Chapter 15 #2
But his father was a continent away, unable to advise him now on how to approach the lone woman standing like a cast-off figurine at the edge of the veranda.
The bow of Juliet’s head cut like a knife.
The slump of her shoulders, the defeat and pain pushing her down, squeezed the life out of his chest. And yet with every step closer to her, the echo of Colin Chamberlain’s words thudded like an off-key gong.
“She’s a conniving vixen, one who will stop at nothing to get what she wants. And if that is you, she will push everyone out of the way to corner you just as she did me.”
“She’s trouble, Russell. Tainted goods. You’d do best to keep your distance. Had I known she was here, I never would have come.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you when she stabs you in the back.—and she will. It’s a Finch family trait.”
Henry stopped a pace behind her, pairing what he’d heard with what he knew of Juliet Finch—and coming up woefully short on how to reconcile the two.
He reached for her, then pulled back his hand as if he might get burned. “What are you doing out here?” The question came out gruffer than he intended.
She spun, eyes wide, cheeks aflame in the light spilling from the ballroom windows. “I—needed a moment. And—you?”
“I needed a moment as well … to find out the truth.” He paused a beat, praying for wisdom to discern fact from fiction. “I know not Mr. Chamberlain, and frankly, I do not care to. But I wish you had told me about him. Not because I want to pry, but because I thought we were friends.”
“We are! I mean, I hope we still are after … well.” Once again her head dipped. “I can only imagine what Colin had to say about me after I left the ballroom.”
“He had plenty to say all the way to the door, where I deposited him on the front steps.”
She jerked her head up. “You escorted him out? Why?”
“My sister and Clara had no need to hear a gentleman berate you. Nor did I.” And once again rage fired in his belly.
It’d taken all his restraint to keep from throttling the man for the wicked things he’d said about Juliet.
“But I must know how much of what he said was true. Were you engaged to that man?”
She bit her lower lip, but even so, she held his gaze. “I was.”
The thought of her in Chamberlain’s arms—worse, in his bed—hit him like a brick to the head. “I see,” he clipped.
“No, you do not.” Her pert little nose rose in the air.
“I was a different person back in Cheltenham, much like the pampered ladies in that ballroom tonight.” She flung her hand towards the assembly hall.
“You know society. I played the game and did what was expected of me, as did Colin. There was no love between us.”
“Yet you agreed to take his hand?” It was more an accusation than a question.
“I am not proud of what I was, Henry, but yes, I did. Have you never made a mistake in all your life?”
The air chilled, or was that his own shame snaking cold down his back?
He’d made plenty of errors, most notably those that disappointed his father.
The time he’d trusted a buyer against his father’s wishes and incurred a considerable loss on a shipment of Madeira.
The year he’d forgotten to inspect the tenant farmers’ harvest, and mildew had ruined it all.
That one panicked letter in childhood when he and Charity had believed the house to be haunted.
In all these things, his father had never voiced his displeasure.
He hadn’t needed to. His silence had been sharper than any scolding.
Since then, Henry had measured every cry for help like it was a coin—and feared spending too much.
And now? He was overdrawn. Again.
He kneaded a knot in his shoulder, chagrined to have pointed out Juliet’s faults when his were no less egregious. “So,” he said in a softer tone, “did you ever love him?”
She shook her head. “I thought I did, but it turns out I did not.”
Thank God. Not that it was any of his business, really, but all the same, her answer surely tasted sweet. The steel in his muscles eased, and he dropped his hand.
Still, something about the man lingered like a bitter draught. He needed to know how deep the wound went. How to protect her from being used in such an ill manner ever again, for of all the things he might fail at, he refused to fail in guarding Juliet the way Chamberlain should have.
“Forgive me for asking,” he said quietly, “but who ended it—Colin or you?”
She hesitated but a breath. “He did. He said my name was a liability he could no longer afford to be associated with.”
Henry’s jaw clenched. “Coward. You deserved better.”
She gave a dry laugh. “I have yet to meet this mythical ‘better.’”
“Well, you have now.”
Her brows rose. And no wonder. It had been bold statement … one he refused to take back.
He stepped closer, searching her face. “Are there any other secrets you harbour? Things I should be aware of? You are, after all, living beneath my roof, and as such, are under my protection. I need to know if there are other men who bear you a grudge.”
“No. None. You already know of my father’s disgrace, my flight to Bedford, my poverty and loss of status.” She looked away then, taking sudden interest in the dark line of hedges beyond the railing. “You have seen me at my worst,” she murmured.
“But have I seen it all?” he pressed. “I want to trust you, Juliet, but I wonder if I can.”
“I wonder the very same,” she whispered, then once again faced him, her tone turning to ice. “I have found that trust is a two-sided weapon.”
He flinched at the venom in her words. What the deuce? He’d never given her reason to doubt his loyalty … had he? He mulled over the past month, since the day he’d first collared her in the woods.
Nothing egregious came to mind.
He met her gaze head-on, as if by stare alone he could make her see truth. “I would never betray you, if that is what you mean.”
A bitter laugh choked out of her. “Would that my father, or even Colin, had embraced the same sentiment.”
Ahh. So that was it. The two men she ought to have been able to count on, to provide for her, to protect and cherish her as a priceless gift. He certainly would if given the chance.
Gently, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close, making sure she could hear the veracity in his voice. “What those men did was wrong, but I am not them.”
A soft inhale made her chest rise. “No,” she whispered, “you are not.”
His focus dropped to her lips, to the very mouth he’d been wishing to taste ever since they’d danced. Had Chamberlain taken such a liberty with her? Had she allowed him to?
“Henry, I …” Something vulnerable flashed in her eyes. A glimpse of a little girl who didn’t know where to lay her head, wondering who would allow her to shore up against a strong shoulder when she needed it most.
Instantly he sobered, dropping his hold of her—not so much a retreat but rather out of respect. “Come. Charity will wonder where we’ve gone.”
No protest, no hesitation. She stepped into motion beside him, and this time, their silence felt companionable. Not all was mended—neither between them nor within them—but sometimes peace reigned even in a storm.
He opened the ballroom door for her and followed her in, swallowed once more by laughter and candlelight, but something inside him didn’t settle.
Trust had been offered. Received. And now it lived in his hands—too warm, too weighty.
Too easily dropped.