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An earl? An earl! Did he honestly believe that was all she cared about? That Nicholas would someday be the earl? Yes, of course Lord Woodfield did. He had offered her money, after all, believing wealth and position were her goals in life.
“Yes, I have caught myself a fine earl. An earl who cannot bear the sight of me. An earl who wishes he were back on the continent, facing the enemy rather than sitting across the dinner table from his wife. An earl who believes I have betrayed him in the worst possible way.”
The lines around his mouth deepened, but his face showed no empathy. Blast this man! He was the head conductor of her misery, yet he scowled at her as though she herself had orchestrated the demise of her dream.
This man had manipulated them all. He’d demanded Daniel marry. Lord Woodfield had offered her money to make that happen. She’d not said yes to Daniel because of money. Yet despite the fact that she had refused Lord Woodfield’s insulting offer, he’d treated her like a paid whore. How dare he!
“Yes, let me rejoice in this most excellent of situations,” Catherine said. “I have lost my brother, my best friend, and my only love. I get to wander this crypt of a house, remembering it was once filled with hope, but it will never be again. Let us invite the neighbors over to celebrate. We can raise our glasses of fine champagne and toast to a future that will not be.”
“Sarcasm does not become a young lady. And you will hold that tongue while you live under my roof. I am still the earl, and this is my house, and you best not be forgetting that.” He shifted in his seat to stare her down, his cheeks mottled with anger, his threat lingering in the air.
“Or what, sir? Or what? You’ll tell Nicholas?”
The color drained from his face, and the light left his eyes. Sympathy warred with anger. No! She could not let this man win. It was untenable and could go on no longer.
“Lord Woodfield, you tell him, or I will.”
“Tell me what?”
She bolted from the chair. Nicholas’s face was ashen against the storm brewing in his eyes. How much had he heard? He took a step toward her, holding her gaze.
“Tell me what, Catherine? About these?” He shook a fistful of papers at her.
“I know not—”
“You—know—not?” He advanced until he stood before her, nostrils flaring. “How dare you,” he growled. “You knew all. And told me none.”
The rage that had bolstered her seeped away, and her courage withered. The crumpled foolscap said it all. He knew the truth. The pain in his eyes stood testimony to that.
“Nicholas.” She reached for him, but he recoiled from her, redirecting his anger toward his father. “And you! You play the role of fragile, old man well, but you’ve not changed. You are as controlling as you have ever been.”
“You watch your mouth, boy.” Lord Woodfield’s face was bright red, but his heart was not in it. The man seemed to shrink before his son’s fury. “I have only done what needed to be done. Your brother drove me to it. He was…unnatural.” His shoulders caved, and he shifted back toward the fire, shutting them both out.
Nicholas stared at his father’s profile for a long moment, then turned to her. She wanted to weep at the desolation haunting his eyes, wanted to touch him, to soothe him. Instead, she stiffened, waiting for the final blow. She knew him too well to believe that the truth would set them free.
“How could you?” His voice was gruff, but he stood ramrod straight, a military man facing the enemy.
“Nicholas.” She stopped herself. She refused to plead. If he did not understand the depths of her love, then so be it. “How could I not?”
His gaze lingered, washing her with his pain. Then, without a word, he walked past her and out the door.
