She stumbled back, hugging her arms to her body. Her anguish was palpable, but he couldn’t stop himself from advancing, jabbing his forefinger hard against her collarbone. “I was so bloody furious with you I could hardly see straight. But speaking of doing the right thing, I thought it would be kinder if I waited to confront you until after you’d had a few days to grieve for your brother.”
Her eyes grew large, and her lips trembled, and her posture—somehow tense and slack at the same time—brought to Edward’s mind a deer he’d almost shot years ago, while hunting with his father. One of them had stepped on a twig, and the animal’s large ears had perked and turned. It didn’t move, though. It stood there for what felt like an eternity, and Edward had had the most bizarre sense that it was contemplating its existence.
He had not taken the shot. He had not been able to bring himself to do so.
And now . . .
The devil on his shoulder slunk away.
“You should have stayed,” he said quietly. “You should have told me the truth.”
“I was scared.”
He was dumbfounded. “Of me?”
“No!” She looked down, but he heard her whisper, “Of myself.”
But before he could ask her what she meant, she swallowed tremulously and said, “You don’t have to marry me.”
He couldn’t believe she was still thinking that was possible. “Oh, I don’t, don’t I?”
“I won’t hold you to it,” she half babbled. “There’s nothing to hold you to.”
“Isn’t there?” He took a step toward her, because it was long past time they eliminated the distance between them, but he stopped in place when he realized what he saw in her eyes.
Sorrow.
She looked so unbearably sad, and it wrecked him.
“You love someone else,” she whispered.
Wait . . . What?
It took him a moment to realize he hadn’t said it aloud. Had she gone mad? “What are you talking about?”
“Billie Bridgerton. You’re supposed to marry her. I don’t think you remember, but—”
“I’m not in love with Billie,” he interrupted. He ran his hand through his hair, then turned to face the wall as he let out a shout of frustration. Good God, was that what this was all about? His neighbor back home?
And then Cecilia said—she actually said, “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he retorted. “I’m certainly not going to marry her.”
“No, I think you are,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve recovered your full memory, but you said as much in your letters. Or at least Thomas did, and then your godmother—”
“What?” He whirled around. “When did you speak to Aunt Margaret?”
“Just today. But I—”
“Did she seek you out?” Because by God, if his godmother had insulted Cecilia in any way . . .
“No. It was entirely by chance. She’d come to see you, and I happened to be leaving to purchase my ticket—”
He growled.
She backed up a step. Or rather she tried. She’d clearly forgotten that she was already up against the edge of the bunk.
“I thought it would be rude not to sit with her,” she said. “Although I must say, it was very awkward to play the hostess in a public house.”
Edward went still for a moment, then to his amazement he felt his lips cracking into a smile. “God, I would have loved to have seen that.”
Cecilia gave him a bit of a sideways glance. “It is much more amusing in retrospect.”
“I’m sure.”
“She’s terrifying.”
“She is.”
“My godmother was a dotty old woman in the parish,” Cecilia muttered. “She knit me socks every year for my birthday.”
He considered this. “I am quite certain Margaret Tryon has never knit a pair of socks in her life.”
A little grumbling sound formed in Cecilia’s throat before she said, “She’d probably be ridiculously competent at it if she tried.”
Edward nodded, his smile by now reaching his eyes. “Probably.” He gave her a little nudge so that she sat on the bunk, and then he sat beside her. “You know I’m going to marry you,” he said. “I can’t believe you thought I would do otherwise.”
“Of course I thought you’d insist upon marrying me,” she replied. “That’s why I left. So you wouldn’t have to.”
“That’s the most ridic—”
She placed her hand on his shoulder to silence him. “You would never have taken me to bed if you thought we weren’t married.”
He did not contradict her.
She shook her head sadly. “You slept with me under false pretenses.”
He tried not to laugh, he really did, but within seconds the bed was shaking with his mirth.
“Are you laughing?” she asked.
He nodded, clutching his middle as her question set off another wave of glee. “‘Slept with me under false pretenses,’” he chortled.
Cecilia frowned disgruntledly. “Well, you did.”
“Perhaps, but who cares?” He gave her a friendly nudge with his elbow. “We’re getting married.”
“But Billie—”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “For the last time, I don’t want to marry Billie. I want to marry you.”
“But—”
“I love you, you little fool. I’ve been in love with you for years.”
Maybe he was a little too full of himself, but he would swear he heard her heart skip a beat. “But you didn’t know me,” she whispered.
“I knew you,” he said. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I knew you better than—” He paused for a moment, needing the time to collect his emotions. “Do you have any idea how many times I read your letters?”
She shook her head.
“Every letter . . . my God, Cecilia, you have no idea what they meant to me. They weren’t even written to me—”
“They were,” she said softly.
He went still, but his eyes held hers, silently asking her what she meant.
“Every time I wrote to Thomas I was thinking of you. I—” She swallowed, and although the light was too dim to see her blush, somehow he knew her face had gone pink. “I scolded myself every time.”
He touched her cheek. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not. I—well, maybe I am, but it’s because I’m embarrassed. I felt so silly, pining over a man I’d never met.”
“No sillier than I,” he said. He reached into the pocket of his coat. “I have a confession.”
Cecilia watched as he unfurled his fingers. A miniature—her miniature—lay in his palm. She gasped, and her eyes flew to his. “But . . . how?”
“I stole it,” he said plainly, “when Colonel Stubbs asked me to inspect Thomas’s trunk.” He’d tell her later that Thomas had wanted him to have it. It didn’t really matter, anyway; he hadn’t known this when he’d slipped it into his pocket.
Her eyes went from the tiny painting to his face and back again.
Edward touched her chin, raising her eyes to his. “I’ve never stolen anything before, you know.”
“No,” she said in an amazed murmur, “I can’t imagine you would.”
“But this—” He pressed the miniature into her palm. “This I could not do without.”
“It’s just a portrait.”
“Of the woman I love.”
“You love me,” she whispered, and he wondered how many times he would have to say it for her to believe him. “You love me.”
“Madly,” he admitted.