As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(79)

She gasped, the breath tearing from her in her pained surprise.

He squeezed shut his eyes, unable to bring himself to look at her for fear of the shock he’d see on her face, or the pity. Or worse—the same condemning disappointment he’d seen on his father’s face.

He forced himself to continue. “As he was mounting his horse to leave, someone fired off a pistol. The horse startled and threw him, and he struck his head.” Sharing what happened that night was brutal, but he had to tell her everything now. Telling Mariah was the only way to purge the shaking that gripped him and the metallic taste of helplessness forming on his tongue. “I heard the shot and saw him fall backwards, saw his head hit the cobblestones and the blood pool around him…” He shuddered violently. The same helplessness that had consumed him that night returned as the image flashed through his mind, branded there forever. So much helplessness that it choked the air from him even now, and he had to force out around the knot in his throat, “For Christ’s sake! I was less than twenty feet away, and I couldn’t do anything to save him.”

Her arms tightened around him as she silently tried to console him, but even her loving embrace wasn’t enough to ease the guilt he’d carried since that night. And always would.

“I never had the chance to apologize, to promise to correct my ways,” he murmured, burying his face against her shoulder. “He died thinking I was a drunkard and a scoundrel. That I was nothing more than a worthless scapegrace who didn’t give a damn about the family’s reputation. Or mine.”

“He didn’t think that,” she whispered soothingly. “He knew you would change your ways.”

“Did he?” he bit out. “Because I sure as hell didn’t. Not until it was too late.”

She cupped his face between her hands and gently lifted his mouth up to kiss him, her lips touching his in a kiss so tender, so filled with comfort that he trembled.

When she lowered herself away, he opened his eyes, expecting to see pity on her face. What he saw instead ripped his breath away. Her eyes glistened brightly with unshed tears for him, and her compassion tore deep into his heart.

“That’s why you’ve been pushing yourself so hard, why you’re so driven,” she whispered. “Because you’re trying to prove that you’re worthy of the Carlisle name. And your father’s love.”

A ragged sigh tore from him, and his shoulders sagged, his head hanging. “Yes.”

She hesitated before gently whispering, “But you’re never going to.”

His heart stuttered painfully. Then he narrowed his eyes. Did she think so little of him after all? “I am well on my way to being successful—”

“You’re never going to,” she repeated, more forcefully despite the tremor in her voice, but this time she blinked hard to keep back tears.

Surprise turned to anger that even now she would be concerned about that blasted partnership. How could she hold that over his head, now of all times? He’d placed his trust in her, damn it! Only to have it thrown back into his face.

He forced back a curse and ground out, “Because of Winslow Shipping?”

“No.” A tear escaped down her cheek. “Because he’s dead, Robert. No matter how hard you work, no matter how successful you become, he’ll never know, and you’ll have spent your life chasing after an approval which will never come. It cannot, not now—” A soft sob choked in her throat. “It never will.”

Guilt that he was causing her pain clawed at his gut, but she didn’t understand. Could never understand. “So I should just give up,” he drawled bitterly, “surrender the partnership?”

“No!” She cupped his face and brought him down for another kiss, this one meant to both silence and reassure in equal measure. “I’m not saying that.”

He turned his head away before her lips could touch his, and she stiffened at his rejection. “Yes, you are.”

He untangled her arms from around his shoulders and shoved himself out of the bed. She scrambled to sit up, clutching at the blanket to cover herself as he stomped away.

“Perhaps I am,” she explained calmly, yet the frustration in her voice was palpable. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly the reason,” he muttered. He snatched up his breeches and yanked them on. “Even now you can’t stand the thought that I’ll be able to prove myself to my father’s memory when you’ll never be able to prove yourself to yours.”

She flinched at the harshness behind his attack, yet he only felt a momentary pang of guilt that he’d wounded her. She was overstepping now, by a goodly ways, and the prick of chastisement he’d leveled was nothing compared to the anguish she set burning inside him.

He pulled his shirt on over his head and didn’t bother with the cravat as he slipped into his waistcoat. The faster he could dress, the faster he could leave. And to think that less than an hour ago he didn’t want to let her out of his arms.

“What happened to your father was an accident,” she tried again. “And you need to stop blaming your—”

“Don’t,” he ground out, his eyes narrowing on her. “Don’t tell me what I need to do, Mariah. What happened between us tonight does not give you that right.”