Page 58 of The Lady’s Deception

“Take my elder son, for example,” he continued. “I have been tempted to rail at him many times in his life. If I’d thought it would do even a bit of good, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But no one could be harder on Paris than he is on himself. He’s burdened himself with an enormous load of guilt for things far beyond his control.”

Mistakes, Paris had called the incidents that ate at him, the same word his father had used. Had he learned from them? He’d certainly suffered for them. “And I’ve only added to his burden,” she whispered.

Mr. Burke shook his head. “Oh, I do not mean to minimize your struggles,” he said quickly when she started to protest. “Or even his role in exacerbating them. Paris can be, er, difficult.” With that, he rose and paced a few steps away. “For almost a year, he’s been hiding from those who love him. I feared we’d lost him. Now, he’s come back to us. Something’s changed, certainly. And I think I know what.” He turned to look at her, his dark eyes knowing yet pained. “My son cares for you. Enough to brave a most difficult reunion.” The slightest hesitation. “Am I right in thinking you care for him too?”

Mr. Burke was as astute an observer as his daughters. Or nearly so. Care was such a—a cautious word to describe her feelings for Paris. Love, then? She knew so little of love…just enough to know that it would be foolish in the extreme to have fallen in love with a man who tried to hide his own pain behind a sardonic, charming smile.

Well, Charles had often called her a little fool. Perhaps he hadn’t always been wrong.

Somehow, she managed to nod. “But every time I think we’ve reached an understanding, he…” She glanced toward the door through which Paris had exited.

“I see.” With a thoughtful nod, he returned to the seat beside her. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I was just as hard-headed once and nearly lost the love of my life. You see, when I met Mrs. Burke, I was a poor law student with decidedly modest prospects. She was the daughter of an earl. Her father threatened to disown her if I persisted in my suit. I was ready to concede defeat, even over her protests. I believed she was too good for the likes of me.”

She thought of the way Paris held himself apart from her. Everything he’d said. You’re English. My sisters’ governess. A viscount’s daughter. Every label he’d chosen placed her somehow beyond his reach. Above his touch.

“What happened to change your mind?”

“She, er…” Uncertainty, and more than a little embarrassment, flickered across Mr. Burke’s face. “She tricked her maid, sneaked into my rooms, and, er, made her wishes in the matter quite clear.”

Mr. Burke’s meaning was equally clear. Heat swept into Rosamund’s cheeks.

“And did—did her father disown her for what she’d done?” she asked. Despite Mr. Burke’s assurances, fear of Charles loomed large. And not just fear for herself. He had the power to make Paris’s life miserable too.

“Oh, yes. Only after he died was she able to reconcile with her brother. She still will not answer to ‘Lady Anne,’ though it is her rightful title.”

It was a sort of warning, Rosamund supposed. Things surely had not always been easy. But perhaps nothing worth having ever was. “If I may be so bold, sir,” she said, “I believe I understand why a lady would be more than content to be Mrs. Burke.”

At that, Mr. Burke fairly beamed.

But would his son be so easily persuaded?

Chapter 20

Paris was out the door and onto the street without considering where he meant to go. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Anywhere he would not see the stricken, angry, disappointed faces of his family, the ones he’d failed more times than he could count. All that mattered now was that he’d done what he’d set out to do. Daphne and Bell were once more safe in their parents’ care. Rosamund would get the help she needed. And he would get…away.

He’d not gone far before he heard the sound of someone following him. Some bit of madness made him hope it might be Rosamund, but he ruthlessly snuffed out the thought—he might want her, but she was too smart to take such a foolish risk for him. He’d put her in enough danger already.

Whoever was following moved swiftly to catch up. He slowed his steps. He’d acted childishly enough already.

“Lovely afternoon for a walk, really.” Erica fell in beside him, wearing neither bonnet nor pelisse nor gloves. After six months of marriage, she exhibited no outward signs of change, though her husband, the Duke of Raynham, was by Cami’s description a stern and orderly gentleman, a true high-stickler. In short, everything Erica was not. “But I suppose that’s not why you left. It’s a lot, isn’t it? All of us in one room…”

“Not all of us.” He hadn’t realized how much of his dread—his hope—had been focused on looking his brother in the eye, until he’d scanned the sea of faces and seen that Galen was not among them.

“Galen wanted desperately to be here when you arrived. But Papa forbade it.”

Of course. His father had always been adept at managing conflicts among the six of them.

“He insisted that Galen stay at school, or else he wouldn’t be prepared for examinations at the start of Easter term. Galen tried to argue—something about the true test of a great poet,” Erica went on with a shrug. “But you can’t win an argument with Papa.”

“No, indeed.” He’d wondered from time to time why his father had never completed the necessary terms to become a barrister. He would have been formidable in a courtroom, impossible to rattle.

She looped an arm through his, easily matching his pace with her athletic stride. “Where are you guiding me, dear sister?” he asked.

“Not far. Curzon Street. With Mama and Papa at Cami’s, I thought you might rather stay with me.”

A reprieve. A kindness he did not deserve. And damn but if his first thought was not to wonder where Rosamund would sleep.

“It will be a short stay,” he told his sister. “I intend to return to Dublin as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if I can manage it. An important case.”