Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(25)

Free of the drawing room, he expelled a deep breath. He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his forehead. Hopefully, he’d win over Cleo soon.

A small sniffling sound caught his attention. He looked to the right. The double doors leading to the library were cracked. Firelight spilled out into the corridor. He turned and stepped into the path of light, pushing the doors open wider with the flat of his hand.

Cleo lay curled on the settee, her face buried into a cushion. He approached silently, the sound of his steps deadened on the carpet. Her shoulders shook, heaving with silent sobs. Her hair had fallen partially undone, the rich dark waves falling down her back.

He blinked and looked around him, as though he might find the answer to her present condition somewhere within the room. She always came across so composed, prickly and invulnerable. The sight of her weeping left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been around females before. All his life. His sister, even his mother, the strongest woman he’d ever known . . . all had cried on his shoulder at one time or another.

He cleared his throat. That didn’t seem to have any effect on her.

“Cleo?” He lowered a hand to her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “What happened?”

She muttered something unintelligible. He sank down on the settee beside her. Something crinkled beneath his shoe. Bending down, he grasped a wrinkled sheet of parchment. He looked from her to the letter, guessing it had something to do with her present mood.

Scanning the letter, his heart sank. Lifting his gaze back to Cleo, he asked, “Bess? Your sister?”

A long moment passed before she rolled to face him. Her face was wet from crying, her eyes red-rimmed and . . . haunted. “Yes.”

He shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“I should have been there.” She wiped at her face with both hands.

“How old was she?”

“Three.”

He cursed low beneath his breath.

She shook her head, sending loose tendrils flying around her face. “I should have been there.”

He waved the letter. “Your mother said it was consumption.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “It shouldn’t have happened. She was healthy when I left.” She beat a fisted hand to her lap.

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Can’t I?” She wet her lips and looked at him rather desperately, her eyes alive with a wild light. “I should have wed by now. Then I could have saved her.”

“How does your marrying have anything to do with Bess getting sick?”

“You don’t understand.”

His hand tightened on her. “Then explain it to me.”

She released a deep, shuddering breath. “My stepfather did this. Roger barely kept us in clothes. Or warm. Or fed. He certainly would never see that we received the care of a physician.” Her lip curled in disgust. “He agreed that I could take the children once I married. As long as I paid him, I could have them.” Her face crumpled then. “Not my mother though. He won’t let her go.” Tears swam down her cheeks.

He pulled back in horror at what she described. “He’s holding them hostage?”

“In essence, yes.” She sucked in a deep breath and shook her head as though trying to stave off the tears. “I’ve dragged my feet . . . left them in his care for too long.” Her fist beat in her lap with renewed vigor. “Stupid, stupid. He’s never cared if any of us lived or died before. It’s my fault.”

He cupped her face, letting the warm wet of her tears soak into his palms. “She died because she was sick. That wasn’t your fault. Nor is it your fault that you’re at the mercy of an animal.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes as she gazed up at him. The sight clawed through him. “I wasn’t there to carry her.”

“Carry her?” He frowned, angling his head, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. “Where?”

“To the churchyard. It’s my responsibility. I always carry them to the church. I always carry them.”

“What do you mean, you . . .” His voice tapered off, suspicion sinking its teeth into him, making him dread her next words.

“Rose, James, Lottie, and Helen. I carried them all. I should have carried her, too. I wasn’t there for her.”

He could only stare at her, speechless for a long moment, struggling to comprehend what she was saying. “Wait. You mean you . . . take the bodies away?”

She nodded once and his gut clenched thinking about her walking to the churchyard holding the dead bodies of her siblings. His throat tightened up on him, but he still managed to say, “That should never have been your burden.”

“Should it have been my stepfather’s? He wouldn’t waste his time with such a task. Nor would I wish him to.” Her eyes glittered passionately. “They deserved someone who cares to walk them to their final rest. I’m the one who’s supposed to carry them.” Her head bowed and she choked out, “Oh, Bess. I’m so sorry.”

He hauled her into his arms, unable to stop himself, unable to stand her suffering for something that was out of her control. He knew her pain was inescapable. He’d lost both his brother and father. He understood grief. She’d just lost her sister. Nothing would ever take away that ache. But he’d be damned if he’d let her think any of it was her fault. “Don’t blame yourself. You loved her. She had that love . . . she always will.”