She dropped her hands along with her chin.
“I still worry.”
“It’s over now.”
“This fight is,” she said with the slightest of bitterness in her tone.
“Yes.”
“You weren’t hurt this time?” she asked quietly.
“I was not.”
He wouldn’t apologize for fighting. He had to do so — he had these renovations to pay for, in addition to ensuring the dukedom didn’t go further into debt.
“How is everything else?” she asked, her gaze returning to his, her eyes searching.
“I think it’s improving,” he said, leaving her now and walking over to the sideboard, ignoring the tea sitting out on the table and pouring himself a stiff drink instead. “I’ve found a steward for Stonehall who I hope I can trust.”
“Do you know him?”
He snapped his gaze to her.
“I do. He’s a friend of Archie’s.” He took a sip of his drink. “How did you know?”
“You seem to enjoy going back to the familiar.”
He reflected on her words. He hadn’t really thought of it like that. He swirled the amber liquid around in his drink.
“I like knowing what to expect,” he finally said. “And it’s important to be able to trust those around me.”
Valentine couldn’t be sure, but it seemed a flicker of panic crossed Rebecca’s face, though only for a moment.
“I do hope it works out for you,” she said instead, trailing her fingertips along the back of the chesterfield that looked horribly out of place in the room. “Do you think those who worked for the former duke were stealing from your estate?”
He had reflected upon that question for quite some time, though actually determining the fact through the ledgers had proven a little more difficult as they had been so lazy there were missing accounts.
“The best I can tell is that it was mismanagement,” he said with a shrug, though he didn’t tell her that it was actually Jemima who had determined that and not him. “People being lazy, not being held accountable.”
“Will you hire a man of business?”
“I will,” he said. “But—”
“It’s a matter of finding someone you can trust,” she finished for him, and he nodded with a half-grin. She was coming to know him well.
Now that he had overcome the joy — for it was joy, there was no other way to describe the shafts of sunbeams that had coursed through him — upon seeing her, he took a closer look at her. Slight dark circles were apparent underneath her eyes, and her skin was rather pale.
“Are you all right?” he asked, drawing closer, and she nodded, though her response was rather too quick.
“Of course,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You look… tired,” he finally settled upon and she drew up tall.
“A woman never wants to be told she looks tired, Val,” she admonished him. “It is basically saying that I look awful.”
“You could never look awful,” he said, attempting to save himself. “Just unwell.”
That, at least, brought sparks back into her eyes.
“You would tell me if anything is the matter?” he asked.
But while she responded with a terse, “Of course,” she looked away from him, not meeting his eye.
He sighed, set down his drink, and drew her against him. As he stood in front of her, he wrapped his hands around the top of her shoulders, gently easing his fingers into the tight muscles.
He could tell she was about to push him away, but then her head dropped back and she gave herself over to his ministrations.
“That feels good,” she murmured.
“What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “I’ve never felt such knots before.”
“They’re always like this,” she said, rolling her head back and forth, providing him better access to the muscles underneath. “Too much… writing for my father.”
“What does an architect need such meticulous note-taking for?” Valentine asked with a frown. “You work too hard.”
“I enjoy it,” she said, but her gaze dropped again to the floor between them and he couldn’t shake the sense that she was keeping something from him.
“Lady Fredericka seems lovely,” Rebecca said, stepping back away from him and out of his touch.
“Is that what is amiss?” he asked, understanding. If it had been a gentleman he suspected of stealing Rebecca’s affections, he could certainly imagine how he would feel. The ball of rage in his gut at the hypothetical thought confirmed it. “Never fear. Lady Fredericka and I have come to the determination that we do not suit.”
He could practically see the relief course through her as her shoulders dropped ever so slightly.
“If you are to marry a noblewoman with a significant dowry, I cannot see any others being a better option than she,” Rebecca said, her words short and clipped. “She is beautiful, she seems kind, and she is intelligent.”
“But she’s not you.”
Rebecca’s head snapped up and she looked at him, the melancholy there apparent.
“I have no dowry, I am not noble, and I must look after my father.”
“Your father is a grown man.”
“He is,” she agreed but said no more.
“I am starting to believe that our separation is ludicrous,” he said, voicing the thoughts that had taken hold of him during the previous days and he realized just how much he had missed her.
“Or perhaps what is ludicrous is the fact that we are holding on to hope that there can be a future for us,” she said, smiling sadly. “Perhaps there could have been, if you were still a simple pugilist. Or even if you had been born a duke instead of thrust into this life and requiring the guiding hand of a woman who knows it well. But you are trapped between two worlds, and you must embrace who you have become now.”
She began to back away slowly toward the door, as though his very presence was what was causing her such pain.
“I must go.”
“We are not done this conversation,” he said sternly, to which she did not reply.
“Goodbye, Val,” she whispered softly. “Until next time.”
And then she was gone, the door shut behind her, empty space where she had been just moments before.
He had just finished downing his drink when another knock sounded on the door, and Val crossed to it expectantly, convinced that Rebecca had returned, having changed her mind following their previous conversation.
But it was his mother.
“Valentine,” she greeted him curtly as she walked into the room as though she owned this place. “I am pleased with the designs Mr. Lambert has prepared.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said wearily, although to be honest he hardly cared any longer. His mother had taken over anyhow, spending his money as she saw fit, telling the architects what she wanted. “But Mother, we need to make some compromises.”
“We wouldn’t if you would simply marry as we discussed long ago. I don’t understand, Valentine, what is holding you back.”
“Just looking for the right woman,” he muttered.
“Or, you are looking at the wrong woman,” she admonished, pointing a finger at him.