Her fingers were warm against his.
“I tried to use the letter of credit first. But the banker—a man named Soames—realized it was a forgery.”
She inhaled.
“But he didn’t turn me in. You see, he was ambitious. He realized that it would be more useful to have his own personal forger than a worthless Englishman subject to martial law in the midst of an occupation. So instead, he used me.”
“He blackmailed you?” But Free’s voice was uncertain, and her fingers, gentle against his, suggested that she knew that wasn’t the case.
Edward let out a long breath. “The first man he wanted me to betray? Blackmail wouldn’t have worked. I didn’t lose my fingers in an accident, sweetheart. I lost them slowly, over the course of two weeks. The fingers weren’t even the worst part. He only started on those after he’d near-drowned me a half-dozen times.”
Her hand twitched against his.
“Pain rewrites everything. You don’t just do things to make pain stop. You believe them. Even as you’re sitting, forging a false letter purporting to establish that a man is part of an armed resistance in occupied territory. Even while you’re perpetrating the fraud, you can convince yourself that it is the truth. I can still remember some of the events I invented for Soames as if they really happened. As if I had been standing there. I forged mortgages and letters of credit on the one hand, and faked resistance on the other. The county was occupied, and Soames intended to profit from it as long as he could. I was just his tool.”
The sun had set. He couldn’t see the expression on her face, didn’t know what she was thinking.
“There was only that one small part of me that understood something was wrong.” He gulped in a breath. “And so when I could—when peace came in March, and Soames lost the threat of martial law and summary execution to expand his empire—I escaped. It took me months to regain my reason, such as it was.”
There were still some memories he had of those months that he doubted, and he’d never know if they were real or not.
“I had thought I was so brave before the war started, refusing to bow under my father’s persuasion. But I no longer had the strength of any convictions. It had all been lies, a fantasy I told myself so I’d believe myself superior. I wasn’t. I begged like any man when threatened with a dire fate. A little pain, and I lied, no matter who was hurt. That was the point when I vowed that I’d not flinch from the worst that I was. I have to know who I am, what I am—or I’ll let the next fellow who comes along make me into far worse.”
She laid a soothing hand against his shoulder. “Now you’re not alone in that any longer. I know who you are, too—all of it, the good and the bad. And I won’t let you be anyone but yourself.”
But she didn’t know. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know that it was his own brother who was making idle plans to hold her—and far, far worse.
No matter what, that would never happen to her—not while he had breath in his body. He’d seen to that today, no matter what else he had done.
“No,” he said gravely. “I’m not a good man. But you had it right: I’m your scoundrel.”
“Shh,” she said.
“You don’t know what I’ve done.”
She turned to him, coming up on her elbow. “You’re not to blame,” she said. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve gone through. You aren’t awful. The world has been awful to you.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive, love.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, I started my career as a reporter by falsifying a report that I was infected with syphilis. I’ve presented my share of false references in my time. You may not be good by the standards of the rest of the world. But you’re perfect for me, and I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”
Oh, he wished that were true.
He looked over at her, at the fierce expression on her face. Her hair spilled around her shoulders in little curls, tickling his arm. And he felt a sense of unimaginable wonder. He’d thought to keep her safe, and yet here she was, insisting that she would protect him. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what this could mean.
He didn’t realize he was shaking until she set her hands on his shoulders. He didn’t know how cold he felt until she curled up against him, her body so warm.
God. He didn’t know what he was going to do when she left him.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “when I asked you to marry me, I thought I loved you.”
She stilled in his arms, turning to him.
“I’ve thought I loved you ever since the evening you told me you weren’t trying to empty the Thames with a thimble, that you were watering a garden instead. I felt like you changed my entire world from futility to hope over the course of one conversation.”
“Edward.” She turned to him, placing her hand on his shoulder.
“You can’t know what it’s like to have no hope,” he said. “To believe that the best you can manage is survival. I wanted you so much.” His fingers slid over her bare shoulder, down her hip. “I wanted you so much I thought it was love. I stopped being able to envision a world without you in it to light the way.”
“You keep speaking in the past tense.”
“That’s because I was wrong. A desperation to possess at any cost—that’s not love.” He leaned over and brushed a kiss against her lips. “This is.”
The kiss felt like a slow awakening, a sensation of warmth, a steady glow that enveloped the two of them.
But she drew away from him. “Edward. I—”
He set his finger on her lips.
“No. Don’t say it. It’s hell enough realizing that I want only to protect you from harm.” His voice dropped. “That I’m the one who will hurt you.”
She shook her head. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. I know you better than that.”
He smiled sadly. She didn’t.
“One of these days, you’ll understand,” she said. “I love you, scoundrel and all. And I’ve known you could never hurt me. Ever since that same day.”
He kissed her again. “Tell me that tomorrow.”
It was particularly sweet—stomach-churningly sweet—when she nodded her head.
“I will. And the next day, and the day after, and the day after. I’ll tell it to you day after day, night after night, until finally you believe it’s true.”
FREE AWOKE IN THE MIDDLE of the night in a cold sweat, flailing her arms, trying to escape—
“Shh,” she heard Edward say. “Shh. Free. It’s all right.”
Her heart was racing away from her. Her mouth was dry, and it took her a moment to understand that she was in bed with her husband of…several hours, not being held in place, not tied down in a government hospital.
Her pulse slowed. Her muscles loosened. She let out a long, slow breath.
“You’re safe,” Edward said. “I have you.”
“It was only a nightmare.” She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
“Of course it was,” he said. “And now I’m only holding you.” He folded his arms around her. “See how that works?”
Marrying him had been impulsive and foolhardy. She hadn’t even had a chance to inform her family of her marriage—and after she told them, there’d be many explanations demanded.
But if they could just see this, just feel this moment—the warmth of his arms around her, the comfort of his touch, those cold fears washing out of her as he stroked her face—why, they’d all understand why she’d done it.
The morning would bring a demonstration, a reunion with Amanda, and a trip to gaol—but it would also bring him. And once everyone she loved grew to know him, they’d understand. Edward was the best thing she could ever have impulsively grabbed for.
Chapter Nineteen
“I’M SO GLAD YOU COULD spare a few moments,” Genevieve said.
The morning had dawned crisp and cool, with scattered clouds obscuring the summer sun for once. Amanda shifted a bag on her
shoulder and smiled at Genevieve.
“Of course I did,” she said. “Don’t I always?”
Always. It was hard to remember that always, when it came to Genevieve, meant only a handful of months. They now met when Amanda came into town, and at this point, that meant they saw one another nearly twice a week. It seemed as if they’d known each other longer than that.
Amanda caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the side table. It had taken her months to learn not to wince and look away from her own reflection, and there were times…
“Ah, ah,” Genevieve said.
Amanda looked at her. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just noticing that I still have ink stains on my fingers.”
“Those,” Genevieve said loftily, “are more by way of a badge of honor than a stain. They’re war wounds.”
Amanda couldn’t help but smile. But there was the rub: the more comfortable Genevieve made her feel, the more uncomfortable she grew. Weeks of becoming familiar with Genevieve’s sly, understated sense of humor—and trusting that Amanda was not the butt of it—had helped ease her sense of awkwardness.
And yet Genevieve was still as lovely as ever, sweet as ever, and…sadly, as innocent as ever. Hence Amanda’s dilemma.
“I can’t stay long today.” Amanda indicated her bag. “I’ve the demonstration to attend, and everything will only become more complicated from there on. There’s the possibility that I’ll be arrested, and…”
Genevieve interrupted her with a hand on her arm. “That’s precisely the reason I asked you to come this morning. You see, I know some ladies who would like to participate in the demonstration. I thought we might all walk to the park together.”
Ladies. Amanda tensed. As if to emphasize what Genevieve meant, a burst of laughter—light and airy—came from the other room.
Amanda had been doing better since that first gathering back in April. She’d even gone to a handful of small parties since then—ones where she was sure her family would not be in attendance. Still, she’d always needed time to steel herself before going out in company. Today, she wasn’t sure she had the extra energy to make the effort.
“Oh, Genevieve.” She shook her head. “I’m on edge enough. You know how I feel about this sort of thing.”
She expected Genevieve’s face to fall, for her to be disappointed. Instead, the other woman looked at her, her eyes shining with determination. “I’ve planned this for over a month. I’m not letting you walk away.”
“But—”
Genevieve took a step toward her. “No, I am not.”
“But—”
“My own sister, Geraldine, has just come up from the country for the first time in months. She’s heard so much about you, and she wants to meet you.”
That made Amanda more nervous rather than less. What if Geraldine didn’t like her? She knew how close the two sisters were. She didn’t want Genevieve to be ashamed of their friendship.
“Have I ever led you astray?” Genevieve demanded.
She hadn’t. “That isn’t the point.”
“Then just this once, Amanda.” Genevieve threaded her arm through hers. “This once, I’m going to ask you to trust me.”
Looking down into her friend’s blue eyes, the determined set of her chin… She couldn’t say no. She didn’t dare disappoint Genevieve.
Genevieve turned her in the direction of the parlor and guided her to the door. She disengaged Amanda’s arm only long enough to wrestle the door open. “Ladies,” she announced. “She is here.”
Amanda recognized Geraldine instantly. She looked so very like her sister—blond, blue-eyed, a sweet smile on her face—but with a little more of the plumpness that came from bearing children. But it was the woman sitting at her side that made Amanda’s heart stutter.
She was tall and dark-haired. She was also plump and smiling a little. But her smile had a sadness to it.
“Maria?” Amanda could not make herself move into the room.
Her next-youngest sister. The last time she’d seen her, Maria had told her she wanted nothing to do with her. Amanda couldn’t believe that Genevieve had done this to her. All her old fears assailed her. She wanted to turn on her heel and run away, before Maria could do the same in response.
But Maria didn’t run. She stood, raising one hand to her mouth. “Amanda.” And then she held out her arms.
Amanda didn’t know how she managed to cross the room and navigate around the table. Her gown caught on a teapot; she was dimly aware of Genevieve behind her snatching it gracefully before it upended itself.
But her sister was in her arms. Maria didn’t hate her forever. She hadn’t ruined absolutely everything.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered in her sister’s ear. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
Amanda gulped back a sniff. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. But when she pulled away from her sister, she saw Maria’s eyes wet with tears, and found she couldn’t help herself.
Genevieve handed her a handkerchief.
It was some ten minutes later—ten minutes of incoherent exclamations, of taking her sister’s hand and being unable to let it go—before she no longer needed to dab at her stinging eyes.
“Maria,” she said. “Why are you here? I thought…”
Her sister blushed. “You thought I hated you. I did. At first. Mama and Papa told me it was your fault I didn’t find a husband that first Season. I thought you had ruined my life.”
“It was,” Amanda said seriously. “I did.”
Maria didn’t respond to this. Instead she looked out over Amanda’s shoulder. “That’s a matter of opinion, I suppose. I did marry down. I resented you and Aunt Violet for years. And then… One day, I realized that the scandal you caused meant that the man I had married truly loved me. He’d married me for me, not for what I could bring him.” Her lip curved up in a smile. “I discovered I loved him, too, and I stopped feeling so bitter.”
“I’m glad.”
“But I don’t think I understood how badly I had erred until I had my daughter. She’s so…so bright, Amanda. She’s only five now, and the other day, I found her reading Pilgrim’s Progress aloud to her younger brother. I want you to know her.” Maria’s eyes glistened once more.
“Oh, Maria. I would love to know your daughter.”
“I started listening to what I said to her. When she was three, I told her that she couldn’t contradict the boy next door, even when she’s right, because it’s indelicate for a lady to disagree with a gentleman. I told her that she mustn’t run, because ladies never hurry. Every day, from the moment she took her first step, I’ve told her to stop: to stop thinking, to stop speaking, to stop moving about. And I didn’t know why I said any of it. Those words kept coming out of my mouth, passing through me.”
Amanda reached over and gripped her sister’s hand.
“I think that’s when I understood that you only ruined my life because my life needed ruining. Because the life you rejected demanded that I spend all my time telling my daughter to be less and my son to be more.”
“I wasn’t trying to save anyone,” Amanda said. “Just myself.”
Maria gave her a wavering smile. “Well. I started reading your paper a year ago. I would sit at breakfast with your essays and imagine that you were sitting across the table from me. That you had forgiven me for the horrible things I said to you. And then Miss Johnson came to me.”
Genevieve and Geraldine were sitting across the table from them, both silent. Geraldine wiped a demure tear from one eye. But Genevieve was smiling—a fierce, brilliant, perfect smile, one that Amanda could feel from three feet away.
“I’m wearing black,” Maria said. “I sent my number in for the demonstration and black is what I was told to wear. I brought…” She rummaged in a little bag. “This. For the gag.” She held up a dark kerchief. “Do you think this will do?”
“Maria, they’ve quashed the permit for the demonstra
tion. We might all be arrested. You don’t have to do this.”
Maria’s smile faltered a moment. She looked at her kerchief. “Are you still going?”
“Yes,” Amanda said.
Maria looked at Amanda and raised her chin. “Let them just try and hold me, then,” she said. “I’m pregnant. My husband might not be the duke I dreamed of as a girl, but he can still make himself heard if necessary.”
Geraldine sniffed again. “Sisters,” she said.
Maria took Amanda’s hand. “Sisters,” she repeated. “I walked away from you years ago. I’ll be damned if I let you stand alone today.”
BY THE TIME EDWARD and Patrick were called into the small, stuffy chamber behind the room where the Committee for Privileges met, the proceedings had already begun. Most of the lords on that committee likely hadn’t noticed the last-minute alteration to the agenda submitted by Baron Lowery, nor the extra witnesses that he’d had sworn in at yesterday’s poorly attended Parliamentary session.
The entire proceeding had an unreal quality to it.
It seemed impossible that Edward should be here now. Just last night, he’d married Free. Just this morning, they had come down to London on the train together. He’d not been able to keep himself from touching her, public though the ride had been. His hand kept stealing into hers, his leg had brushed hers. They’d parted ways at the station—she to go to her demonstration, he to find his solicitors. He’d had his hair cut respectably short, and he was now garbed in a severe, dark suit, tailored to his form.
She was likely already in the park where they were to gather, issuing placards to the women. Preparing for arrest. She thought he had only a little business to do before he returned. She had no idea who he was about to become.
A man was reciting the substance of James’s claim to the viscountcy in the other room—a dry, dull, monotonous stream of facts about parentage.
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