Page 99 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“I’ll be angrier if you don’t move aside.”

How infuriating! He was at fault too! “Trentham, see this from my viewpoint. You kissed me without invitation.” Her throat felt raw. Maybe it was because she was swallowing tears. “Then I heard nothing from you until you insulted me, intentionally, at the Barringtons’ ball.”

“You needn’t rehash my faults. I’ve already apologized for that.”

“I’m not finished. I knew you were courting Lady Elizabeth; everyone knew, yet you continued to flirt with me, culminating in more kisses, after which you walked away again.”

“You walked away.”

“You told me to go. And when you did return, you told me you loved me and would break off with Lady Elizabeth—”

“And you heard what happened!” Trentham’s hands clenched and the skin about his mouth tightened. “Barrington threatened Felicity. Are you so selfish you would rather I let my sister be destroyed?”

“Will you listen! I’m not trying to blame you, I’m trying to make you see what I felt. I waited days for you to come back. I’m always waiting for you to come back! Yes, you had good reason to propose to Lady Elizabeth. I admire the way you support your sister.”

“I don’t support her to win your admiration—”

“But I waited days, with no word from you, doubting you, doubting myself, telling myself not to doubt you, only to hear from Lynch that you were marrying Lady Elizabeth after telling me you wouldn’t!” She relived the pain in the retelling, and now she was mad at him.

“Yes, yes,” he seethed, “we’ve established that I’m a terrible person.”

“It hurt. Dessie and I had to go to her for explanation. And you know what we heard there. In retrospect, we were wrong. But as it unfolded, you certainly looked guilty.”

He flinched. “You shouldn’t have believed it. Lynch didn’t. Eli didn’t.”

“They’ve known you for years. I hardly know you. And you weren’t stealing kisses from—”

“I thought you cared for me.”

She heard pain in his voice, and it surprised her. “I do.”

He shook his head violently. “You can’t. Not if you have no faith in my—my basic goodness. Not if you could believe, for one second—”

“I didn’t believe it! My heart didn’t. But my head couldn’t ignore… Trentham, Lynch and Eli know the truth and they still love you. Why couldn’t you trust me with the truth? Instead, you keep breaking my heart. My head wants to know how many times I’m supposed to let you do it.”

He was looking past her now, over her shoulder. “I don’t have time for this. Move aside! Lynch sees us, and I’m not going to sit here arguing with him. Stand back!”

His anger rocked her back on her heels. She stepped away, and he called to the horses and set his curricle in motion. By the time Lynch reached her side, Trentham was out of yelling distance and about to be swallowed up in darkness.

“That was unnecessarily hurried,” Lynch said, staring after him with a frown. “We might have coordinated our approach. Did he say anything?”

Anything? Only that her heart meant nothing to him. “He said they’ve bought passage to France on the Enchanted Girl. They sail in the morning.”

Lynch grumbled, “So I suppose we will meet him at the wharf.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Despite the encroaching darkness obscuring the landmarks, Trentham knew he was entering the outskirts of Southampton because he could smell the sea.

He was no longer angry. He was too tired. He’d been berating himself the entire journey—berating and defending. Taking both sides of an argument was exhausting. Running into Miss Delancey, nearly running over her, had not helped.

She was right to complain of how baffling his attentions to her had been. How was she supposed to divine that he was not a rake when he behaved as one? He didn’t see himself as immoral, that was the problem. He’d been trying to convince the ton that he was not. But…

But was he? Was his true nature caddish?

He’d justified his behavior each step of the way. His intentions had been honorable. Not with Fanny, of course; that had been wrong from the start. But while he’d been away from England, and especially after his return, he’d tried to do the right thing.

No. If he’d been trying, he failed miserably. He hadn’t acted decently toward Miss Delancey. From the moment she’d appeared in his house, in an inappropriate but stunning ballgown, a day early for his musicale, and then toppled out his window, he’d been enchanted. The joy he’d taken from her presence whittled away his self-control sliver by sliver. He’d fought his urge to touch her, to kiss her—until he gave into it. And that more than once. He could hardly claim to be a principled stoic, but he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Yet she said he kept breaking her heart, and she wouldn’t have said that unless it was true. He hated that he’d hurt her.