Page 52 of The Earl She Once Saved

What did it matter? He was free to owe whatever he pleased to whomever he pleased. Celestine Marchmont made her own interest plain enough, and Rafe had not appeared repelled by it. He had known her before the war, before scars, before silence and whatever shadows woke him in the night. Perhaps the letter had come from her family. Perhaps he had gone to arrange the very future half the county expected of him.

Verity turned toward the dead fire. The movement pulled at the bruises along her side. Memory followed the pain: the mare slipping, the violent tilt of the world, and then, Rafe’s arm around her waist.

She could feel it still, the force with which he had dragged her from the saddle and turned his own body beneath hers. The earth struck him, not her. Even afterward, while pain tightened his face, he watched her as though her answer to one question mattered more than anything else.

Are you hurt?

She had lain against him with her fingers twisted in his coat. She had known she ought to move, yet for several breaths she had not. That was the part she could not forgive. Not him … herself.

She had spent years learning to hold the reins, of the estate, of the household, of every expression that crossed her face and every weakness others might use against her. She learned it because there had been no one else to hold them, and because once, when she placed her life in another person’s hands, Roland used both of his to strip it bare.

Control was not a habit. It was survival.

Yet in the lane, for one dangerous moment, her grip slipped. She looked at Rafe and saw not Roland’s brother, not the new Earl, not another Thornlow come to claim what remained.

She saw the wounded officer beneath the lamplight. She saw the man who had waited outside a laboring woman’s cottage through the coldest hours of the night, the man who heard her praised and added his own voice without mockery, the man who had taken the fall.

He may not be his brother after all.

The thought came quietly. Verity closed her eyes.

No.

There was no safety in building hopes from exceptions. Roland had once known how to appear gentle. He had known when to praise, when to listen and when to make a woman believe that being chosen by him was a kind of rescue.

A Thornlow returned to Edgeworth because the estate was worth returning to. That was the truth. She would hold to it. She would not rest any part of herself upon the possibility that Rafe was different, not even the smallest part.

Refusing to think about him any longer, she busied herself as usual throughout the day, and by evening, Sergeant was asleep across the hearthrug, with his great gray muzzle resting upon one paw.

The fire warmed the room until the air smelled faintly of burning applewood and hot metal. Candles stood upon Verity’s dressing table, their light catching in the glass jars and silver-backed brushes. Beyond the windows, the last of the day had faded into a blue-black sky.

Win stood behind her, fastening the back of her gown. The silk was dark blue, almost severe until the light touched it and drew a softer color from the folds. Win had altered the bodice herself, taking in what years of labor and worry had pared away.

“Breathe,” she instructed.

“I am breathing.”

“Not usefully.”

Verity obeyed. Win secured another hook. In the looking glass, their eyes met. Win’s expression gave nothing away, but Verity knew her too well.

“You wish to say something.”

Win smirked. “I often wish to say something.”

“You generally do.”

“That is because you generally require it.”

Verity’s mouth almost moved. Win reached for the next fastening.

“I think he is different,” she said.

The almost-smile vanished. “Who?”

Win gave her a level look in the glass.

Verity turned her attention to one of the candles. “I see.”