Page 60 of The Lady’s Deception

Fear stabbed through Paris, along with guilt at his selfishness, his callousness. Close in age, close in temperament, he and Cami had always been prone either to squabble or to conspire. A year ago—less—he’d insulted her about Ashborough’s intentions. Thinking to divide them from one another, he’d separated himself from her instead. He’d cut off his nose to spite his face, as the saying went. And as a result, he’d been missing her as he’d miss a part of himself.

But he was here now. Did he mean to squander this chance? If he did, and something happened to Cami, it might mean he’d go on missing her forever…

He put an arm around Erica’s shoulders. She was frightened too, he realized. She’d never had much luck at hiding her feelings, though she tried, even now, to muster a smile. “I should think he would have learned by now that nothing will stop our Cam,” he reassured her. “She’d survive anything for the pleasure of saying ‘I told you so’ to the person who said she wouldn’t.”

The curve of Erica’s lips strengthened. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

Then, because Erica never could sit still for long, she freed herself, leaped to her feet, and strode to the window overlooking the garden. She might be the Duchess of Raynham, but she was still a little wild thing at heart.

Which reminded him… “Whatever became of that hedgehog you found and kept as a pet?” he asked.

She turned away from the window with a puzzled expression at the turn in the conversation. “Henry persuaded me to let it go. He said it deserved its freedom. I figured he knew a thing or two about that.”

Paris let himself marvel at her for a moment. Had he imagined her unchanged? In some ways, perhaps. But the Erica he’d thought he knew would have gotten flustered in the attempt to take him to task and looked to Cami to set him straight instead. Today, Erica had managed just fine on her own. She still radiated energy—perhaps the difference now was that she made no attempt to hide it. Somewhere in the last few months, she had discovered its power and now expected others to recognize its value.

And he supposed her husband might have something to do with that discovery.

“I hope, Erica,” he said gently, “that you are incandescently happy too.”

She turned back toward the window and nodded with an eagerness that spoke what words could not. “You’ll get along well with Tristan,” she insisted after a moment. “You’re very much alike.”

Paris made a soft, scoffing noise. What could an Irish barrister and unrepentant rebel possibly have in common with an English duke and officer of the British army?

“You’re both so determined to do the honorable thing. To see justice done.”

That was how his sister saw him? Even now? He didn’t deserve her faith. Anyone’s faith…

For a long moment, she said nothing more. Then, “Had you heard he’s taking me to the West Indies?”

“Yes.” In the letter announcing their sister’s impending marriage, Cami had also explained that Raynham did not intend to resign his officer’s commission in favor of the title he’d inherited, but rather had agreed to an assignment that would take him to a place rife with disease and disorder. Paris wanted to caution Erica against going, to urge her to think of the dangers. But he thought of what she’d just told him. Perhaps he was finally beginning to understand that people had to make their own choices. And that some risks were worth taking. He rose and went to stand beside her, looking down at the garden just beginning to come to life. “Think of the botanical specimens you’ll bring home.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you, Paris.” After a moment, she said, “Tell me about Miss Gorse.”

The request caught him off guard. “You might have heard all you wished, questioned her to your heart’s content, if you’d stayed put in Cami’s drawing room.”

“It was not she I wished to question.”

He hadn’t the strength for an interrogation. “She’s a young woman of respectable birth whose brother has tried to ruin her life. I’m sure you’ll get along famously,” he added, a trifle more sharply that he had intended.

“Indeed, I hope we will.” She tipped up her chin enough for him to see her topaz eyes, bright with mischief. “It would be a shame if we did not.”

“Don’t,” he breathed. He couldn’t bear the implication in her teasing words. “She and I… It would be a dreadful mistake. I’ve made so many—you see? I—I couldn’t even be bothered to find Daphne and Bell a proper governess.”

She sighed and turned to face him, laying her palm against his chest. “You still don’t understand, do you? You’ve been looking everywhere for forgiveness. But first you’ve got to forgive yourself. Your family loves you. And,” she added with a significant look, “I don’t think they’re the only ones.”

Where was the balm he had found in her words earlier? He didn’t think his heart had ever felt so raw. “Love? I don’t—”

“No,” she agreed readily, “You don’t. You don’t get to decide when it comes. And you don’t get to decide what it looks like—not for me. Not for Henry. Not even, dear brother”—a soft, sly smile curved her lips—“for yourself.”

The future he’d once dared to imagine for himself certainly had never included anyone like Rosamund. But that future was gone. He recalled Erica’s wise words about forgiveness. Did he—did he dare to let himself dream of a different one?

With a gentle push, his sister slipped past him. “Now, I have to get ready to attend a lecture. A Mr. Geoffrey Beals, former ship’s surgeon in the West Indies, is speaking this evening about his findings pertaining to yellow fever. I wish to learn all I can before I go.” At the doorway, she paused. “One of the footmen will show you to your room. You’ll have the house practically to yourself.”

When she was gone, he leaned his aching head against the cool glass. A house to himself. Quiet in which to sort his troubled thoughts. He’d never needed it more.

Nor wanted it less.

Chapter 21