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“Has the day been that hard for you already, Sylvia?” he asked. There was an edge to his voice that I had rarely heard.

“No. I am just that happy to see you, dear brother.” Sylvia smiled sunnily at him, but he did not return it. His gaze cut to me, standing in the doorway, and he lifted one eyebrow.

“Are you coming or going?”

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The challenge in that raised eyebrow—the curt tone of his voice—helped

me make my decision. I stepped forward into the room. “Coming.”

He slid his books to the side, clearing the space at the table that was usually mine, and I sat down at my usual chair. There was nothing comfortable here, but I was determined to be here anyway. I was determined to reclaim my place. I felt, deep within, that if I did not claim it now, I would lose it forever.

Certainly Mrs. Delafield would want me to leave and never give her cause to worry again about her son’s future. But Mrs. Delafield was not in this room, and she might be able to stop me from ever marrying Henry, but that did not mean she could stop me from being his friend.

“What are you reading?” I asked as I sat at the table.

He held up a leather-bound book. “Dr. Faustus. By Goethe.”

“In German?”

“Naturlich.” His curt tone grated on me.

“Oh. Naturlich,” I repeated with a sarcastic bite to my voice.

He lowered the book and looked at me. “What is wrong with that?”

“You have everything given to you, Henry. You have your tutor teaching

you German and French and Latin, and you can study things I might never

be able to. So don’t pretend it is ‘natural’ at all.”

Henry held my gaze, his grey eyes reflecting a battle within himself. He seemed about to argue with me. I was sure I could see building in his eyes some fire that he would unleash on me—a fire of indignation, of pent-up

arguments, of impassioned feelings. The space between us grew taut with my anger and his, and I saw a muscle leap in his clenched jaw, and his lips pressed together so that a line creased his cheek. I stared at that crease, and in a flare of longing wished that I could simply reach for him and touch his face.

I looked down. I took a deep breath and tamped my feelings down deep,

until I no longer felt the ache of longing. And then I said in a quiet voice,

“I am sorry. I did not mean to be angry with you, after all your kindnesses toward me.”

He reached out and grabbed my wrist. I looked up in surprise. “Don’t

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make me out to be some sort of angelic character,” he whispered fiercely. “I have done nothing out of kindness, Kate. Do you understand?”

I stared at him in surprise.

He released me and leaned back, raking his hand through his hair. Then

he shook his head and muttered, “I am sorry.”

There was so much between us. So much we were not saying to each other.

But I could say that. So I did. “I am sorry as well.”

And I was. I was sorry for everything. I was sorry for my embarrassment

of a mother and my scandalous sister and the fact that I had fallen in love with a boy who could never be mine.

Henry rubbed a hand over his face, then stood and walked to the window

and looked outside for a long time—so long that I gave up waiting for him and pulled the top book off my own stack and cracked it open. But I was only two pages into my study of the life of Mozart when Henry returned to the table, sat down, and picked up his book.

“Would you like me to tell you about Faust?” He offered me a smile. “I

will translate for you.”

I closed my book. “Yes. I would like that very much.”




Chapter 35


Present Day


“Good morning.”

I cleared my throat and tried again for something louder than the ragged whisper I had just produced.

“Good morning, sir.” That was a little bit better. Mama pushed me forward, making me stumble into Henry’s grandfather’s room. I glared at her over my shoulder. “I told you I would do this. Please stop pushing me.”

She waved her hands at me. “Just get on with it. I’ll be standing guard out in the hall. That servant will discover he wasn’t needed in the kitchens and be back here in under five minutes, unless Maria can distract him.”

With another shove at my back, she cleared me of the door, which she shut firmly behind me, leaving me in the dim room.

Henry’s grandfather was not sitting in his normal chair by the win-dow. He sat up in bed with a tray of food beside him. At the sound of the door closing he looked up, his grey eyes settling on me for a moment.

“Kate Worthington,” he said, his gravelly voice quiet in the still room.

My heart pounded out a message that this was all wrong—that I could not go through with this. But I had made a bargain, and bargains 243



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had to be fulfilled. I stepped toward him. “Yes. Good morning, sir. I hope you are well today.”

At my approach, his gaze shifted from me to the door. His fingers clutched at the blanket covering his lap, twitching at it, and his gaze twitched too, back and forth, between me and the door. His legs moved restlessly, and when I reached his bedside, a panicked look filled his eyes.