“You were building something,” Harriet said firmly. “John’s seen Theodore regularly for years. He’s never mentioned anything the way Theodore apparently can’t stop mentioning you.”
Cressida’s head snapped up. “What?”
A small smile touched Harriet’s mouth. “According to John, Theodore has brought you up in every conversation they’ve had since your marriage. What you said about estate management. How you charmed the tenants. Your opinions on agricultural reform—can you imagine Theodore discussing crop rotation because his wife had thoughts on it?”
“He never…”
“Of course, he never. He’s Theodore.” Harriet turned to face her fully. “The man’s been alone for so long that he’s forgotten how to admit he needs anyone. But needing and wanting are right there, Cressida, even if he’s too stubborn to acknowledge them.”
Cressida wanted desperately to believe her. But memory intervened: his cold expression as he’d called her a contract, the careful way he’d stepped back when she’d reached for him, the practiced distance in his voice.
“You didn’t see his face,” she whispered. “The way he looked at me when he said I meant nothing.”
“Then why did he marry you?”
“To satisfy his aunt’s meddling and my father’s greed. He told me as much.”
Harriet made a thoroughly unladylike sound. “If Theodore had wanted to satisfy his aunt, he could have married any eligible woman she threw at him over the past decade. Yet, somehow, he married you. After finding you unchaperoned, having traveled across England to stop a wedding, covered in mud and magnificently furious.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that the Duke of Ashmere doesn’t do anything he doesn’t choose to do. If he’d truly wanted to avoid marriage, he’d have sent you home that night and dealt with the consequences.” Harriet took both her hands. “He married you because he wanted to, Cressida. Everything else is just the excuse he gave himself.”
Cressida pulled free, standing to pace toward the window. Below, London sprawled in its familiar disorder—carriages navigating crowded streets, vendors calling their wares, society moving through its elaborate dance of appearances and careful calculation.
She’d escaped all this by marrying Theodore. Had found something unexpected in the cold Duke everyone had warned her about. Something tender and genuine beneath his careful control.
And she’d lost it because he couldn’t trust her with his past.
“He won’t forgive me for trespassing,” she said quietly. “That gallery was clearly forbidden for a reason.”
“Then you’ll make him forgive you.”
“You don’t understand what I saw on his face. The betrayal?—”
“I understand perfectly.” Harriet joined her at the window. “John told me once about Theodore’s mother. About the affair that destroyed their family. About the duel that left Theodore’s father broken and bitter.” She paused. “Did Theodore tell you any of this?”
“No. He’s never spoken of it.”
“Exactly. So whatever’s in that portrait, whatever history it represents, clearly cuts deep enough that Theodore’s spent years avoiding it.” Harriet’s reflection met hers in the glass. “You stumbled onto something he’s not ready to share. That’s not betrayal, Cressida. That’s just terrible timing.”
“He called me a contract.”
“Because he was hurt and terrified and defaulting to the one defense he knows.” Harriet turned her around. “You fell in love with him.”
It wasn’t a question.
Cressida’s eyes burned.
“I did,” she admitted. “I do. Which makes this infinitely worse, because loving someone who can’t love you back is its own torture.”
“Who says he can’t?”
“He did. Rather explicitly.”
“No, he said you were a contract. Which is an excuse, not a feeling.” Harriet gripped her shoulders. “The man who remembered your favorite color, who chose that emerald-green gown because he’d memorized every word you’d said, who looked at you during Lady Seymore’s ball like you’d hung the stars—that man is capable of love. He’s simply terrified of admitting it.”
A knock interrupted them.
