Page 52 of The Damsel
Cassandra had her doubts. She’d never been in love, and no longer had a heart she could place into the hands of someone else. Bertram, her mother, and those who had denied her sympathy and understanding had made sure of that. But, she’d always imagined that people in love were completely irrational, willing to scale mountains and swim oceans, doing whatever it took to win in the end.
“What did you love about her?”
His frown deepened, his grip on the ring tightening until his knuckles went white. “What does it matter now?”
She shrugged, turning to gaze out at the sunrise. “I cannot help but think it wasn’t Daphne you were in love with at all.”
He came up beside her, and she felt the weight of his stare upon the side of her face. She refused to meet his gaze, crossing her arms and keeping her eyes focused forward.
“Is that so? How could you possibly know that?”
“It is just a theory. I think you believe you loved her … but what you actually loved was theideaof her. This notion of holding on to something that constantly fought to be away from you. You liked the chase, Robert. You liked that she was aloof and beautiful and always out of your reach. You liked the pain of unrequited love, the tragic romanticism of pining after her.”
She felt him stiffen at her side, his gaze still piercing her without relenting.
“You are confusing the dynamic I had with Daphne to what is obviously happening between us.”
She stiffened, her gut clenching and roiling in reaction to his words. She pushed the sensations down, compressing them deep inside her where they could be ignored.
“There is nous.”
He took hold of her arm and spun her to face him, jaw set in stubborn determination. “Isn’t there?”
She pulled away, once again erecting the invisible barrier between them that did not allow for touching. He stepped back as if he’d felt it, his jaw hardening as he stared her down.
“Ah, we are back where we began, I see.”
She raised her chin. “Where would that be, exactly?”
He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Where you use me for pleasure, but hold me at arm’s length. Where you cry in my arms, but then refuse to tell me why. Where I try to show you affection and care, and you shun me.”
“I never claimed to want any of that from you,” she argued. “Nor have I indicated that I want anything other than your prick.”
“Perhaps not with your words, but the rest of you is clearly in need of something. Will there ever be a time you will admit that to yourself? You claim I love the chase and the pain of rejection. But, what of you, Cass? What do you love? What will you fight for?”
She squared her shoulders and thought of Lady Downing lying at the bottom of a flight of steps, her neck broken, her body robbed of life and breath.
“Justice,” she ground out, fighting down the wave of grief and anger washing over her.
His expression softened and he stepped closer to her, though he took care to keep his hands to himself. “Cass, I cannot tell you how sorry I am that there was no one there to fight for you—”
“I don’t need anyone to be my champion!” she snapped. “I fought for myself when no one else would!”
“You did, and I cannot tell you how proud I was to watch you do it. But, the time will come when there is nothing left for you to fight for. You cannot allow the past to rule your present. You cannot let it destroy your future.”
She sneered at him, her insides bursting with heat and a sudden pain that made her feel as if she were being torn apart. Why did he have to poke and prod at her this way—pull forth the emotions she tried to stifle lest they destroy her?
“Of course you can say such a thing! You, who goes about blissfully unaware of what is happening right under your nose. You know nothing of what we have suffered all these years—the shame of it, the pain of losing a part of yourself that cannot be taken back. Those women meant nothing to you until you were forced to acknowledge what happened to them.Imeant nothing to you!”
His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing as he seemed to wrestle with himself for a long moment before speaking. She wanted to strike him and push him away, tell him to leave her alone and take his sentimental notions with him. Conversely, she wanted to pull him close and kiss him, keep him for herself, give in to the things he was offering her. She was exhausted from it all, but couldn’t stop now— not when crimes like those committed by the likes of Sir Downing went unpunished.
His voice came out hoarse and low when he finally spoke. “Miss Agatha Daventry. Lady Matilda Parham. Mrs. Viola Cathorn. Miss Janet Pleasance. Lady Lily Kirby. Lady Olivia Gibbs.”
Cassandra blinked, each name falling into her gut with the weight of a stone boulder. “Those … those are all of …”
“Bertram’s other victims,” he said with a nod. “Yes. Lady Gibbs’ involvement isn’t public knowledge, but knowing what I do about Hartmoor’s vendetta against Bertram, it was not difficult to puzzle out. Her child bears a striking resemblance to the Fairchild family, so it was not difficult for me to make the connection.”
Her jaw dropped, and shock stunned her into silence. While the trial had been long and public, creating one of London’s greatest scandals, it had been months since Bertam’s execution. Not only did he remember the victims, he had paid close enough attention to figure out the secret of Lady Olivia’s ordeal. She had been the only one of Bertram’s known victims to remove herself from the trial and opt not to testify. Her daughter had needed protecting, and the other women had been glad to do their part in keeping the truth of her parentage a secret.
