"What if I could prove he'd never forgotten you? That he loved you all his life?"
Catherine's face tightened. "That would be a clever trick, but patently untrue. Now, if you'll excuse me, my lord, I have laundry to see to."
In two bounding strides he put himself between her and the door.
"I have proof," he said. "I have letters he wrote to you every year until he died. Love letters, Catherine. He wasn't the man you thought he was. His heart was never cold."
Her eyes narrowed to slits of cloudy ice. "I've no doubt you've concocted some fiction you think will convince me to let you have another go at
Florence
. The fact remains, however, that she has no desire
to speak to you and neither do I. Now step aside or I shall be forced to call the watch."
Since Greystowe's constabulary was funded in large part by its earl, the threat was not a good one.
Paying it no mind, Edward withdrew one of the letters and spread it, facing Catherine, across his chest. "You'll recognize his hand, I wager. And perhaps his pet name for you: 'Dearest Angel'?"
"Lies," she spat. Her face turned from the letter as if it were Medusa's hair. "Your tongue is as forked
as your father's."
"Perhaps you'd like me to read it?" he suggested. From the way she flinched, he knew his offer was no kindness. It did not matter. However worthy of being discarded he might feel her, and however comfortable she may have pown with her beliefs about his family, he could not allow her misconceptions to survive. They stood between him and
Florence
. They would have to be destroyed. He turned the letter around to read, hearing in every flowery phrase the ghost of a father he'd never known.
"Yesterday," he began, "I walked to the well—remember our well?—and thought of you; how you scratched our initials in the stone when we were twelve. You were an elfin creature, beauty and mischief, like sunlight dancing on the water far below. My heart barely knew desire and yet, for you, I felt it. I wanted to wrap myself around you, to carry you inside me through the dark. Dearest Angel, I fear you have forgotten those days, but I never shall. That innocent time was all I have ever known of joy.'"
As he read, Catherine drew her hands to her breast and curved her shoulders forward, as if shielding from a blow. He thought his words were getting through, but as soon as he lowered the letter, she exploded.
"Bastard!" she cried, hands lashing at his face. "I won't let you have her. I won't!"
The attack surprised him so much he stumbled back into a boxwood hedge. In a flash, she was in the door. He leapt to push in behind her but her body slammed it shut before he could. He heard the frantic turning of a key, then the dropping of a bolt.
Bloody hell, he thought. He was not going to be bested, not by her, not this time.
Without stopping to think, he ran to the parlor window and drove his elbow through the pane. The glass shattered on the first try. He heard a female shriek, then running feet: Catherine, trying to escape his rage.
Let her run, he thought,
his
will like fresh-forged iron. Removing his boot, he used the sole to widen the hole.
More glass broke, and wood. The truth would find her if he had to shove it down her throat.
Grim as death, elbow throbbing, he shoved his foot back in his boot, wrapped his coat around his hand, and climbed through the broken window. Then, tossing the coat impatiently before him, he stepped onto an ugly puce-green settee, not the least bit sorry to be muddying it as he went. A second shriek greeted his entrance. This voice did not belong to Catherine. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the curtained room, he saw a large pale maid huddled like a frightened calf behind the chancy shelter of a spinet.
"Where's
Florence
?" he said, his tolerance for feminine vapors gone.
The terrified girl pointed towards the ceiling. "Sh-she didn't come down from her room this morning.
Nor yesterday, neither."
Edward gritted his teeth and stumped up the stairs. Yet another sin to
lay
at Catherine's feet: that she
had undone
Florence
's hard-won quest for courage.
"
Florence
!""
he
roared, not knowing which door to pound. "
Florence
, get out here now!"
She appeared with a strangled gasp. He'd obviously caught her combing her hair. The rich brown locks lay over her shoulders and back, falling clear to her waist, as smooth as burnished silk. Her face was
pale and puffy, but she was dressed.
"Edward," she said. The hand that held the brush drew inward to cover the skin above her collar.
"What are you doing?"
He didn't waste time, but immediately cupped her pallid cheeks between his palms. Her skin was cold. Worried anew, he pressed his lips to the curve of one brow.
"
Florence
," he said, her name made gruff by the intensity of his feelings. "I love you so much it shames me. I want you to come home. I want to make you happy."
Her brow puckered. She drew a breath to speak, but doubt seemed to silence her. Aching for her confusion, Edward stroked her baby-soft face with his thumbs. Trust me, love, he thought. Trust me.
* * *
"Well, well, well," interrupted a voice he'd been praying to avoid. "Look
who's
come to claim his latest prize." Flushed with sleep and slyness, his former mistress emerged from the second bedroom, draped
in a nightdress of filmy, glacier pink.
Edward growled at her. "You stay out of this, Imogene."
"You know her?"
Florence
gasped.
He cursed his incautious tongue. He'd assumed Imogene aad already revealed their sordid past. Apparently, she'd been saving the disclosure for a special occasion: one that had arrived. She folded her arms and smiled.
"Edward knows lots of women," she said, her eyes half closed with pleasure. "Strictly in the biblical sense, mind you. Go all night if you let him. Yes, indeed.
Quite the cocksman, our Edward.
Knows
how to whisper those sweet nothings,
then
fuck a lady till she screams."
"Hold your tongue," he warned, though he knew she would ignore him.
Florence
was staring from one
to the other with rounded eyes. Noting this, and obviously enjoying it, Imogene flashed her teeth at her.
"Has he gotten masterful yet?" she asked, one long nail brushing
Florence
's trembling sleeve. "He's good at that. Very top wolf." She assumed a mocking, masculine voice.
" 'I
must have you, darling. Don't
even think of resisting me!'"
It was a canny guess, considering Edward had only behaved that way with her once. She must have added up the dates and realized he was thinking of
Florence
when he did it. None of which
Florence
knew, of course. Her face looked as hot as his felt. Nervously, she rubbed her wrists and he knew she was remembering the velvet ties. Damn Imogene for making her
think
of that as anything but special.
"No," he said.
"Never with anyone but you.
You're the only woman I've ever loved."
Imogene's laugh was lemon sharp.
"My goodness, darling.
You must be randy to say a thing like that! The thrill of stealing a march on your little brother must be more seductive than I'd thought."
Edward refused to acknowledge the implication. Instead, he took
Florence
's shoulders in his hands. He didn't care who heard him or what they thought. He'd get through to
Florence
if he had to beg her on
his knees.
"I love you," he said, low and rough. "I want to marry you if you'll have me. I want us to share the
future side by side."
"M-marry me?"
Florence
stammered just as Catherine came up the stairs. Edward tensed. The old bat must have recovered from the shock of him breaking in. Or perhaps she thought her niece needed reinforcement.
"You see," she said, stealing
Florence
's gaze from his. "You see what he is? My Imogene is clever.
A diamond on a heap of coal.
Men turn to puppies when she walks into a room. If he could lie to her—
to
her
—why wouldn't he lie to you?"
Even as he consigned her to perdition in his head, Edward struggled to rein in his temper. Abusing an elderly lady would not aid his cause.
"I never lied to Imogene," he said. "And I'm not lying to you. Read the letters, Catherine. My father
loved you. Just as I love
Florence
. The only difference is I'm not fool enough to let her slip away."
The hall fell silent then, the three of them gathering their wits for the next sally in the war for
Florence
's trust. To everyone's surprise, she was the first to speak.
"You lied to me," she said. "And you started the day we met."
* * *
She watched Edward
blanch at her quavering words and wondered where she'd found the strength to speak them. Her heart was a tumult of anger and confusion. Despite her accusation, she did believe he loved her. He was not the sort of man to expose his feelings unless he meant them, certainly not in
public. Even if she'd doubted that, his obvious misery would have convinced her.
But she also believed he'd slept with Imogene: beautiful, polished Imogene, whose charms she could
not match in a thousand years.
Maybe Edward
would
marry her, but
Florence
didn't delude herself that she could keep him. One day, sooner or later, another Imogene would slink into his bed.
Her heart felt as if it were breaking already.
"
Florence
," he whispered, his expression tortured, "I wish I could take it back. I didn't know how much my lies would hurt you. I swear, though, swear on my mother's grave that I'll do everything I can to
make it up to you."
The words were as sweet as a poppy-smoker's dream.
"What—" she croaked, then swallowed and tried again. "What about Freddie?"
At that, his lashes lowered, as if this were a source of shame. "Freddie will have to find his own way.
You were meant for me. We both know that."
Before she could respond, Imogene clapped, slow and scornful.
"Bravo, darling.
You should have been on the stage."
"Pure nonsense," snapped her aunt. "Come away,
Florence
. You don't have to listen to this scoundrel's lies. We can protect you. We know what's best."
Florence
looked at her, then at Imogene, and a veil seemed to fall away from her vision. Neither of them cared about protecting her; they only cared about hurting Edward. Catherine wanted revenge for Edward's father and Imogene for the breakup of their affair. Of the pair, Catherine might possess a modicum of sincerity but, truth
be
told, they were two of a kind: both preferred to see the world through bitter eyes.
If
Florence
accepted Catherine's offer of protection, would she end up as cynical as her niece? Would she refuse to believe in love when it was staring her in the face?
"
Florence
," Edward begged, calling her back, "all I ask is a chance."