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“Your father.” Domnall jerked upright away from the cushions, the shout echoing about the room as brandy splashed wide from both of their glasses.
“What?” Karta twisted upright, flicking off splatters of brandy from her dark blue skirt. “What about my father?”
Domnall stared at the fire, working through it in his brain for several seconds—making sure he remembered the whole of it correctly.
He had it right.
His gaze lifted to Karta, his words slow, low. “It wasn’t an errand on the lands I was doing for the marquess—it was, but it wasn’t.”
Wrinkles creased her brow. “What are you talking about, Dom?”
“I’m talking about the night of the ball. Where I was.”
Her voice went cold. “And just where were you?”
“It was your father—how did I never put it together? Of course, I never knew why you left me. But your bloody father planned the whole blasted thing—he was the one that delayed me from the ball.”
He shook his head, his lip curling into a sneer. “He was the one that sent word to the marquess that one of the Vinehill’s sheep flocks on the southern border by his land had been driven into a gully that they couldn’t get out of. They needed the strongest men to get them out. And of course that meant me.”
Her head snapped back, her eyes wide. “No…no…he couldn’t have.”
“He did. He knew exactly what he was putting into motion.”
Her body deflated, collapsing back against the settee, her hands in her lap, clutching the tumbler in her hand. “No…but we made a deal, father and I.”
“You of all people know what sort of a man your father is, Karta. You honored the deal your way—with integrity. He honored it in his way—with manipulation.”
“But—”
“Has your father ever made a deal where he didn’t get exactly what he wanted?”
She stared at him, disgust quickly taking over the confusion in her brown eyes. With an exhale, she shook her head.
“Exactly.”
Her eyes closed to him, her unsteady breath lifting her chest. A blow to her just the same as it was to him—probably worse, because there would always be a part of Karta that wanted to believe in her father, wanted to believe that there was good in him.
Good that Domnall had never seen in the man. He’d always guarded his tongue when it came to her father. Maybe he shouldn’t have.
Her eyes flew open. “But you.”
“Me what?” he asked, his voice wary.
“No matter what my father machinated. It was your choice. You didn’t need to go. You didn’t need to help. The marquess would have just sent other men in your stead. It still comes down to the fact that you didn’t appear.” Her voice cracked, her lips pulling inward. “Why didn’t you come for me, Dom?”
Hell.
Why didn’t he come for her?
He hadn’t known what was at stake, yes.
But that was no excuse.
He’d told her he’d be there, and he wasn’t. His work at Vinehill had been too important. Too important to set aside for the woman he loved. A choice that had seemed so inconsequential at the time had steered their lives so vastly apart.
And he’d been paying for that decision ever since. For there was no explanation. Not a good enough one.
He turned fully to her, bearing the weight of the tormented look on her face. How his actions so long ago wounded her so deeply.
