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She stopped at the top of the stairs and bent over, breathing hard.

His question—Is that why you spoke about me to Amelia?—told her he’d been seething with temper for three full days. Her father had let his resentments simmer until they boiled over in contempt, too.

But Asquith apologized.

Her father had not. Ever.

Stop making excuses. What were apologies alone? Nothing! Actions were what mattered.

He gave you bodily comfort, too.

She marched down the hall, angry at the contradictory voices inside her head.

She entered her room. The environs felt fearfully unfamiliar. Her whole body teemed with feeling, feelings for which she could think of no release.

She rubbed a palm across her forehead. Then, with a growl, she threw herself onto the bed. She stared up at the angels carved into the tester, trying to work out what she should do next.

Where was her divine inspiration?

He didn’t know—she reminded herself—how bad things had been at home. Eliza had told Adrian, Cassie had told Harbury. But none of them had ever discussed the worst of their experiences with Asquith or his mother.

She’d accused Asquith of not confiding in her. But she hadn’t told him the whole truth, either, even when he’d given her the perfect opportunity.

Why don’t you proudly bear your father’s name?

Yes, he’d been throwing back her own question, but she could have answered honestly. She had not. Did that mean she didn’t truly love him?

Or was she simply unable to put her experience into words?

How could she even begin to explain the life she, her mother and her sisters had lived?

Asquith’s rare visits usually coincided with their father’s presence, so he only saw the Wainwright women when they’d donned their individual armor—her mother the gracious earl’s daughter, Eliza tart, Cassie sweet, Millie out on the bridle paths, Nettie either reading or eating. And herself?

Only there in body but never in mind.

He didn’t know how miserable her mother had been. He didn’t know about the secret sleeve pocket for her salts. He didn’t know their father had despised the woman who loved him and resented every child she bore.

Get down here this instant. Lenora had approached his study. Penelope, you know I expect— Lenora had stepped inside. Lady Penelope, she’d corrected.

Her father had fixed her with a dark stare. She was acting again. Acting like the brave protector she wished she could be. Usually, by acting, she could draw his ire from her mother.

But that time, instead of expending his rage in a beating, he just shook his head. Go away, Lenora. No one wants you. No one sees you. You’re invisible, unwanted, Lenora.

She threw her arm up over her wet eyes.

Her parents were gone. She’d witnessed other ways to live, to love. Lady Asquith had even told her about the marriage of minds. She’d believed she could have such a marriage with Asquith.

But was Asquith a man like his father?

Or was he like hers?

Asquith had apologized. Had held her. Had treated her as if she mattered.

Her father had never done any of those things. But then, she’d “belonged” to her father. By law, he could treat her any way he chose.

If she belonged to Asquith, would he, like her father, become violent?

She shuddered, pushing away the question as she’d been ready to push him away.