Emotion rose so suddenly that Emmeline had to look away.
“I am only tired.”
“My dear, I have known you since you were smaller than that teacup. Do not insult us both.”
A laugh escaped her, but it trembled. She looked at her hands in her lap, at the careful fold of her gloves, and felt suddenly very young.
“Things between Rowan and me are…” She stopped, unable to find a word that did not expose too much. “Tense.”
Her father’s face changed with immediate concern. “Has he been unkind?”
“No,” she said at once, because even now she could not bear Rowan being made into something simple. “No. He has been hurt.”
“And you?”
She pressed her lips together.
Lord Weston’s expression softened with a sadness that made him look older. “Ah.”
“I made a choice I thought was compassionate,” Emmeline said. “And perhaps it was. But it hurt him. I knew it might, and I did it anyway.”
Her father was quiet for a moment. “It is a cruel thing to discover that doing what seems kind to one person may be a wound to another.”
Her eyes burned. “Yes.”
“And does he understand why you did it?”
“I do not think he wishes to.”
Her father reached across and covered her hand with his. “Then perhaps he will, when the pain is no longer speaking first.”
She turned toward him, something desperate moving in her chest. “And if he does not?”
“Then you will survive that too.”
It felt like grief, even though it was meant as comfort.
When she returned to Ironford House later that afternoon, the corridors seemed too long, too silent. She removed her bonnet and gloves herself rather than summon a maid, needing the small occupation of ordinary motions. She had almost reached the stairs when Rowan appeared from the opposite corridor.
They stopped at the same time.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Her body recognized him before her pride could gather itself, warmth pulling low in her stomach despite the wreckage between them. He was in dark clothes, his hair slightly disordered as though he had run a hand through it too often, his mouth set into a hard line. He looked tired. Beautiful. Unreachable.
She hated that she still wanted him.
“Your Grace,” she said.
His eyes flashed at the title. “Duchess.”
She inclined her head and moved to pass.
“Were you out?” he asked.
She stopped. “Yes.”
“Where?” The question had no softness in it.
