The blush drained. Something fissured across her face, a bothersome discomfort…almost akin to sorrow. “Papa died three years ago.”
“I am sorry.” Why had no one told him? “I did not know.”
“His heart was weak. It was all very sudden.”
Sudden.A scream hummed in his brain. His hands cooled with the memory of Ruth’s blood, with the soft brush of her hair between his fingers, the worn blue dress, the cold skin…
He stood and walked behind the settee, clenching and unclenching his fists. He should have remained seated. He should have accepted tea. He should have done the proper things, the things he’d done before, instead of—
“Mr. Fancourt, is something amiss?”
He glanced at her, the confusion—and likely disapproval—already raising her brows. Yet it was more than that. Mayhap compassion, if that was possible. “I lost my wife.”
“I am very sorry.”
“I have two children. John and Mercy. You saw them at Sowerby House.”
“They look like you.”
“They look more like her.”
She bent her head, folded her hands in her lap, the silence as heavy and unbreakable as it had always been in those dull courtship hours.
Only now it was different. No balls or upcoming carriage rides or faraway wedding lingering between them.
Now it was real. They were not children. This time, there was no escaping what their parents had already decided, the promise he had never wished for, the marriage he had run to a distant country to escape.
He was out of places to run.
He had nothing to run to.
One purpose and one purpose alone clawed at him now—and that was to care for his children and rain justice on the men who had ruined his life. Whatever sacrifice he had to make to achieve that would be nothing at all.
“Miss Whitmore, I don’t know how best to say this.” He crossed the room and stood closer to her, his heartbeat increasing, whether from misery or relief he could not tell. “I would like you to marry me.”
CHAPTER 7
The words gouged her, like a cool blade thrusting through tender muscles. Heat crawled up her neck, burned her ears, blazed her cheeks. He would see all over again what a blushing fool she was. But what did it matter now?
She was already nothing before him.
Now she was less than nothing.
The reality that he had actually pondered this, weighed the consequences of losing his inheritance, considered the inconvenience, and decided to marry her anyway was nauseating. What was she to him?
Before she’d been a promise. One he did not even care enough to keep.
Now she was a stipulation, his key to unlocking lavish possessions, a grand home, a wealthy status. What would he do—tuck her inside Sowerby House, display her on his arm like all the other ornaments he had inherited, and treat her with as much indifference as he had twelve years ago?
“I realize this is sudden.”
“No, it is not sudden.” She rose from the chair, stepped away from him, willed her hands not to press against her scorching face. “Indeed, this has been a matter presented to us for a very long time.”
“I acted with haste. The other day in Sir Walter’s office—”
“What changed?”
He hesitated.
