Nor could there be any doubting that he was one who’d not sit idly, an indolent son of a duke, while people suffered and struggled around him. His background wouldn’t allow it. And the fact that he’d come to her defense as he had, more offended than she herself, was testament to who he was as a person.
“This isn’t the place to have this discussion, Rafe,” she whispered. But then, was there really any appropriate place for her to discuss with him, or anyone, the circumstances of her birth and the secret she carried?
“So you did know him.”
God, he missed nothing. “I didn’t say that,” she said evenly.
“Yes, you did. It was another one of those omissions you use to either lie or conceal.”
Touché.
In fairness, this one had been unintended. Edwina troubled the inside of her cheek, biting at that flesh. And how was it possible that this man who’d been a stranger to her until just recently should know her so well? “I’ve already assured you, neither gentleman hurt me.” Wasn’t that enough?
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Apparently, it wasn’t enough. And no, he was correct. That hadn’t been the question he’d put to her. God, he was tenacious. She released a sigh. “Yes, I . . . know him.” She winced. “In a way. I do not even really know-him, know-him.”
His eyes narrowed, and she gasped.
“Not in that way. I haven’t known any man like . . . that. Other than you.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. Except . . . “Not that you and I . . . did . . .” Stop it, Edwina. “Do you know, as I said, this isn’t really suitable conversation for the museum? Or anywhere.” She made herself stop talking.
Tension poured from his body. “Tell me, Edwina.” There was a slight pause. “Please.”
Please.
Edwina closed her eyes.
Why must he do that? It was easier to stand firm when he was gruff and demanding, but time and time again, he revealed himself to be a man both gentle and tender.
Her whole career had been predicated on a lie about her very life, her birthright. She’d clung to those secrets, knowing they were all that kept her from ruin, and the same scandalous fate her mother had known. As such, she wrestled with herself, warring . . . and ultimately sharing. “He is the Earl of Blakeney.” She paused. “He is . . . my brother.”
And yet, as Rafe’s jaw went slack, and more questions rose in his gaze, there was something so very freeing in Edwina having, at last, made that admission. “Your . . .”
“Brother,” she said. “He is my brother.” And yet, they weren’t really siblings. Not in any sense of the word. Not as Rafe was with Cailin and Hunter and Wesley.
“You are the daughter of an earl,” he said slowly, in the way of one who’d been handed the pieces of a puzzle and then tasked with the assignment of putting them into their proper place.
“No.” Because that wasn’t quite right. “I am the daughter of a marquess.” She scrabbled with her skirts before she realized the distracted actions her fingers had taken on. And before her courage deserted her, she spoke her truth. “The illegitimate daughter.” And yet, even that was the prettiest way of dressing up what she was . . . when he had only ever been blunt and honest. “I am a bastard,” she said softly. At last, saying it to another person.
Rafe’s jaw slackened. “What?”
“My mother made the mistake of falling in love with a man who was married. She gave up her place in society so that she could be with him, in any way.” Accepting meager scraps of a man, in a way that Edwina had never been able to understand.
And she braced for dread and terror to come crashing down with that revelation. It had been the greatest fear she’d carried, that after having left Leeds to create her own life that someone would discover who she was. What she was.
Only, that fear . . . did not come. But . . . then perhaps it was because this wasn’t just any person. Along the way, somewhere, Rafe Audley had come to mean so very much to her.
Instead, there was a buoyant lightness that suffused her breast, and lifted her up, and brought her lips curling at the corners. And with Rafe stunned into silence, she left him there . . . alone with her secret. At last, she’d shared the truth about her birthright.
Edwina was no longer a lie. Her life wasn’t. And she’d been forthright with Rafe.
She was free.
Chapter 21
As a boy working in the coalfields, Rafe would return home, hang up his cap, and head to the kitchen. Ofttimes he’d worked beside his mother. Most of the time he’d work in the kitchen alone. When the coalfields represented uncertainty and peril at every turn, baking and cooking in the kitchen had offered a calm predictability that he’d craved. His sister hadn’t understood his fascination. His brothers had just welcomed anything other than Cailin’s cooking.
But in the kitchen, everything made sense. If a man followed a recipe, there were no mistakes. Everything went precisely to plan, and that constancy was a luxury no miner who risked his life in the fields was afforded.
In time, the kitchen had come to be a refuge of sorts.
This particular evening, however, with the duke’s household abed, and turbulent emotion haunting Rafe still, calm proved elusive.
Frantically stirring the flour and yeast, he slogged through the slightly too-thick mixture. Any other time, he’d be able to focus on just what the recipe required. And how to adjust the ingredients from sight and feel alone.
Quitting his efforts, Rafe stared vacantly into the bowl.
She was illegitimate.
A bastard like him.
And when that admission from Edwina should have united them, somehow it had driven a wedge between them.
She had let it become a wedge between them. He drove the bottom of his spoon into the thick mixture several times, splattering bits of dough onto the table, and onto his face.
Leaning his cheek into his shoulder, he wiped those remnants from his cheek.
Since her revelation in the British Museum gallery that afternoon, Edwina had gone out of her way to avoid him. And he hated it. He hated that she hadn’t shared that with him, when she knew so much about him and his life. But more? He hated this divide. And that it had come . . . from this? From her sharing the truth about her birthright? A birthright that was no different than his. And for the regret that had held him in its grip since she’d thrown up this barrier, there was . . . resentment, too. That she, who’d been bold and unapologetic at every turn, should hide from him. He—
Once again, Rafe stilled. He felt her presence, before he saw her.
Of course she’d be here. They were alike, even in this. Where they found their peace. How they sought their calm.
He glanced up.
Edwina hovered at the doorway.
Hovered, when she’d only ever been bold with her forward steps.
Still attired in the same bright garments she’d worn at the museum, the violet hue of her dress was a juxtaposition of cheer in the shadowed kitchen.
She dampened her mouth, those lips he’d kissed, and longed to kiss again.
For a moment, he expected she’d leave.
But then, she entered the room, joining him at the table, taking up a place directly beside him.
Say something . . . Speak like the glorious magpie you are. Only, as Rafe resumed stirring his dough, she kept silent. From the moment she’d come hurtling across the coalfields, waving her silly parasol to gain his attention, he’d lamented her endless chattering. Only to learn too late, with her now terse and laconic, just how very much he’d enjoyed her endless stream of talking.
Had he ever truly been annoyed with her prattling? What a damned fool he’d been, finding out now, too late, just how damned much he loved it, and now missed it.
Wordlessly, Edwina picked up a wooden spoon, and dipping it into the bowl of water
, she sprinkled some drops into the mixture.
Rafe and Edwina continued that way, working silently. Even with no words flowing between them, they remained lockstep in harmony, with Edwina adding the remaining ingredients he’d set out.
All the while, from the corner of his eye, he continued to steal glances her way.
Look at me. He willed her to do so. And yet, since they’d returned, she’d continued to evade Rafe, even when with him.
She added a pinch of salt, and Rafe mixed it into the dough.
Very well, the roles had shifted, and he found himself in the unlikely role of the talkative one of their pair. “It is an impressive oven, is it not?”
And just like that, they found their way again.
Her eyes lit upon the stove. “I’ve visited many kitchens, and in all the households, I’ve never seen a Rumford one before.”
No, neither Rafe nor Edwina would have. Cleverly designed, but enormous in their size, only the finest kitchens would have been capable of holding one.
“And I trust, incredibly efficient.”
She scoffed. “Oh, undoubtedly.”
Rafe and Edwina shared a smile, and some of the tension he’d carried that day left him. Adding the dough to the individual pans, he collected two, with Edwina grabbing the others, and carrying them over to the stove, they slid them inside.
They set to work tidying the table, with Rafe stacking the mixing bowls, while Edwina ran a wet rag over the surface of the table, cleaning up around him. “You weren’t at dinner,” he remarked.
Edwina paused. “No.” She resumed scrubbing the table, this time harder.
“And is there a reason you didn’t come?” he pressed, when she still didn’t speak, urging her on to dialogue. “After all, I thought you would welcome that final preparation before the duke’s formal gathering,” he added, tossing her way the one thing she’d never been able to resist, the opportunity to discuss his lessons.
“You proved yourself capable on the topic of formal dining.” Edwina didn’t so much as lift her head from the now nearly immaculately cleaned table. “As such, I didn’t feel I could offer any further tutelage that might benefit you.”
She’d not thought she could offer him anything? How could she be . . . so casual? With her actions in this moment, and in her words?
Well, he’d wanted her there. And he’d wanted her to want to be there. And not because of her assignment, either. Which was preposterous, as she’d indicated at every turn that was the most important thing between them.
Perhaps that was why what she’d shared today . . . hurt in ways it shouldn’t. That she’d kept that detail about her past from him. Something that had been a bond she’d known of, but kept to herself. And it was petty and small to be resentful. Or, for that matter, to even care.
But he did.
Rafe rested a hand on Edwina’s long fingers, staying her distracted efforts.
She stiffened.
“You thought we wouldn’t speak more of it?” he asked gently. That he would simply let go of all talk of her parentage?
With a ragged sigh, she sank onto the long, narrow bench. “I didn’t really think anything else needed to be said.” She twisted the damp rag in her fingers, her white-knuckled grip betraying the sense of calm she evinced.
And his heart ached at this new side of Edwina, vulnerable in ways he’d never before known her to be.
Slowly, Rafe sat beside her, their knees and shoulders kissing, and because of that nearness he felt it all, the tension that went through her lithe frame, the rigidity of her arm against his, the tightening of her leg.
Rafe angled his head so he might see her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked finally, getting to the heart of what she still wouldn’t speak freely about.
Edwina’s features pulled, and she shook her head. “It . . . didn’t seem worth mentioning?” She directed that answer at the rag in her hands.
“It didn’t seem worth mentioning?” he asked incredulously. And he couldn’t hold back the resentment that she’d not trusted him enough.
A sound of frustration escaped her, and she stormed to her feet, forcing him to crane his head back to meet her gaze. “If I had told you, Rafe, you would have simply thought I was using my past as a way to a false bond between us.”
It wouldn’t have been false.
But was she wrong in thinking he would have been cynical in questioning why she’d shared what she had? Instead, she’d kept her secret close.
“I thought we’d become friends, enough that you trusted me more than that.”
“What would you have me say?” she demanded on a harsh whisper. Edwina bit at her lower lip, but not before he caught the slight tremble of that flesh. “You thought I should . . . tell you that how after my mother died, I went to my father and asked to be part of his life, and he rejected me?”
He winced. “No.”
“How I arrived from Leeds where I was taunted for being a bastard, every day of my life, and thought that he could offer me a new beginning?”
Oh, God. Every word was a lash. For as cruel as the world had been, he’d never been the object of shame. And mayhap that was why you were so afraid to give in and come here? Perhaps you feared that after a lifetime being respected, you’d be reduced to someone who was scorned. “I didn’t know . . .” he said dumbly, his words empty. Because of course he’d not known.
“Or should I have told you how when I arrived in London, he wouldn’t even meet me but instead sent his son to offer me money to never come back?” Tears filled her eyes, but she gave them an angry swipe, refusing them purchase on her cheeks. “Of how I refused it and demanded references from him instead, about my suitability as a governess, so that I might fashion myself a respectable life.”
His admiration only swelled, and yet, she’d been forced to build a future based on her family’s rejection. “Oh, Edwina,” he said hoarsely; her words, and the hurt behind them, left him splayed open and aching for her. God, how he wanted to destroy the man who’d sired her, who’d left her at the mercy of a merciless world. He immediately stood, reaching for her.
She backed away, and angled her chin up. Proud as the princess he’d called her from the start. “I do not want your pity or scorn,” she said, fire burning from her eyes. “I did what I had to do.”
Pity? Scorn? That was what she believed he could feel after everything she’d shared? “I would never pity you,” he said slowly, more than half-afraid if he moved too quickly, she’d flee . . . and this time would keep running until she was gone, and he was left only with the memory of her. “Admire you. Appreciate your resourcefulness. But never pity.” Not for her. It was an impossibility.
She eyed him warily.
“How could you think I would not keep your secret.” He fisted his hands at his side, hating that she’d never felt she could trust him. “That I would somehow use it against you?” he asked in a whisper laced with as much hurt as anger.
And what was worse than any answer was the confirmation he detected in her revealing eyes even before she spoke. “I coerced you into coming, which was wrong.” She added that latter part on a rush. “And I do trust you. I respect you. I l—” his ears pricked up at that lone syllable she immediately cut herself off from speaking. “Like to think that you would not have,” she finished, his chest deflating oddly when those words were not the ones he’d . . . thought she intended. “But neither could I be certain that revealing . . . my secret would be safe, because there is no certainty with anything, and I don’t have the luxury of trusting in anything.”
How optimistic and sunny and cheerful he’d always found her, only to find, deep inside, she was as scarred and as scared as he was.
Thrumming with a volatile energy, he slid his focus over the top of her head. She really didn’t know him. That she could have believed him capable of destroyin
g her with the circumstances of her birth, a situation beyond her control and one that he knew firsthand? But then, what reasons have you given her to trust you? That voice taunted him with the reminder. He’d been uncouth from the start, and contentious the whole way, only peppering in moments of kindness between. Why, her rooms had even been destroyed because of him. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you reason enough to trust me,” he said quietly, and truthfully.
“Oh, Rafe. It isn’t just that. Wasn’t just that,” she amended. “It wasn’t really about you.” Edwina hugged her arms close in a sad-looking, lonely little embrace. “I do not have the ability to . . . to . . . talk of those things”—her bastardy—“the same as you. Not in the ways you can. You have support and you have protection should you so wish to take it from your father. And then, if you don’t? If you’d allow pride to come before all? You’ll still have a future in Staffordshire that is safe and secure. It doesn’t matter if people judge you.” It mattered if people, however, judged her. She brought her gaze back to meet his. “I would be ruined, and I’d never recover.”
Nay, she’d be on the streets, some wealthy man’s mistress, and hatred ate him up alive in that moment even thinking of the imagined man who’d use her so.
He cupped her shoulders and ran his thumbs over the satiny soft skin of her upper arms, in a smoothing, soothing little circle. “Your secret is mine, and it always would have been safe.”
“Now you know,” Edwina said softly. She lifted her chin a notch. “I am a bastard, and so I can now be free in telling you this: I know the gift you’ve been given, Rafe,” she said, her voice creeping up a pitch. “I know because it was the one I wanted.” She pressed a fist hard against her breast. “And one I will never, ever, ever have and to see you throw it away, and choose a life of toil and strife for you and your siblings is not something I can ever, ever understand, because I would do anything,” her voice broke on a little sob that ravaged him, her pain was his, in that moment, the intensity of it stabbing like a thousand knives as she looked away in a bid to maintain her pride. “I would do anything to have my father acknowledge me.”
Along Came a Lady Page 27
