Page 46 of The Lady’s Deception

After donning an old-fashioned nightgown—borrowed, ill-fitting clothes were nothing new to her now—she wrapped herself in an extra blanket, stepped around the screen, and went to sit before the fire to dry her damp hair. Her gratitude at having food and a place to sleep tonight could not erase her anxiety over the morrow, and despite her fatigue, sleep seemed unlikely to come soon. The Burkes would of course return to Dublin on the first available ship. But where would she go? What would she—?

At the creak of a hinge, she spun her head in alarm and discovered Paris standing in the doorway, his greatcoat slung over one arm.

“Am I too late to say goodnight?” He spoke low, but as always his voice had the curious power to travel across the room and slip under her skin.

She clutched the blanket tighter. “Your sisters are asleep.”

“But you are not.” He stepped fully into the room and gestured about him with the arm covered by his coat. “I apologize for this uncomfortable arrangement. It was the last room they had. I’ll sit up in the pub tonight, of course. I only wanted to make sure you had everything you need.”

She managed a nod.

“They assumed we were traveling as a family.”

Understandable, and mostly correct. But did that mean…? She released the blanket and raised her hand to stroke one cheek. “Do I truly look old enough to be the girls’ mother?” Had the trip left her as haggard as that?

A silent laugh lifted his chest. “I had expected you to express more horror at the thought of being mistaken for my wife.” He turned back toward the door. “Good night, Miss Gorse.”

“Wait.”

He paused but did not immediately turn around.

Beneath the blanket, she twisted the tie of the nightgown around one finger. “I owe you an explanation, Mr. Burke.”

As he turned, she saw surprise, or something like it, flit across his face. “No. At least, not tonight.”

Would there be another opportunity? “Please.”

Slowly—reluctantly?—he crossed to her. When he reached the fireplace, she rose, offering him the only chair. He shook his head. “I’ll make do with the floor.”

She could bear a great many things, as it turned out. But not that. She could not allow him to sit at her feet while she explained how and why she had lied. Why she had left. She lifted his greatcoat from his arm and laid it across the empty chair, then sank to her knees. “As will I.”

As she arranged the blanket around her, he leaned back against the seat of the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. Now that she had an audience, her courage flagged. “I—I’m not quite sure where to begin,” she whispered, praying not to disturb the girls.

The flickering firelight gave his dark features a more than usually devilish cast. He crossed his booted legs at the ankles, his arms over his chest, settling in for a long tale. “In Berkshire, I should think.”

He remembered. Of course he had remembered. “I was not born there, if that is the jest you mean to make,” she replied, grateful for once to sound so prim. “I was born at Gorsemere Park, in Suffolk.”

“Your father’s house,” he prompted.

“The traditional seat of the Viscounts Setterby, yes.” It was not at all the story she had intended to tell. But perhaps it was best to begin at the beginning. “I have little memory of the place. My Papa died when I was not quite five. I have little memory of him, either.” She focused on the fire, unwilling to see either pity or its absence on Paris’s face. “My half-brother, Charles, now holds the title. You’ve met him, I think?”

“Yes. But how did you know?”

The question brought her gaze back to him. “A gentleman came to see you. A, uh, a Mr.—Greaves?”

“Graves.” Before her eyes, his jaw turned to granite.

“He mentioned you’d gone to Kilready.”

He nodded, a single dip of his head.

She could read nothing in the gesture—nothing more than confirmation of her worst fears, that was. She fought the impulse to glance over her shoulder, as if she expected to find her brother standing on the threshold. Instead, she drew a deep breath and continued. “Charles said Gorsemere was ramshackle, and there wasn’t—isn’t—money to repair it. He closed it up and settled in London. He moved Mama and me to another of the family properties, Tavisham Manor. In Berkshire.” She was determined to make him understand that she hadn’t lied about everything. “A modest little house, really, despite the name.”

“Is your mother still living?”

Rosamund shook her head. “She died when I was thirteen. Of a fever she contracted while visiting among the cottagers, bringing them food. Charles said I must—I must learn from her example.”

“Her generosity?”