Blackmoore(61)

“I went into Robin Hood’s Bay with Sylvia and Miss St. Claire.”

Saying her name brought a bitterness to my tone I had not planned.

“But you did not come home with them.” He made it sound like a question.

“No. I . . . had something I had to do. But I made it here safe enough, as you see.”

He just looked at me, without comment, but I could sense there were things he wanted to say to me.

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“Are you going to lecture me about propriety?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

He shook his head. “No. I was just going to say that I would have liked to go with you. I’ve wanted to show you Robin Hood’s Bay for a long time.”

I hadn’t thought of that at all. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s not important.” Henry seemed aloof tonight.

Angry, somehow, deep inside. But I did not know how to fix whatever was wrong.

So I said, “Let us proceed, shall we? You can ask your secret first tonight, if you like.”

He folded his arms across his chest, faced me as if confronting an op-ponent, and said, “I want to know why you are so opposed to marriage.”

I took a deep breath. He had asked me this many times before, and I had always refused to answer. But now I was bound to answer him, and the thought of being honest about this frightened me. My chin trembled.

I looked away, searching for something within myself to anchor my courage to. India. This was for India, and open cages, and freedom. This was for a land far away, where I would never have to witness the marriage of Henry and Miss St. Claire. I gripped my courage and turned my nervous-ness to anger and hardness. I thought of my mother and father; I thought of Eleanor and her husband, James. And I said, “Marriage is bondage and misery.”

“Bondage and misery?” Surprise turned his voice. He shook his head.

“I think of marriage differently. A companionship of like minds. A tie that binds, yes, but in the binding comes strength. A lifetime with your dearest friend as your truest and best companion. That is what it can be.

I believe that.”

His na?veté infuriated me for a reason I could not explain. “Is that the sort of marriage you expect to have with Miss St. Claire?”

Henry’s head jerked back, as if I had slapped him.

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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n He took two breaths before answering. “We are not speaking of my future. We are contemplating yours.”

“That is a thoroughly unsatisfactory answer, Henry Delafield.”

A smirk lifted one side of his mouth. “You always fall back on ad-dressing me by my full name when you are upset. As if you were my mother.”

I scowled at him. “And you always fall back on trying to change the subject when you don’t wish to be forthright.” I reached out without thinking and grabbed him by the shirt front, pulling him down so that we were on eye level with one another. All I could see in his eyes was surprise and amusement. “Why should I be the only one making myself vulnerable? You have asked me for my secrets; now you should share something with me. It’s only fair.”

Henry reached both arms around me, resting his hands on the low wall at my back, trapping me. And even though I quickly released my grip on his shirt (what had I been thinking?) he continued to lean down, close enough to me that I could see the instant his expression changed from amused to intense. “What would you have me share with you?”

“Something honest. Something you have told nobody else. A secret of your own.” I paused, then added, “Something about Miss St. Claire.”

He shook his head. “She is not a part of this. This is between you and me.”

I felt thwarted and angry because of it. He never spoke of Miss St.

Claire. Any information I had about her before this week had come from Sylvia. Through the years, Henry had been consistently reticent about his intended, and I burned with envy. I hated that he had a secret I could not get from him. I hated that he had a month out of every year that he spent here, with her, and I had never been allowed to be a part of it. And I knew from experience that the secrets you never spoke of, to anyone, were the most treasured secrets of all.

I resisted the urge to shove him away, crossing my arms across my chest to rein in the impulse. “You never speak of her. I think it is 186



abominable of you to keep something from me, after everything I have told you.”

“I will tell you a secret. I only said it wouldn’t be about Juliet.”

Juliet. He had called her by her given name, as if there was already an agreement between them. As if he had already proposed to her. As if they were already connected to each other.

“I hate that name, by the way,” I muttered.

Henry smiled, as if my hatred of her name gave him great amusement. Joy, even. “Do you? Why is that?”

“It sounds presumptuous.”

“Hm.” Henry nodded. “Presumptuous.”

“Yes! As if she has something classical about her. As if she could be the star in a Shakespearean tragedy. It is entirely too presumptuous. Did her parents not think how they were setting her up for disappointment? For that is what I felt as soon as I met her—disappointment that she was so very bland.”

I stopped, realizing I had gone too far. Henry’s eyes narrowed. I was speaking of his intended. Perhaps his affianced. I should not have said what I had.