“You should have seen the look in his eyes when he realized what I’d done.” Lilah shook her head. “Such disgust—I cannot bear it.”
Thea patted her head. “I know, Delilah,” she said. “Your intentions were honorable. You were merely misguided. If he’s a good man, he’ll come to realize that.”
“And what if he doesn’t?” she cried. “What will I do?”
Thea stiffened. “You love him.”
It was not a question.
Lilah blinked, and a hot tear splashed onto her cheek.
“I thought as much.”
“How did you know?” Lilah asked.
“You’re more concerned with the harm you’ve caused him than the damage to your reputation.”
A sob welled in Lilah’s throat, and she yielded to her sorrow while Thea rocked her, whispering words of comfort.
“Hush, little sister,” she said. “Everything will be well.”
“But Dexter…”
“Our brother will understand.”
“But he only cares about our position in society,” Lilah said. “He wants me to marry a title, but no one will have me now.”
“Haven’t you always said you didn’t want to be a society wife?” Thea asked. “In which case, consider this a blessing. And if Dexter cares so much about uniting our family with a title, then he can marry one and suffer the consequences of a loveless marriage. In fact, I believe he’s already set his sights on a lady. He’ll be so occupied with courting that he won’t have time to admonish you.”
“Then, what shall I do?”
“Do what you’ve always done,” Thea said. “But rather than try to change the whole world, why not focus your energies where your talents lie? Sir Thomas was telling me only yesterday what fine poems you write.”
“He knows nothing of poetry,” Lilah said.
“He’s anxious to support your endeavors, and that should be commended,” Thea replied. “And there’s Mrs. Forbes. She recognizes your qualities and appreciates your help.”
Lilah shook her head. “I do so little.”
“The most effective way to make a difference is to take small steps,” her sister said. “A pebble, when dropped into a lake, causes ripples which extend to every corner of the surface. And if you make a difference to a handful of lives, then for them, you have changed the world.”
Thea was right. In her quest for justice, Lilah had believed she could change the world by influencing the minds of many. But all she’d done was help James Stock sell more copies of his paper. And it had not brought her fulfillment—only misery.
But her realization had come too late. By concealing the truth from Fraser, she’d given him every right to hate her, where she had every reason to love him.
Thea kissed her forehead.
“You must rest,” she said. “A little sleep will do wonders for your disposition. Shall I send Sarah up with a tray for your supper? Sir Thomas is here. He’s dining with us, but I can make your excuses if you’re not up to company.”
“No, thank you,” Lilah said. “I cannot hide. I must face the consequences of my actions.”
“You needn’t worry about Sir Thomas,” Thea said, smiling. “There’s a lovesick puppy if ever I saw one. He’s followed you around since we arrived in London.”
“He’ll soon stop following once he knows I’m a fallen woman.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Thea said. “Now get some sleep. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed until supper.”
After Thea left, Lilah heard voices elsewhere in the house, followed by Sir Thomas’s unmistakable little cough. Eventually, the voices faded.
How had Thea described him? A lovesick puppy. Though he couldn’t excite her passion, Sir Thomas had been a friend ever since Dexter had brought the family to London. He looked up to Dexter. And he weathered Lilah’s sharp tongue.
Perhaps a woman was better protected from heartbreak if she avoided passion altogether. Passion destroyed lives, and now it had broken her heart. Was that why so many people married for convenience rather than love? A woman who never loved was, at least, spared the agony of heartbreak.
Lilah rose from her chair and lay on her bed. She sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes. But sleep eluded her. She had contributed to the ruin of the man she had fallen in love with. A man who matched her perfectly in every way, who believed in hard work and loyalty, and strove to better himself and the lives who depended on him. He let himself be ordered about by her and weathered it all with good grace.
And he had taught her the meaning of pure, unbridled pleasure.
Yet now, he couldn’t bear the sight of her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“So, tell me, Mr. Hart,” Fraser said, “why have you asked me to see you?”
One week after Clayton House had been destroyed, Hart had sent Fraser a message, demanding to see him. Fraser had expected to be called at dawn, but Hart showed no sign of knowing that Fraser had taken his sister’s maidenhead.
Maybe Hart was about to draw out a pistol from his desk and shoot him.
Fraser glanced at the rug on the floor of Hart’s office. The predominantly red background would be perfect for disguising bloodstains.
“I’ve been looking into your finances,” Hart said.
“For what purpose?”
Hart stared at him in the manner of a schoolmaster, irritated at being interrupted by a particularly weak-brained pupil.
“All in good time,” Hart said. His gaze was unsettling, the cold blue of his eyes searching, calculating.
Dexter Hart had the uncanny ability to probe into a man’s mind to discover his secrets, then use them to his advantage. Did he apply the same approach to ruling his family?
For a moment, Fraser found himself pitying Delilah Hart. Her brother’s iron fist would stunt her free spirit. Had he discovered that she was no longer a maiden? Had he punished her? And if he knew who she’d lain with, would Fraser find his manhood sliced and scattered over Hart’s Aubusson rug?
“How bad is my situation, Hart?” he asked.
The banker rolled his eyes. “The news is not good, but you’ve managed to evade total ruination, at least for now. I took the liberty of writing to the trustees of the Molineux estate, and my lawyer heard from them yesterday.”
Why would Hart meddle in Fraser’s affairs? Though, if anyone could persuade those old fossils to release the funds to service Fraser’s debts, it was Hart.
“Is that why you asked to see me?” Fraser asked.
“It is.”
“Did you ask them to help me?”
“Good lord, no,” Hart said. “I expect you to be man enough to ask them yourself, though it would be an exercise in futility. The estate is losing money, and the trustees would be fools if they agreed to waste its funds on a failed enterprise run by an incompetent.”
Did the man have to be so brutally frank?
“Then why contact them?” Fraser asked. “And why would they respond so hastily? Ordinarily, it takes them weeks to answer my letters.”
“That is, I suspect, because your letters are never to their advantage.”