Page 27 of On a Midsummer Night
She lifted her chin. “I was thinking that we needed to talk.”
A shadow passed over his face. “I said everything I needed to say at the ball.”
“But I didn’t.”
Dropping his hands, Henry turned away and walked to a sitting area situated in front of a fireplace. With a sweep of his arm, he said, “Please sit.”
Clutching her satchel to her chest, Beth sank onto a chair, her back ramrod straight. Henry sat on the chair opposite her, his expression guarded as he considered her.
“Pray tell, Beth, what was so important for you to say that you ventured out to visit a bachelor gentleman’s quarters? You are too smart to take such a chance with your reputation on a whim.”
“No one saw me,” she grumbled.
“That you know of.”
Beth glared at him. “Well, if you had given me a chance to collect my wits after you so eloquently professed your love for me and then proceeded to nobly state how you could not marry me and tarnish my future, I wouldn’t have had to come here, at night, to share how I felt about your imperious declaration.”
“‘Imperious declaration?’” he repeated, a brow rising.
“Indeed.” Beth leaned forward. “Youdo not get to make decisions aboutmyfuture. Perhaps I love you, too, and am willing to embrace scandal to be by your side?”
Henry’s mouth fell open, his head slowly moving side to side. Good, Beth thought with relish. Let him be as confounded as she was during their waltz.
“Now, what is this hidden scandal you’re outrunning, and permit me to decide for myself whether I want to face it with you or not.”
Slowly reclining in his chair, Henry crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s no hidden scandal.”
“That’s not what you said before.”
“Yes, well.” He flicked his fingers. “That was merely hyperbole.”
“Henry Ramsgate, you are incapable of hyperbole.” Her voice was a growl. “Did something occur after your father died?”
His forehead furrowed in distress before it smoothed into stoicism. “I never said it had to do with my father—”
“It had to do with his estate, didn’t it? Oliver mentioned that your father owned several factories and mills throughout Lancashire, but now you’re fixed on securing your career with the railway.” She spread her palms. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter, Beth.” Henry stared into the empty fireplace, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“In Bristol, when you visited, you always spoke of him in warm tones.” Beth licked her lips, determined to proceed with caution. “Now, you barely speak of him at all. Your mother and sister left, and your family seems . . . fractured. What happened, Henry? You can tell me.”
His chest rose and fell. “Whatever transpired between my father and me is not important.”
“Of course it is!” Beth jumped to her feet. “Because it kept you from returning to Bristol. Caused you to break your promise to me.” Her throat closed up, but she forced herself to say, “And now it’s preventing us from having a future together.”
“Beth,” he whispered hoarsely.
She sliced her hand through the air. “Why was a marriage to Lucy possible but not to me? I’m a Dalton as well.”
“I won’t be marrying Lucy now, will I?” His jaw was granite. “You made sure of that.”
Ignoring how her cheeks went hot, Beth straightened her spine. “But why would you want to marry my cousin when you confessed your love for me?”
A spectrum of emotions flitted across Henry’s face, each more visceral than the last. Beth curled her hands into fists to hold her tears at bay, for she was sure whatever he was feeling at this moment paled in comparison to the agony that twisted and churned in her gut, in her chest, in her blood, at the reminder that Henry had wanted someone else.
Standing suddenly, he prowled to a desk situated on the other side of the room. The top was littered with papers and what appeared to be schematics and drawings of various train parts, neat and orderly writing in the margins. Henry ignored all of those and instead jerked open a drawer and extracted a bottle of brandy. After swiping a glass from a shelf, he abruptly peered at her over his shoulder before grabbing another glass and returning to his seat. He poured a finger of alcohol into each glass and handed her one, watching with a hooded gaze as she drank a tentative sip. Beth was proud she didn’t wince at the sharp taste. Holding her gaze, Henry tipped his glass, swallowing the entirety in one searing gulp.
Brushing his hand along his mouth, he continued to stare at her, his gaze searching. His tongue came out to swipe his bottom lip. “Christ, I should have known better than to think you would let this go. Not my Beth.”
