“To go forward”—she thought of it—“we need to put paid to our past. I still have questions from that time, and I daresay you do, too.”
He held her gaze. “I noticed how shocked you were when I mentioned the conversation I’d overheard between you, your mother, and your aunt.”
“I didn’t know you’d heard that. I didn’t know you’d called that day, that you’d even been in the house.”
“I was admitted by a footman. I breezed past him, asked where you were, and when he said the drawing room, I said I’d show myself in. The household was used to me calling by then, so he didn’t argue.” Speaking as if the moment was fresh in his mind, he went on, “I went up the stairs, and the drawing room door was ajar. I paused before it, settling my coat, and heard your aunt say my name. I stopped and listened.” His gaze recaptured hers. “You know what I heard. Your aunt, your mother, and you discussing me as if I was a commodity—no, a valuable creature to be acquired, to be lured, trapped, and caught.”
She heard the vulnerability in his voice, a vulnerability she’d had no idea he—so cocky, so confident—might feel, and didn’t know what to say.
He continued to look at her, wordlessly demanding a response.
She swallowed and said, “So…you heard what you did and disappeared without a word.”
His eyes narrowed. “I assumed someone would tell you—”
She shook her head and, chin rising, huskily said, “No one did.”
He paused, then said, “So when I disappeared…”
“I had no idea what had happened—why you’d left or where you’d gone.”
He frowned. “I thought you’d realize I’d overheard what I had, and that was why I’d vanished.”
“I understand that now. Then”—she raised one hand in a helpless gesture—“all I knew was that you’d disappeared and effectively deserted me.” The hurt was still there, buried deep though it was by the passage of the years.
The senselessness, the futility of all the angst that moment had caused both of them and how much it had changed their lives…
The consequences were staggering.
Dazed by her evolving understanding of how far-reaching the impact of that moment had been, she said, “I really don’t know what to say. What you heard, all you remember, is correct. That was what was said.” She refocused on his eyes. “How you interpreted it wasn’t.”
His amber gaze pinned her. “Tell me, then. Explain to me, Izzy, because—damn it—I was so in love with you, and hearing you say those words hurt so damned much I ran to the other end of the world.”
I was so in love with you…
The words sank into her, spreading like a balm over a heart that had never healed.
When she didn’t immediately respond, he continued, “I overheard your aunt talking of how my wealth made me such an excellent catch. I heard you agree. I heard you say enough to be certain you wanted to marry me because of the money.”
“No.” The word came out with such strength, such forcefulness it made his eyes widen. She fought the urge to lean toward him, to plead. Instead, with simple dignity, she said, “Iwanted to marry you because Ilovedyou. Mama was happy that the man I loved was wealthy enough to satisfy my aunt. My aunt Ernestine…” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Do you remember her? My paternal aunt, Ernestine, Lady Bloxborough?”
“She was a terrible old tartar,” he supplied. “That, I remember.”
She nodded. “She was old—far older than my father—and a penny-pinching miser to boot. As much as he was a profligate gambler, she was an inveterate miser. For all I know, those traits were connected—one a reaction to the other. I always suspected a large part of her problem with us—Mama and our family—was that she felt excruciatingly guilty over Papa, her younger brother, running the estate into the ground and callously leaving us penniless.”
Unflinchingly, she met his eyes, knowing her own were as hard as flint. “Ernestine was aware of Papa’s habits and just how close to the wind he’d been sailing. She knew far more than Mama ever did, yet she never said anything. She knew when Papa broke the entail, but not a word of warning passed her lips. And then Papa died, and it was too late, and we’d lost everything.”
She paused, trapped in the past. “We papered over the cracks for as long as we could, hanging on as best we were able to reach my first Season in the hope I would attract a suitor wealthy enough to save the family. Ernestine agreed to fund my Season, but in return, she demanded and insisted that I marry for money, and she held the purse strings in an iron fist. Julius was at Eton, and him continuing there depended on Ernestine, and during the months of that Season, everything Mama, Marietta, James, and I possessed, including running our household, we owed to Ernestine. Without her, I couldn’t have had a Season, so we all had to dance to her tune. That was her price—and we, Mama and I primarily, had to pay it.”
For a moment, she was back in their London house, with her wretched aunt and her peevish ways. Considering the vision, she tipped her head. “I believe Ernestine viewed what she termed ‘footing our bill’ as enforced reparation for her brother’s failings and her own, and she resented it bitterly. But the upshot was that Mama and I had to do as she demanded.” She glanced at Gray. “I had to marry a wealthy man.”
“You had to keep Ernestine satisfied.”
A statement, no question. Recalling how difficult and, at times, excoriating forcing herself to toe her aunt’s line had been…
The pain in her eyes was too raw for Gray to doubt—or bear. He reached out and closed his hand about one of hers, and she blinked and refocused on him.
“That’s what the conversation you overheard was about,” she told him. “Convincing Ernestine that all was progressing exactly as she wished. Obviously, Mama and I did an excellent job—unknowingly, we convinced you as well.” She held his gaze, her emerald eyes clear and unshuttered. “And then you left, and my world fell apart.”
