“The money was lost in an investment involving rubber production.”
“You do know a lot. Why?”
That was a more dire question than he suspected. She tried to find words to soften it, but there were none. “My husband was the principal in that scheme.”
She left it there, not trying to explain or excuse because there was no explanation or excuse, searching his still features, braced even for violence.
He moved slightly, freeing himself of her touch, lids lowered so she could no longer read his eyes. “And your part in this?”
“None! I knew nothing about it until after Maurice’s death. I found it in his papers, his accounts....”
She noticed his chest rise and fall with his breaths wondering what else she could say to hold off disaster. But then he looked at her. “Is that why you sought me out? Why?”
Panic gripped her. If she told him, he’d know he didn’t owe her anything. He’d leave!
So be it.
She licked her dry lips. “When I realized what Maurice had done, I knew I had to put it right. From pride, however, I didn’t want anyone to know what a scoundrel my husband had been. I tried to think of cunning schemes. I followed your doings anxiously, and even thought of finding someone to deliberately lose a fortune to you at cards.”
“Why didn’t you?” But he was looking lighter, if rather dazed.
“I didn’t know how. That’s how I heard about your disastrous loss, though. It was so unlike you. I’d heard that you nearly always won. I knew I had to act.” She reached out again to touch him, and he didn’t move away. “Thank God I did.”
He collapsed down on his back. It broke contact again, but she didn’t mind. He was staring at the ceiling. “I wish your husband was alive to be killed,” he said, almost idly. “But it wasn’t entirely his fault, you know. There were too many deaths in the family. They broke my father’s spirit. In the end, he was probably glad of an excuse to go. I should have dragged myself away from war to help him.”
She took a risk and lay down beside him, close to him. He moved his arm and gathered her in, and she almost melted with relief. She’d told him, and it hadn’t destroyed everything.
“You were doing your duty,” she said.
“Doesn’t duty to family come first?”
“If it did, there’d be no more wars.”
“And that would be a good thing.”
She rolled closer, put her arm across him. “Speak of war if you wish, Van, but don’t torment yourself. Sometimes there are dragons, and they have to be fought. Doubtless Saint George left family behind to worry.”
“Saint George. We all wanted to be Saint George the dragon killer, so none of us could be. And Con ended up getting a tattoo of a dragon. I never did understand why.”
“So much worse than a demon?” she teased, licking over his grimacing devil, then blowing.
He rolled over her, smiling. “To us it was. To us the dragon was everything bad, from the head gamekeeper to the French. But he insisted.”
“It links in to the title he has now.”
“But he never expected to inherit that....” He took a handful of her hair. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s mousy brown.”
“Not at all. It makes me think of young deer and the soft mystery of the forests. It’s very English hair.” He buried his head in it for a moment, then looked at her again. “If we couple again it will be on my terms. Gently.”
“You don’t like it like that?”
“I like it. But I want to cherish you gently to heaven one day, my lady.”
“This is only for the six weeks!” It came out harsher, blunter than she meant, but she meant the warning. To herself as much as to him. “In fact, as you now know, you owe me nothing.”
“Are you saying that I owed you this?”
