Page 7 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“Does the distinction matter?” she asked.

William held her gaze without flinching. “It does if people have begun deciding what happened before they know the truth.”

A bitter ache settled in her chest.

The truth. That was all she had been searching for these last ten days.

“Then tell me the truth.”

For the first time, something softened in his expression.

“I would,” he said quietly. “If I could.”

His answer carried none of the careful polish she had expected.

It sounded painfully sincere.

She folded her arms more tightly beneath her cloak, suddenly aware of the damp wool clinging to her sleeves.

“You expect me to believe that the last man to see my father knows nothing of where he went?”

William shook his head. “No, but I expect you to believe I would never knowingly do Lord Eastmere harm.”

Frustration flared through her. “That was not what I asked.”

A carriage rattled past behind her, its wheels hissing across the rain-darkened street. Neither of them looked away.

At length, William spoke again. “What is it you think I know?”

The question caught her off guard. She had spent three days convincing herself that if anyone could tell her where her father had gone, it would be William.

She wasn't even certain why she believed it anymore.

Perhaps because he had been the last to see him. Perhaps because she couldn't bear the thought that there truly were no answers.

“I think...” Her voice caught unexpectedly. “If anyone knows where my father is, it is you.”

His answer was immediate. “I don't.”

He met her gaze without wavering.

“The truth,” he continued, “is that I know no more than you do.”

A humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

“The truth.” She shook her head. “I've spent the last ten days listening to everyone's version of the truth. According to society, my father abandoned my mother, deserted his family, and ran away with another woman.”

William's expression tightened. “I do not believe that.”

“Then what do you believe?”

“I believe Lord Eastmere intended to return home.”

She frowned. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because the man I spoke to that afternoon had every intention of attending the Tattersall sale in four days.” His voice remained calm, measured. “He spent nearly a quarter of an hour complaining about the price of a particular stallion.”

“My father often discussed horses.”