“ ‘Your Grace,’ ” she began.
But before she could read further, she lowered the letter. “So strange. I must have opened twenty of these now. Not one of them has begun with a warm salutation. Not a ‘My dear duke’ or ‘Dearest Rothbury’ in the bunch.”
“It’s not surprising,” he said flatly. “It’s the way things are.”
She laughed a little. “But not always, surely. Somewhere in these hundreds upon hundreds of letters, there’s got to be one that’s mildly affectionate.”
“Feel free to think so. I wouldn’t advise holding your breath.”
Truly? Not one?
Izzy bit her lip, feeling like a heel for bringing it up. But if no one dared to address him with warmth, it could only be because he forbade it with that stern demeanor. Surely someone, somewhere found him lovable—or least admirable. Hopefully, for a reason that had nothing to do with his financial or physical endowments.
She went back to the letter at hand. Within a few lines, she realized that this was a very different letter than any of the ones she’d read before.
“ ‘Your Grace. By now, you will know I have gone. Do not think I will have regrets. I am sorry—most heartily sorry—for only one thing, and that is that I lacked the courage to tell you directly.’ ”
The duke’s boots hit the floor with a thud. He rose to his feet. His expression was forbidding. But he didn’t tell her not to continue.
“ ‘I realize,’ ” Izzy read on, clearing her throat, “ ‘forgiveness will be beyond you in this moment, but I feel I must offer some explanation for my actions. The plain truth of it is, I could never lov—’ ”
The paper was ripped from her hands.
Rothbury crumpled it in one hand and tossed it in the grate. “Insignificant.”
Insignificant?
Balderdash.
Izzy knew the contents of that letter had been significant. So significant, he couldn’t even bear to confront them, so he’d snatched them from her grip and destroyed the truth.
But there was another significant fact to be dealt with, and it had nothing to do with correspondence at all.
She stared at him. “You deceitful rogue. You’re not blind.”
Chapter Nine
You’re not blind,” she repeated.
The statement took him by surprise, but not in an unwelcome way. He would discuss his wretched eyesight all day long if she forgot ever opening that damned letter. The foolish chit who’d penned it should have saved her ink. If forgiveness had been beyond him then, it was utterly hopeless now.
“I am blind,” he informed Miss Goodnight. “Why would I pretend it if I weren’t?”
“But you just crossed those five paces and ripped a page directly from my hand, with no hesitation. No fumbling.” She paused. “And every so often, the way you look at me . . . I’ve wondered. Sometimes it seems you’re completely blind, and at other times it doesn’t.”
“That’s because sometimes I am completely blind, and other times I’m not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You, and the entirety of the medical establishment. There’s some damage to the nerve, I’m told. Inside. It’s variable. At certain hours of the day, I can make out shapes and shadows. A few muted colors. On my left side, particularly. Other times, it’s all a dark fog. I’m at my best in the mornings.”
She slowly pushed back in her chair and stood. “What do you see when you look at me? Precisely.”
He let his eyes flitter over her. “I don’t see anything ‘precisely.’ I can tell you’re slender. I can see you’re wearing white, or some light color. Your face is pale, your lips are reddish. And there appears to be a dark brown octopus attacking your head.”
“That’s my hair.”