He paused. “It pertains to your first rule. As you made it your first rule, I’m fairly certain it supersedes the other rules.” She hugged the leather dossier tighter. “You asked for honesty—brutal honesty, if needs be.”
“And?”
“So, I’m asking you to be honest with me.” He forced what he hoped was a casual smile. “Are you angry with me?”
She scoffed, turning her face away. “Why would I be angry with you? You are no concern of mine. I cannot be angry with someone who inspires only indifference.”
Her reply stung, but from the sting in his chest, the most peculiar laughter began to swell. She certainly knew how to hit someone where it hurt. He might have applauded her for the cutting remark if she were not glowering at him like someone who was, indeed, exceedingly angry with him.
“Honesty, Matilda,” he insisted, testing the use of her name. “You can’t make a rule and not abide by it yourself. That is, I believe, referred to as hypocrisy.”
Her nostrils flared, but she did not reprimand him for dropping the honorifics. “Very well—yes, I am angry. I am furious, and I am even more furious because I know I have no right to be.” She straightened up. “I know I am… difficult at times, and when I am at fault, I try to take responsibility, but I do not expect to be treated so poorly when I have done nothing to deserve it. When you immediately leaped to the support of your mother, it… well, it has left a rather sour taste in my mouth.”
“And my asking her to retreat to the Dowager House didn’t pour in some honey?” he replied, realizing in a split-second that she did not know he had sent his mother away.
Her eyes widened to the whites, her grip loosening on her precious dossier, her shoulders slumping. “You did what?”
“I don’t know the details of what occurred at dinner before I arrived, but I know my mother,” he said. “I didn’t support her. I wanted to know what had happened. You fled before I could discover that. Nevertheless, I’m not blind to her opinions of you, and I saw your… unease when you departed. I made my own conclusions. If they’re wrong, I fear I’ve got some groveling to do. Shehatesthe Dowager House.”
The echo of a smile lifted one corner of her plump lips but swiftly disappeared. “I did not know you had sent your mother away.”
“Because you didn’t ask, and you didn’t stay to find out how I would deal with the situation last night,” he told her. “You made assumptions.”
She stiffened. “You askedmeif everything your mother had said was true. You did not askmewhat the truth was.”
“Is that not the same thing?” It sounded identical in his mind.
“There are certain nuances. Your question had the nuance of an accusation,” she replied, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.
She has realized that theyarethe same thing.He resisted the urge to point it out and hid the smile that wanted to grace his lips. His smiles had the tendency to scare people or give the wrong impression, and he did not want that to happen again.
“I apologize,” he said instead. “It wasn’t meant as an accusation.”
As I think you’ve guessed, judging by the spread of that lovely pink.It had begun to edge down her neck and across her chest, her forehead glistening with perspiration in the golden light. He suspected she was not someone who was wrong often.
He approached her cautiously. With each step he took, edging closer, her stiff posture loosened and relaxed, her eyes growing wider, her lips parting in something like surprise.
Within two paces of her, he noticed the leather dossier slip from her grip. He surged forward to rescue it from a sharp fall that would, undoubtedly, have sent the contents scattering across the garden. Whatever she had been writing, it was obvious she wished to keep it private, and he would honor that.
Closing the gap, he caught the bottom of the leather cover, but the sudden movement startled her, sending her staggering backward. Fearful that she might topple over altogether, one arm swiftly slipped around her, holding her in place.
There was barely a palm’s breadth between them, and through her dress, he felt the rapid filling and deflating of her lungs, her ribs pushing hard against the hand that held her steady. Meanwhile,herhand had let go of the dossier entirely, now pressing against his chest as if to push him away. Her eyes were wide, somewhere between stunned and panicked.
“What… are you doing?” she gasped.
He gazed down into those frightened eyes until they softened. “Rescuing your secrets,” he said gently. “I doubt you wanted to have to chase them all around the garden or have me chase them with you.”
“I… would not have dropped it,” she protested, her hand no longer pressing against his chest but resting there with none of the force that would have made him step away.
He smiled. “It was already slipping. Honesty, remember?”
“Very well, then… I did not realize it was slipping.” She hesitated. “Thank you for preventing catastrophe. I have no doubt that, if it had fallen, I would come to find that a page was missing, and I would not know where everything started and ended. So, yes, thank you.”
“You are most welcome,” he replied, still holding her, her palm burning a hole in his chest directly to his heart beneath.
It was the first time he had not felt a frown furrow his brow in her company and the first time that she had not broken their gaze. Instead, she was observing him as if she had never seen him before, her expression showing no fear or revulsion as her eyes drifted over scars and flaws. Nor was she quick to wrench away from him, now that thanks and clarity had been given.
She just… stayed there, and Albion did not know what to do. Was she supposed to pull away first, or was he?
