have. Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have liked it.’
When he entered the sitting room, he stopped, frowning. ‘If you ever can’t sleep, make use of the books we have. Dane’s tomes on gardening are quite useful for nodding off.’ Warrington stood in front of the large, chintz-covered chair, but he didn’t sit. ‘I know you can read English because you wrote letters to send to your father, and I believe I even have several volumes in Greek.’
Melina walked in front of the books. She ran her finger over the titles. ‘I can’t read Greek. Neither of my sisters can. I would not know how to read English if my father hadn’t had trouble painting for a while and found it amusing to teach words. A new game and I was good at it. I even taught my sisters later—and when Bellona realised she could read English, she was enraged. Bellona then took the two books my father had left behind and found a French sailor who would buy them.’
Warrington didn’t speak and he looked at his hands.
She wondered why he didn’t face her—and why he didn’t say what he thought. ‘Continue.’ She shrugged. ‘I know you have more to say.’
‘Your father has a large home, very old, very well kept—from his wife’s family. When you see it, understand he...’
Melina let out a breath and turned from the books, keeping herself calm by force. ‘You are telling me he is both wealthy and married. But since it is his wife’s funds, I could understand him not sending much to us, but forgetting about us completely was wrong.’
Warrington stepped closer and took her hand. He led her to the sofa and pulled her beside him. He didn’t release her fingers, but held them. ‘I am trying to prepare you for the luxurious life he lives and I wanted you to know the money isn’t his. And I don’t think he is able to control it as husbands do with their wife’s funds. The father-in-law was quite shrewd. The man profited greatly from the war with the colonies, and then the one with the little Corsicans—ensuring that England had the weapons they needed. And he only had the one daughter to pass his wealth to.’
‘So my father had two families. He surely had enough funds to feed us. We did not need much, by English standards.’
Now he held her hand in both his, the warmth touching her, but not driving away the aloneness. She pulled back, feeling the anger towards her father that he deserved, but Warrington raised his grip to hold her wrists.
His eyes fixed on hers, and his voice softened even more. ‘Your father hasn’t recently married. He had two families, Melina.’
Melina couldn’t speak. Her words burned in her throat.
Warrington continued, ‘You have a half-brother near my age. And your father has daughters here. If we are to go to his house tomorrow, I know you will probably see them, his wife or their portraits. You’d find out. It’s better to know before.’
