Now that she had his attention, she almost lost her nerve. She forced herself to blurt it out. “I’m not beautiful. At all.”
His brow furrowed, and lips pursed as if he would ask a question, but the question seemed to just . . . get stuck there.
“I should have told you ages ago. You can’t know how it’s been weighing on me. It’s just . . . No one’s ever called me beautiful. No one’s ever made me feel beautiful. And I couldn’t resist enjoying it, even though it was all a misunderstanding. But you need to know it now. If we go into that room together, me draped on your arm . . . There will be no clearer evidence that you’ve gone blind. They won’t know what in the world you’re doing with me.”
“Izzy.” His hand swept up her arm.
She pulled away. “I’m not fishing for compliments. Truly. It’s important that you believe and understand this. I’m not beautiful, Ransom. Not pretty. Not comely. Not even passably fair. I’m exceedingly plain. I always have been. No man has ever paid me the slightest attention.”
“All right, then. So you’re not beautiful.”
“No.”
“Of all your layers and revelations . . .” His hands settled on her shoulders. “This is the deepest secret you’ve been keeping from me.”
“Yes.” She tried to reach for him.
His grip firmed, forbidding her to move. “Don’t.”
As he backed her up against the wall, words just kept spilling out of her. Useless, foolish words.
“It seemed harmless enough at the start. I never dreamed it would cause any trouble, and I told myself there wasn’t any reason you needed to know the truth. Except now . . . now there are other people here. And you want to pass me off as your lover, and—”
“I’m not passing you off,” he said. “You are my lover.”
She pressed her hands to her face. Curse her ridiculous vanity. Now his whole future was at risk.
He said, “I can’t believe this is happening. This . . . this . . . is your great, shameful confession. You tell me you’re not beautiful.” He laughed. “It’s just absurd.”
“It is?”
“Yes. That’s nothing. Do you want to hear a truly ugly secret, Izzy? Here’s mine. I killed my mother.”
Ransom could feel her recoil at his words, palpably shocked.
He didn’t blame her. They were ugly words. Never, ever pleasant to hear. They’d taken a toll on him, too.
“My mother labored for thirty-odd hours to bring me into the world, and died less than one hour afterward,” he said. “I killed her. That’s precisely what my father told me, in those exact words, from the time I was old enough to understand them.”
The memories were still so clear. Every time he’d cried, every time he’d shivered, every time he’d stumbled and wanted a bit of cosseting. His father would haul him by the collar, heels dragging along the marble floors, and push him to the floor before the floor-length portrait of his mother.
Stop that sniveling, boy. She can’t wipe your tears now, can she? You killed her.
God, she was beautiful in that portrait. Golden hair, blue eyes, pale blue gown. An angel. He used to pray to her. Little blasphemous petitions for miracles, forgiveness, playthings . . . any signs that she could hear.
But she didn’t hear. She was gone.
He’d never prayed to anything since.
“All the servants,” he said, “nursemaids, housekeeper, tutors . . . they were sternly instructed to show me no affection. No hugs, no kisses, no nurturing or comfort. Because those were things my mother would have given me, and I didn’t deserve them. He blamed me for her death.”
He felt the breath sigh out of her. “Ransom, that’s just terrible.”
“It is,” he agreed.
“It was so wrong of him to treat you that way.”
“It was. He was a cruel, disgusting bastard. Let’s just say, there weren’t many bedtime stories.”