by Renee Ryan
His sister.
Gaze fixed on Warren, Sophie began walking toward the front of the theater.
Luke went on the move as well. Elizabeth was one step ahead of him, calling after the girl.
Sophie ignored her.
Luke pulled Elizabeth to a stop near the front row. This wasn’t her battle. It wasn’t his, either.
Eyes on the drama developing steps ahead of them, she reached out, laid a hand on his in a natural show of comfort he knew was innate to her.
All this time, Luke had been worried Elizabeth would do something reckless and ruin her reputation. Deep down, he’d known she was too smart for that. He was the real danger to her good name, though not in the way he’d feared.
He glanced at Penelope. Her mouth had fallen open, and she started to rise. Simon held her in place.
A cold, deadening sensation filled Luke’s lungs as he twined his fingers through Elizabeth’s.
Her gaze was locked on the stage. A gasp slipped out of her. Luke didn’t need to look to know who’d joined Warren on the stage. He felt Esmeralda’s presence in his gut, in the kick of antagonism that hit him square in the heart.
Luke knew how this ended. His grip on Elizabeth’s hand tightened. He was probably squeezing a bit too hard. He couldn’t help himself. She was his only lifeline in a sea of uncertain emotion.
Let her go, he told himself. Let. Her. Go.
He couldn’t make his fingers cooperate, couldn’t seem to distance himself from her.
Let her go.
Elizabeth was the one who pulled away from him. The absence of her touch was staggering, the pain sharp and unexpected.
But instead of leaving him, she moved closer and linked her arm through his. Her eyes filled with understanding and something even more disturbing. Sympathy.
He didn’t want her sympathy. He wanted her free of scandal. It was the one gift he could give her.
He began to step away from her, to distance himself from what he saw in her eyes. She tightened her grip and smiled sweetly. Luke became aware of whispers rising from the audience and turned back to the stage.
“Who is she?” He didn’t know who asked the question. He was too focused on Sophie’s face, on the fear and bitterness and inflexibility there.
“Do you know who I am?” Sophie demanded of Warren.
Esmeralda tried to speak. “Now, Sophie, this is not the time for dramatics.”
Actually, Luke thought perversely, this was the perfect time for dramatics. Sophie could not have timed her arrival better.
“Do you know who I am?” she repeated, ignoring her mother, ignoring the crowd, ignoring everyone but Warren.
“I know who you are.”
“Will you acknowledge me?”
Warren winced. “It appears I do not have a choice.”
“Sophie? Sophie Cappelletti?” Penelope shrugged off Simon, a tentative, hopeful smile on her lips. “Is it really you?”
The question broke Sophie’s concentration for a split second. She glanced at Penelope, smiled sadly, turned to Luke, gave him a similar look, then turned back to Warren.
“I see I have interrupted something of a family gathering, a performance of sorts. I suppose I should have waited until morning, but I simply could not bear another night without knowing my fa—”
“Silenzio!” Esmeralda stepped in front of Warren, glaring at her daughter. “Sophie, you will not do this tonight.”
“But, Mamma, I already have.”
There was an enormous pause, silence falling over the room right before the gossip exploded in loud, easy-to-discern phrases of condemnation.
Yes, Luke thought grimly, Sophie had done enough simply by standing before Warren. She need not say another word. The audience did the talking for her.
“She is the very image of him.”
“The eyes. There can be no mistake.”
“I wonder if there are others like her.”
Everyone’s attention was riveted on Warren and Sophie. No one noticed him and Elizabeth in the shadows.
It was the incentive he needed to untangle their arms and step away from her. “Go home,” he told her. “Before it’s too late.”
Luke had to find his mother and warn her. He also had to go to Penelope, except . . .
He didn’t have to go to her. Simon had his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him, the move one of protection. The man was standing by his fiancée.
“I won’t leave you.” At the same moment Simon said the words to Penelope, Elizabeth said them to Luke.
He turned his head and saw the truth in her eyes. She would jeopardize her future for him. She would throw away her standing in society and suffer scandal for him.
He loved her too much to let her make such a sacrifice. The look she gave him was nearly his undoing.
“Go away,” he said, his voice harsh with desperation. “I don’t want you here.”
“Luke,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.
He repeated the words.
“Please don’t push me away.” She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “I love you. You big, handsome, stupid fool, did you hear me? I love you.”
She loved him. Joy filled him, bringing him hope.
He wanted to say the words back to her. But if he did, she would be linked to him forever. Her future would no longer be hers, her choices no longer her own. “Sometimes,” he said, “love is not enough.”
“You don’t mean that.” Elizabeth stepped toward Luke, lifting her hand and touching his jaw. “Love can conquer anything.”
For a fleeting moment, she thought he would tell her he needed her and wanted her to stay by his side. But he didn’t. He pulled away from her touch and stepped back, refusing to meet her eyes.
She considered his beautiful, stony face, knowing this was her last chance to convince him they belonged together. That no scandal was too big to keep them apart.
“You once accused me of being reckless and not considering the consequences of my actions. But I know exactly what I’m doing.” Closing the distance between them, she lifted on her tiptoes, prepared to kiss him in front of anyone who cared to watch.
He evaded the move with a small side step. The message was clear. He didn’t want her with him now, or ever. At least that’s what his actions said. His eyes told a different story.
Scowling, she opened her mouth to speak, only to have him interrupt her.
“I won’t bring scandal on you, Little Bit.” He said the nickname with admiration, affection, and love. So much love. “I want you to go to England as planned, and live happily ever after with your British lord.”
Elizabeth heard what he didn’t say. He wanted her away from New York. Away from him. “I can only be happy with you, Luke.”
“I won’t be happy with you.”
Having said those horrible, awful, untrue words—Lies, lies, lies—Luke pulled away from her, literally and figuratively, as Elizabeth watched helplessly. He shifted his stance so she had a view of his hard, inflexible profile.
His pain was tangible, and her heart broke for him. Bone-deep grief knocked the breath out of her. Refusing to let him shut her out, she stepped around him and forced him to look at her.
“Move aside, Elizabeth. I need to find my mother and . . . prepare her.”
Giving her no chance to respond, he pushed past.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “This isn’t over. We aren’t over.”
“Yes, Elizabeth, we are.”
He exited the theater without a backward glance. In her heart, she knew he needed to find his mother and tell her of the scandal coming her way. But Luke didn’t have to do that alone. How dare he leave her behind?
She wanted to go after him, but she knew he wouldn’t appreciate her persistence. Another time, perhaps, but not tonight.
Seeing that Penelope was in good hands with her fiancé—how reassuring—there was nothing left for Elizabeth to do but go home. She found her g
randfather’s chauffeur waiting for her by the motorcar. “Please, Jefferies, take me home.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Elizabeth sighed, leaning her head back against the upholstery. She let the motion of the vehicle calm her, enough to make plans. She would approach Luke again in the morning. She would present the reasons they belonged together in calm, succinct terms.
They arrived at St. James House all too soon.
Hurt and confused by Luke’s refusal to rely on her, Elizabeth trudged inside the giant entryway, defeated but not beaten. There must be a way to prove she was sincere, but how? She’d secretly wanted a love like Jackson and Caroline shared, one of sacrificial devotion. She’d found that with Luke. She hadn’t wanted scandal, but she wouldn’t run away from it, either. She and Luke would weather the gossip together.
He would send her away if she didn’t have a solid plan in place when she faced him. How was she supposed to make him see that she didn’t care about her reputation if preserving it meant losing him?
Her father met her in the foyer, an apology in his eyes.
Elizabeth moved in his direction and kissed his cheek. “Welcome home, Father.”
“Elizabeth, if you would be so good as to join me in the parlor.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “I have something I wish to discuss.”
One look at his face told her what she needed to know. He’d forgiven his wife and was prepared to tell her why. Elizabeth thought of the letters she’d read yesterday afternoon. There were phrases penned in her mother’s elegant script that had suggested sincerity, pleas for forgiveness that gave Elizabeth cause to believe she was truly contrite. Yet there were other sentences that had revealed a strong desire on Katherine’s part to place the blame everywhere but where it belonged—on herself.
On the whole, the letters had softened Elizabeth’s heart a bit, at least enough to hear her father’s arguments with an open mind. But she wasn’t in the mood to do so tonight. Not with Luke and his family’s trouble filling her head. “I’m tired, Father. Can this please wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid it can’t.” Her father hesitated, and she turned to face him, gauging his mood and seeing the apology again. “You have a visitor, Elizabeth.”
Relief nearly buckled her knees. Luke had come for her. Somehow he’d beaten her home. But that couldn’t be right. He would never abandon his family at such a time as this. That wasn’t the man she loved.
Elizabeth met her father’s gaze. It was filled with guilt and regret, and she knew who was waiting in the parlor before he said, “It is your mother.”
So. The ghastly evening was not yet over.
“She cannot be here.” The wariness in her voice was a perfect match for the turmoil swirling in her heart. “Grandfather would never allow it.”
“Richard has graciously given me thirty minutes to make my case.” Her mother moved into the foyer, hand extended to Elizabeth. “Won’t you hear me out?”
She considered ignoring her mother’s request, but she thought of the three letters she’d read, each more passionate than the last. Somewhere, deep inside, Elizabeth was still a little girl working to earn her mother’s approval. Even knowing the risks of letting down her guard, she wanted to believe that every word and sentiment expressed in those letters was real. She wanted to believe her mother was good and kind.
Hating her own weakness, she followed her parents into the parlor. The three of them sat in silence, until Elizabeth couldn’t stand the quiet a moment longer. “Where is Grandfather?”
Her mother dipped her head, sighed tragically. “Richard does not want to hear anything I have to say.”
Elizabeth couldn’t blame him. She suddenly wanted to run from the room and never look back. But she was here now, and cowardice had no place in this conversation.
Ask for my forgiveness, Mother. Say the words. Apologize. Then I can go to my room and formulate a plan to win Luke’s trust.
“I understand your cousin has returned from her honeymoon.”
“Do not mention Caroline in this house. You do not have the right.”
“No, I suppose I don’t.” Her mother’s pale-blue gaze, so like her own, showed signs of repentance. Was the emotion real? Or a calculated pretense to play on Elizabeth’s sympathies?
“I merely wished to point out that your cousin has found happiness.” Katherine said this without a hint of irony. “All is as it should be.”
That was her mother’s flimsy defense? “No thanks to you.”
“Elizabeth,” her father scolded, “there is no cause to be rude.”
Perhaps not, but the resentment she’d held at bay for months threatened to burst out of her mouth in a string of accusations. None of which would change the events of the past. “Say what you came to say, Mother.”
“I am sorry.”
Struck by the sincerity in the words, Elizabeth leaned forward and studied her mother’s face. She looked the same. Her beauty, the one gift she’d transferred to her daughter, was undeniable. There were a few new lines on her face and neck, and her light-blonde hair was streaked golden from time spent in the Florida sun.
“You are sorry for what?” Elizabeth pressed.
There was something in her mother’s eyes, a hint of humility that gave Elizabeth hope she’d truly changed. But then, she spoke. “I am sorry for what I’ve done.”
I am sorry for what I’ve done. Not I’m sorry for hurting Caroline. Not I’m sorry for betraying my family. It was as Elizabeth feared. Katherine St. James was sorry for being sent away, for losing the life she valued above all else, not for destroying innocent lives. She hadn’t truly changed.
“What do you want from me?” She heard the tremor in her voice, hated the weak sound.
“I want your permission to come home.”
Elizabeth shrugged one shoulder. “That decision is not up to me. Grandfather is the one you should be asking.”
Her mother eyed her closely, and one side of her mouth turned down. “You have changed.”
Praise God. “I suppose I have.”
“You have become alarmingly strong-willed.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Katherine’s mouth thinned. “Is this your cousin’s doing? This lack of respect for your own mother?”
“If you mean to suggest that I have become more like Caroline, then I will take that as a compliment.”
Her mother stared at her in muted shock.
Needing to think, to digest the past ten minutes, Elizabeth exited the room without uttering a single word of farewell. She walked with slow, steady strides, head high, chin parallel with the floor. She waited for the pain to hit her, the sadness that Katherine St. James would never fully regret her actions. Elizabeth felt nothing but a vast, gaping hollowness deep in her soul. And she knew why.
Tonight had been her opportunity to let go of the past. She’d failed to say the words necessary to gain her freedom. Moreover, she’d refused to grant her mother mercy simply because the woman hadn’t displayed enough remorse.
Elizabeth’s footsteps faltered, then stopped altogether.
She was withholding forgiveness for the wrong reason, waiting for her mother to earn her compassion. Elizabeth reached for the locket around her neck.
A month ago, she’d embarked on a journey for independence. She’d begun like a fluffy white cloud, blown around by every wind. The list had been a prelude, a shallow attempt to find a purpose for her life.
Elizabeth had been fooling herself, thinking a few adventures would make a difference. She could accomplish every task on her list, and she would still not be free. If she was to become a woman of substance, a woman who could look herself in the mirror every morning without wondering if there was more, she had to release her anger. Only then would she find her purpose and become the woman she was meant to be.
She returned to the parlor.
Other than a slight widening of her eyes, her mother had not moved, a striking, composed woma
n who appeared younger than her age, groomed and polished in her Parisian gown. Marcus had joined his wife on the settee. He looked as stricken as Elizabeth felt.
The two sat holding hands, unmoving, blinking at one another in strained silence as if unsure what to do next.
When Elizabeth went to stand before her mother, she swallowed back a wave of consternation. Why was it, she mused, that she perpetually felt inadequate around the woman who had given birth to her?
For several seconds, she just stood there, her heart hammering, trying to gather the words that would set her free.
“You have hurt many people, Mother. I am the least of them.” Elizabeth drew in a quick breath, proud of the steadiness in her voice. “It is still Grandfather’s decision, but if you wish to come home, I will do nothing to prevent your return.”
Her mother rose, her face showing genuine signs of stress.
Standing eye to eye with the woman who had caused so many of her loved ones pain, Elizabeth dug deep and found the courage to release the last of her hostility. “I forgive you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the calm after the emotional storm that had raged all through the night, Luke stood in the library of Griffin Manor, eyes gritty, head pounding. He’d left his mother resting quietly in her room, her trusted maid by her side. Though she hadn’t known the truth about Sophie, Violet Griffin hadn’t been particularly surprised her husband had fathered a child out of wedlock.
And yet, coming to grips with Warren’s betrayal would take time, including perhaps a month-long trip abroad.
The scandal would be tremendous, on the same scale as when Jackson’s father had run off with his own wife’s sister. By now, with the sun rising, the story of Warren’s illegitimate daughter was being discussed, dissected, and judged in every home across Manhattan.
Luke clenched his fists. He knew his mother was hurting. He just didn’t know how to ease her pain. And that made him feel helpless.
He hated feeling helpless.
The hard work of staring down the gossip would begin in a handful of hours. For now, Luke studied the other occupants in the room.
His sister and Sophie were huddled together in an overstuffed chair by the fire. Simon stood beside the mantel, looking down at the women with the same powerlessness Luke felt.