Page 41
So many white pins now.
He looked up as I entered, unsurprised. “August. I wondered when you'd come.”
“Father.” I closed the door behind me, noting the way his gaze swept over me—assessing, cataloguing. “We need to talk.”
“About Miss Sterling, I presume. She paid me a visit this afternoon. Had some concerns about your household arrangements.”
Of course she had. I should have handled Constance before she could run to my father with her suspicions and wounded pride.
“Then you know I'm housing Miss Wolfe and her cousin temporarily. While renovations—”
“I know what you told Miss Sterling.” His tone was mild, but I heard the steel beneath. “What I'd like to know is the truth.”
“The truth is that Adeline's home is being remodeled, and I offered them accommodation. I have more than enough room. It's perfectly proper.”
“And perfectly convenient that this cousin appeared just as you were meant to formalize your arrangement with Constance.” His eyes narrowed. “Don't insult my intelligence, August. I've made a career of seeing through deception.”
I held his gaze, choosing my words with care. “I'm ending things with Constance. I should have done it weeks ago, but I was avoiding the conversation.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you'd be disappointed.” The admission came easier than expected. “You've made it clear you think a match with the Sterlings would be advantageous. Solid family, good connections.”
“And yet you're refusing.”
“I cannot marry her, Father.” The words tumbled out. “She's. . . she's perfectly pleasant. Perfectly appropriate. And perfectly dull. I'd rather spend my life alone than trapped in a marriage of convenience to a woman who bores me to tears.”
Silence fell, heavy and judgmental. My father studied me with the same precision he might use to evaluate a blade's sharpness—testing for flaws, for weaknesses that could prove fatal.
“You've never cared about being bored before,” he said finally.
“Perhaps I should have.”
“Or it’s this woman. This Miss Whitmore.
“She’s Adeline's cousin. Nothing more.”
“Or perhaps she's a distraction. Another woman pulling you away from your duty, making you question what you know to be true.”
“That's not—”
“You've changed, August.” He stood, moving around the desk with deliberate slowness. “The hesitation. The sudden unwillingness to accept an advantageous match. That's how it begins. Attachments. Doubt. Weakness.”
“I'm not weakened.”
“Aren't you?” He stopped in front of me. “I let your mother soften me. Make me merciful when I should have been vigilant.” His voice turned bitter. “And when the time came to protect her, I wasn't strong enough.”
“Father, that's not what's happening here.”
The silence that followed was Arctic. He rounded me slowly, gaze never leaving mine. The controlled precision of a predator circling prey.
“Your mother,” he said quietly, “questioned things too. Asked uncomfortable questions. Doubted the simple truths that keep us safe.” His hand moved to his chest, over his heart. “And it killed her.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“She loved you.”
“And I loved her. That's precisely the problem.” Grief twisted his features into something barely human. “Love makes you weak. Makes you believe one person deserves your protection more than the mission deserves your dedication.”
