The sharp command whirled her around.
Father approached fast, looking as unkempt—and without sleep—as she doubtless did. “You were with him all night.”
“Have no fear, for he cannot harm me.” She tried to keep the bite from her voice. “Indeed, you shall be comforted to know he can scarcely lift his head.”
“This must stop. Thiswillstop. I shall not have you sacrificing yourself for the sake of a man who—”
“Has brought your illegitimacy unto Sharottewood?”
Father’s chin bunched and lifted. “Then he has been turning you against me.”
“On the contrary. He has said not a word.”
“I have told you once his allegations were lies. How many times should a father have to defend himself?”
She started away without answer, but he grabbed her arm and eased her back.
“Isabella, my dear, my darling.” Remorse bobbed a knot at his throat. “Please, I must have your support. You must obey my wishes concerning this man and do as I say. I want you to stay away from him. Can you not see he has already driven a wedge between us? That he has convinced you of these preposterous lies against me?”
“Are they so preposterous, Father?”
The question hung, dangling between invisible walls of silence.
She saw a hundred things in his expression. Defeat, regret, bitterness, anger, even love—but love for whom? The woman who birthed Mr. Kensley? Had it been before or after his marriage with Mother? Did it matter?
The scene swept her back. The staircase. The flickering candles. The faces of her parents, their whispered words, and the acknowledgment of something that hurt beyond reason.
Isabella pulled herself away from Father’s touch. “I am wearied and must find my chamber.”
“Will you respect my desire?”
“Ask me to never question you again on the matter, and I shall consent. Ask me to never inquire after your past, and I shall leave it forgotten.” She glanced back at Mr. Kensley’s door, and a fierce protectiveness rushed through her. “But ask me to leave an injured gentleman friendless in a house where he is hated … and I cannot oblige you. While he remains at Sharottewood, I shall tend to him and smile at him and comfort him as best I can. He has suffered much.”
“And after he is gone from Sharottewood?”
She hesitated, a pinch in her chest. “Then I shall fulfill your request. I shall never see him again.”
Sometimes the door creaked open, as if his aunt had finally heard his moans and released him. Light flittered away the darkness, but everything appeared dim and vague and confusing.
Hands soothed his forehead. Voices hummed. Often, the same pair of gentle eyes stared down at him and seemed to whisper comforts, though he never quite grasped what they meant.
Then the pain would steal him back, the door would slam, and he’d be locked in the blackness he had no strength to fight. How long would he claw to be free like this?
His body twitched. The movement summoned his eyes open yet again, and he focused on breathing easy and slow to keep the aches bearable.
This time, his vision was clearer. He was in a bed. Rumpled white counterpane and dark green curtains. Floral paper-hangings on the walls. Oval looking glass above a mantel. A chair. An old woman, frumpy and stout and situated with her legs stretched out before her.
As she met his eyes, a quick “Mercy, mercy” flew from her lips. She scrambled up and left the room and within seconds returned with someone else.
Someone he knew.
Confusion darted back and forth in his brain, delivering a wretched pounding to his head. What wasshedoing here? In fact, what was he doing here?
Miss Gresham slipped her hand beneath William’s neck, pressed a glass to his lips, and eased the cool liquid down his dry throat. Then she settled on the bed next to him, smiling. Why did she smile?
“I hope you know you quite frightened poor Helena out of her wits.”
Helena?
