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"I'm not here to torment you. My father's deathbed wish was that I find St. Claire and bring him back to England for trial. I cannot just forget about him, much as I'd like to."
She finally met his gaze then, her eyes unreadable in the flickering light of the hallway. "It's not that I resent what you're doing. I'm sure I would not walk away from such a thing if my brother were killed, but that doesn't mean I enjoy your company. I can't pretend to feel comfortable with you just because I understand your contempt."
He stared at her for a long moment, torn between the weariness in her voice and his anger at what she had done to his brother. This unexpected sympathy served to renew his rage. "My brother was in love with you," he finally said, "and your complete disregard for his feelings led to his death."
The girl stared at him, expression seeping from wariness to horror before she shook her head. "That is simply not true."
"Oh, please," he spat, lashing out against the softness of her reply.
"No. John and I were friends. He was not in love with me."
Those big blue eyes looked up at him, awash with confusion and innocence. My God, the woman was a consummate actress. How could she deny it right to his face? Everyone in London had expected them to marry.
"He wrote me a week before his death, confessing his love for you, vowing to ask for your hand before the Season was out. He called you an angel, said you were kind and lovely and decent. I got that letter the day after I learned he'd been killed in a duel over your dubious honor. Just days after he found you mounting St. Claire."
Her mouth fell open. No sound emerged. Collin ground his teeth together at the stark pain in her eyes. She couldn't be innocent, couldn't have been so blind to his brother's feelings.
A tear fell, caught on black lashes, trembled there. He heard the wheeze of air straining in her throat and closed his eyes. God, please let her be acting.
One deep breath, and he opened his eyes to find her face frozen, closed off, impassive. Her hands were behind her, fumbling blindly for the doorknob as she stared at him. Fingernails clawed over the wood, searching, but the knob eluded her grasp. Her skin paled to an alarming white.
"Lady Alexandra?" he managed.
"No. Just leave me alone."
He heard the rattle of her hand closing over the doorknob, the sound quickly swallowed by her gasp of relief.
Collin watched as she pushed the door open, as she spun in an awkward turn, moving as though her legs refused to budge. Before he could think to catch her, she fell to her knees on the carpet, amber skirts crumpling like paper.
"Christ," he muttered, and reached for her. Ignoring her slight struggle and her panted "no," he lifted her easily in his arms and stepped into her room. He'd barely made it to the wide expanse of white coverlet when she thrashed and rolled from his grip, landing on her knees on the bed. He expected her to sob. She glared.
"Do not touch me again." Her lips drew back in a snarl. "Do you know what it's been like for me these past days? You come to my home, tell me that Damien used me as a weapon, as a tool to murder John. Now you tell me John loved me?" The last words rose to a shout, but the tears were finally there. Collin found he now had no wish to see them.
"I was frustrated," he said with care. "I shouldn't have put it so bluntly."
She held her breath, silent in an obvious attempt to control herself. Tears pooled in her eyes, turning them liquid.
Collin shook his head. "I just. . . I need to know what happened. Why he died. Why St. Claire wanted him dead."
She did not answer for long minutes, only breathed steadily and slowly, ribs rising and falling in silent struggle. He'd begun to think he should call for Lucy when she swallowed and spoke.
"I can understand that." She blinked, and two fat tears snaked down pale cheeks. She ignored them. Collin wondered if he should give her a handkerchief, wondered if she would strangle him with it.
"Your brother gave me no indication of his feelings. We were friends, John and I. He would tease me about the men I danced with, make a game of always having sordid information about a suitor." A shudder of air left her lungs, seeming to deflate her. "He never, ever told me of his feelings. I would not have led him on, not if I knew. We were friends. I thought him in love with Beatrice Wimbledon. He let me think that, I swear."
The line of her neck stayed straight and tense as she sank down to sit on the mattress. Collin realized he had no reason not to believe her. His brother had been young and perhaps not confident enough to declare his love to a girl like Lady Alexandra. Hell, many grown men wouldn't be. He was reaching for her arm when she began to shake.
Flinching in shame, he laid a hand on her elbow and felt her freeze at his touch. "I assumed the worst of you and I had no right to."
"Go away. I don't want to talk to you anymore."
"I was wrong. I'm sorry. Again."
"Again." Her small body trembled, but she sneered at his words before she turned away from him, curling onto her side to face the wall.
Collin's gut burned with sharp regret. He'd meant to wound her, thinking she deserved it. In truth, he hadn't wanted to see her as a victim. It interfered with the easy idea of her guilt. But p
erhaps she wasn't guilty of anything more than reckless lust and the indiscretions of youth.
