Page 33 of An Unexpected Earl

He pushed away from the table and straightened to his full height. Good Lord, she’d forgotten how tall he was, how she’d had to tilt back her head to look into his eyes whenever they’d stood as close as they were now. And to let him kiss her.

Clearing her throat, she stepped away. “I told you. I have other plans for Bradenhill.”

“What plans, exactly?”

“For my charity.” She would surrender this small bit to keep the rest hidden. Sometimes the best place to hide was straight behind the truth. “I want to expand it by starting a trade school and workshop at Bradenhill where women from all over England can learn skills. Weaving, lace-making, pottery—whatever we can teach them, and give them a safe and quiet place in the country to live while they master those skills.” She couldn’t hide the pride she felt in her charity, or the determination to make it even better by helping more women. And by helping them, help herself by giving her life a purpose. “That’s why I don’t want a turnpike across my land. I’d rather dedicate it to helping people than making a profit.” She quietly added another truth beneath her breath, “But these days, apparently, Frederick cares only about himself.”

Nothing visibly changed in his expression, but she felt a tension rise in him. A familiar pang sent it pulsing through her, the same way she’d been able to discern his moods when they were children. As if he were merely an extension of her. Apparently, to her foolish heart, he still was.

“I didn’t realize that charity work meant so much to you,” he murmured. His eyes roamed over her as if attempting to reconcile the girl he’d known with the woman she’d become.

“You wouldn’t have.” She gave him a reprieve from any self-blame. If any of the boy she’d known still lurked within the man, he’d be chagrined at not knowing about that part of her life when he’d always had access to the rest of it. “I was only able to dedicate myself to it after we moved to London.”

“After your father died.”

“Not immediately after,” she answered, reaching past him to fuss with the silk. “He died unexpectedly when I was eighteen. We were still in Birmingham then. I had just returned from Scotland and—”

“Scotland?” Genuine surprise colored Pearce’s voice. “I was told you went off to school.”

“I did. In Scotland. Papa banished me all the way to Aberdeen, as far away as he could.” She smiled grimly. “If Calcutta had had a boarding school for aristocratic young ladies, he would have put me onto the first ship bound for India.” She picked up the silk panel and shook it out, holding it in front of her like a rose-covered shield. He stood far too close for comfort. “I thought your uncle would have told you.”

“My uncle was glad to have me gone and no longer his responsibility.” To her surprise, no bitterness came from him. Just acceptance. “His letters were few and far between.”

And most likely not at all concerned with the whereabouts of the daughter of a neighboring factory owner, not knowing the reason why the Earl of Sandhurst had so graciously—and expeditiously—bestowed Pearce with an officer’s commission. Her father had made certain that no one but the four of them knew what had happened that night, including Pearce’s uncle.

“I wishyouhad told me where you were,” he said quietly.

I wanted to, so very much!“I couldn’t. If I tried to contact you, Papa would have punished both of us. You know that.” That old feeling of helplessness came flooding back. Dear Lord, how she hated it! “Even if I’d dared try, I had no idea where you were, what regiment you were with… I didn’t know how to reach you.”

“And after your father died?”

She flinched, unable to steel herself against the pain. Or keep her hand from rising to her throat and to the locket dangling from its blue ribbon, which she’d replaced five times over the years when it had worn and frayed from wear. He waited for her answer, but her throat tightened too much for her to find her voice.

“That was ten years ago,” he pressed gently. “Why didn’t you try to contact me then?”

The desolation of that time flashed over her with a vengeance, so strongly that she had to hide her face by turning her head away. To hide her shame of having to beg Frederick to help her find out what regiment Pearce was in, to beg him to help her write to him. “I did… I wrote you letters…”And letters and letters—Dear God, so many confessions of her love and pleas for him to return to her! Not one of them answered. In little more than an aching breath, she scratched out, “You never replied.”

He went deathly still, holding his breath as what she was revealing registered inside him.

“I never received them.” His voice was strained, suddenly hoarse. “The wars… Mail was sporadic. I didn’t even know that your father had died until last year.” A drawn and bleak expression darkened his features. “We were constantly marching across the Peninsula back then, from battle to battle. Supplies could barely keep up—”

“I know.” She cut him off gently, unable to bear the truth that swept through her like an icy wind. Hehadn’trefused her letters, hadn’t simply thrown them away into the fire as she’d always believed. She pressed her fist against her bosom, to keep her heart from shattering anew. All these years…

He simply hadn’t known.

“I wish you had tried again,” he said quietly.

The agony of all she’d lost enveloped her until she could barely breathe, until she could barely force her numb lips to form the soft confession, “I would have, but…”

But by then, when she’d considered pressing Freddie a second time for help, she’d already met Aaron, and she wouldnevertell Pearce what happened after that. The way he would look at her if she did, with such pity at her utter stupidity in trusting so blindly, at so desperately wanting the life she’d been denied with him that she’d allowed herself to be robbed and abandoned… She couldn’t have borne it.

“I’d moved on,” she whispered, those three words encapsulating the grandest mistake of her life. One that still punished her every day. Even now—especiallynow—it ate at her. “And so had you. You had a new life in the army, a wonderful future ahead of you. The last person you needed to be bothered with was me.”

Desperately needing to believe that so she wouldn’t break down in tears, she picked up a red paper poppy that one of the women had made to decorate a hat and tucked it into the first buttonhole of his waistcoat with a light pat of her trembling fingers. To dismiss the past and its mistakes. To make him believe that she’d been fine. And conveniently, so she didn’t have to look into his eyes.

She stepped around him, circling to the other side of the table to pick up a long wooden rolling pin. She laid the silk across the table and placed the roller on one end. Work—work had always gotten her through. It would help her survive this new pain, too. So she focused on the cloth and carefully began to wrap it around the roller so that it could be stored without being folded. If the silk were folded, then the paint would flake off and—

“That’s why you think I’m your enemy, isn’t it?”