“I met Tobias upon entering your home. He told me you were engaged to another man.”
She shook her head, seeking answers in the dark folds of her dress stretched across her knees. She remembered Grayson’s exact words the day they’d ended their engagement right here in Hill House. Yes, she’d given him an out. His father would desire a more illustrious match for his new heir, and she could no longer be what he would need her to be—a glittering bauble raised to be a leader of the ton.
You’ll need a duchess, she’d said.
Of course, he’d replied. His hand had flicked at this side, but he’d not reached out to her.
And she’d left. Turned on the spot and left the room, then Hill House, without another word to him.
Henrietta lifted her gaze from her lap to Grayson. “I don’t understand. You came after me, and Tobias told youwhat?”She pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to keep all the questions from flying out of her brain. If she could keep them contained, perhaps she could make sense of them all.
He shifted closer to her across the flickering light, the movement tense, his eyes furious. “That you had accepted the hand of another man. One month after the end of our own engagement.” The anger drained from his eyes and the harsh lines of his body. “But you are not engaged.”
Of course, she wasn’t. She never had been, except to him, of course. “Why …” She gathered her thoughts, placed them neatly in a row.
He’d come after her. Her heart soared.
Tobias had lied to him. She clenched her fists.
Why had Tobias lied to Grayson? Her brain flitted about, seeking an answer.
Another thought shattered the others. “Why did you believe him? How could you have believed him?”
“I saw you with another man.”
Another man? Who? She couldn’t remember much from months after they’d ended their engagement. Except the ache in her chest, the blank numbness in her brain. “Who? Where?”
“I stood on the street with Tobias and he instructed me to look through the window. You were smiling up at another man. He sat beside you on a couch. Close beside you. He held your hand.” His brows pulled together. “At least, it looked like he did. I couldn’t see everything.”
A man holding her hand in her family’s sitting room? She reached through the months, trying to put a name and face to Grayson’s recollection. “I don’t … wait. My father was in town around that time with a potential business partner, a fellow from Italy who had brought his son.” What had his name been? He’d been young and friendly, she now remembered, and perhaps a bit infatuated with her. Had he held her hand? She couldn’t remember. She barely remembered him. She flicked a glance at Grayson, whose poker-straight posture suggested he remembered, even if she did not. “He was a boy. I was heartbroken. Never engaged to him. Absurd.” She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
Warm, large hands slipped over her upper arms, soothing hands that should not be so intimate with her. “I see that now. But then, I was a grief-stricken, heartbroken idiot. Do you forgive me?”
She whipped her gaze to his, and the look in her eyes must have warned him. His entire body stiffened into rigid wariness.
She shrugged his touch away and stood. “Yes,” she clipped out. “You are forgiven. It happened all so long ago, after all. It’s just. Quite a bit to take in. I think. I think I’ll go to bed now.” She picked up the candle and stood, facing the long, dark hallway toward the staircase. “It’s getting late anyway. I heard voices earlier. Guests will be retiring to their chambers. I can’t risk sneaking about any longer.” She’d injected the confidence of a successful businesswoman in her voice before disappearing into the dark.
She welcomed the darkness, slipping into her bedroom and onto her bed without lighting another candle or stoking the fire. The revelations of the last several minutes whirled through her brain. One year ago, her world had fallen apart, the world she and Grayson had been building together—shattered. But had there been any real reason for it to do so?
She curled up on her side and folded her hands under her pillow. The answer to such a question didn’t matter now. Grayson would marry Lady Willow by the end of the season, announce their engagement before the end of the house party. She closed her eyes, unsuccessfully pressing back tears.
Soft footsteps sounded outside her door. “Henrietta,” Grayson hissed. “Hen. Please. We must talk.”
She stayed on her bed, curled up, alone. “There’s nothing more to talk about.”
“Of course, there is! Everything is changed!”
What emotion rode high in his voice? Glee? Hope? Impossible. She squeezed her eyes tighter. “Nothing has changed. You’re still you—the heir to a dukedom. I’m still me—a tradesman’s daughter. And …” She shook as she drew in a breath. “You are engaged to Lady Willow.”
“Like hell I am. I’ve not proposed.”
“Everyone expects you to.”
“Hen, please, open up. Let me in.”
She might not have heard his last plea if the house hadn’t been so quiet, if she hadn’t been reaching for his voice the way she constantly found herself reaching for his touch. She suppressed her body’s trembling before speaking. “No. Go away, Lord Rigsby.”
A single, soft pound sounded against the door. His fist? Then the door shook with another muffled beating and the sound of cloth sliding heavily against wood, the solidthunkof weight hitting the floor. “I won’t go away,” he whispered. “Not this time.”
