“No,” I whispered. “That’s not what has happened.”
“I hope not.” He stood. “Congratulations on your upcoming marriage, Miss Leavold. And please make your way to London as quickly as possible.”
And he vanished into the rain.
The encounter had lasted barely five minutes. Gareth still wasn’t present with the carriage, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I paced up and down the hallway, pausing at the door to the library.
Have you consider that he might have taken the letters?
No. They were lost. Sent to the wrong address or mixed up. And so what if Mr. Markham had told Mr. Wright I’d been away that night—I certainly had not been in a state to receive him anyway, not with the amount of laudanum I’d taken.
Not with the amount of laudanum he’d given me.
I was walking in circles before the library door now, the gold silk of my dress brushing against the medieval flags of the entry hall, my new boots clicking impatiently on the floor. As I paced, I kept seeing glimpses of the library floor, of the place where Mr. Markham had so irrevocably claimed me for his own. But perhaps he’d done that the day he’d proposed, or the day after, when he’d denied me. A day that started with me on my knees in his bedroom…
An idea formed, a half idea really, the shade of a premise with barely any logic, but it was fed by the undercurrent of doubt that now swelled in my mind. I didn’t stop to ponder or pull the idea apart, I simply acted, hurrying up the stairs and going into Mr. Markham’s room, empty of its owner but still smelling of grass and summer, of the particular soap he liked to use. I ignored all this, ignored my pounding pulse and the heat behind my eyelids and I dropped to my knees by his bed.
I gazed for a moment at the trunk underneath, incongruously gleaming in the dusty space under the bed. AW sparkled golden, even in the dim light. I reached for it, just barely able to snag the corner with a fingertip. It was heavy, and I had to flatten myself on the floor before I could properly shift it to a place where I could pull it out.
It was a smallish trunk, but solid, and the well-oiled hinges did not creak as I lifted the lid. I expected oft-creased and caressed love letters from decades ago, locks of hair and handkerchiefs and pressed flowers. I expected the things that a man would keep to remember a sweet wife who died too young.
There was nothing like that. In fact, the trunk was empty save for eight letters, all addressed to me, all sent from Solicitor Wickes. All opened.
I picked one of them up, hands shaking, and slowly unfolded the paper, reading the cordial missive informing me of my aunt Esther’s return to England. The next informing me that she was inviting me to stay with her. The next asking politely if I had received the first two. And on and on, each letter growing more worried than the last.
Mr. Markham had read them. Mr. Markham had hidden them.
Why?
“I was planning on showing you the letters,” a voice said from behind me. “After the wedding.”
I turned, my heart thudding, to see Julian leaning tiredly against the doorway, clad in a sharply pressed morning suit. His wedding suit. I dropped the letters guiltily, like a sinner caught sinning, even as anger flared at the sight of him.
“You’re not at the church,” I said in a hoarse voice.
“Gareth got me the moment he saw Mr. Wright’s horse tied up in front. I came right away. I didn’t want him to speak to you. For reasons that are now apparent.”
“They aren’t apparent,” I said, and I realized there was a tremulousness in my voice that edged o
n hysteria. “They aren’t apparent at all. Why are these letters under your bed? Why would you hide the fact that I have a relative? Why, when you knew how desperately I missed having a family?”
He was by me in an instant, on his knees, his face close to mine. “I am your family now,” he said heatedly. “Me. Only me.”
His hand was gripping my upper arm. Hard. “You and my family aren’t mutually exclusive,” I said. “I can have you both.”
“I don’t want to share you,” he said harshly. “With anyone.”
I wrenched away from him. “And why is that? Were you worried that I would leave you if I had another choice? Did you think that I was only marrying you—only fucking you—because I needed a place to live?”
Now he was the one to blanch. “No—”
“Because we’ve been over that,” I said over him. “You knew that wasn’t the case. You knew that I loved you for who you are—that I would love you even if I was an heiress with millions of pounds to my name. Why couldn’t you trust that I would love you no matter what happened?”
He ran a hand through his hair, a shaky violent motion that betrayed vulnerability and possessiveness and guilt. I stood and turned away so that I wouldn’t have to see it.
“Come back here,” he snapped. “You don’t get to walk away from me.”
He stood and grabbed at my arm. I spun around and slapped him. He staggered back.
