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His voice faded as a drumming echoed in her ears.
Did well, indeed. He was the most insufferable, conceited, self-satisfied—she folded her arms, hating his smile and how attractive it was, how charming. She may not be able to manipulate, but that was certainly Jay Truitt’s middle name. Well, other than Thaddeus. Everything was a game to him.
“I lost the hand.”
“This time, but you’ll win the next. There was nothing you could’ve done. Sometimes you’re stuck with the hand you’re dealt, and you have to make the most of it.”
Ursula closed her eyes. “And lose.”
“Winning isn’t everything.” His voice was too darn soft.
Why did he have to sound sympathetic? Pity hurt so much worse.
“Says the man who has never wanted nor needed to want anything.”
She shoved back her chair before Jay could reply and fled, through the hall, out the door and into the courtyard. She leaned against the brick, rain bouncing on her hair and gown. The silk would be ruined. She needed air, more air than the courtyard allowed. She needed to leave. She pushed through the side gate, soaking her hair, and ran.
Chapter Eight
Two blocks later Ursula’s dress was ruined. She should’ve worn her cloak. Her hair had come loose and plastered to her back. Rain ran down her cheeks. Not so pretty now, though her looks never won her anything in the first place. Perhaps this was better.
Ursula wiped her eyes. What was wrong with her? Well, she knew what was wrong with her, what had always been wrong with her. She never quite fit, was never quite right. She’d fail in her cousins’ world and in Hugo’s world and now in Jay’s world.
She shivered and leaned against the iron gate of a graveyard, the only green among the planks of brick.
Why couldn’t she win? She had all the right ingredients. What about her made everything come out wrong? She was useless, not fixable, certainly not by Jay Truitt.
She sniffled. She’d have to go back, have to go into the house and watch all of their expressions as they judged her. Her cousins would be shocked, Lydia’d smirk and tell her whatever she did was against Jewish law or some such nonsense, her uncle’d probably lecture her father since he never spoke to her directly. And Jay...she sucked in a deep breath.
It didn’t matter. The tears began again, but she forced herself to move, to trudge in the right direction.
Her skirts stuck to the pavement. Carriages passed, mud splashing—no, head high, chin up, Ursula, don’t you dare give them anything. You cry, they own you.
The words echoed in her head. Were they her mother’s or her own? If they were her mother’s how old were they? How many years had it been since her mother’d been well enough to speak two complete sentences? Ten? Twelve? The memories were so fleeting. Soft fingers running through her hair, a tinkling laugh, someone snuggling her in bed.
Ursula swiped her eye with her sleeve and forced herself to obey. She snuffled, but she obeyed. She reached the corner, ready to turn when a carriage plinking across the cobblestones came to an abrupt halt.
“Ursula,” a voice called.
Good lord. What was he doing here? He’d seen her at her worst a million times, but still, she probably resembled a drowned rat and she had to get him to fight alongside her, not set a cat on her.
“Hugo.” She forced herself to meet his eye at the carriage window. “What are you doing here?”
“I was coming back from a tea. Why are you outside in this downpour? You’re soaked.”
“I needed some air. My aunt and uncle’s house is around the corner. I’m about to go back inside and dry off. I went for a walk and lost track of time.” Ursula stroked her locks, her fingers catching in the waterlogged curls.
“Come in the carriage for a moment. You’ll sit, dry off and we shall pull closer.” His voice was louder than usual, more insistent.
Odd.
“Hugo, really, I’m all right.”
She’d be better off at her uncle’s. Perhaps Rose would bring her some hot cocoa. She could pretend to be ill and lie in bed reading, Hecate and Arte cuddling with her.
“Ursula.” He thrust open the door. “Come on. Spending a little time with you will make today bearable. Please?”
His voice was even bolder now, a bit strange for Hugo. Yet, what was the harm in sitting for a moment? If she was going to, though, why couldn’t she be fresh and dry? No, this was Hugo. Hugo didn’t care. She hitched her sopping skirts and thrust herself inside.
