It had been a long time since a young woman had looked at him like that, with not only interest and admiration but with trust.
Don’t trust me. I’m not who you think I am.
His life was as far from hers as any could be. The decadent life. The midnight life. Women’s cheeks heated and flushed from wine, not sunshine. Jests and innuendo instead of innocent musings. An invitation in a fine, sparkling pair of eyes.Follow me into the library. Press me up against the wall. Let’s take our pleasure while we’re young.
But Sandrine wasn’t a London lady eager for diversion. She was a country lady, a good girl. She went to church on Sunday, read novels to elderly ladies, raised funds for charities, and was being courted by the vicar.
She was completely forbidden for anything more than conversation.
They could gather herbs, walk along the beach, eat macaroons. He could admire her from a distance, but anything more would be cruel. He never toyed with the affection of innocents.
He could only hurt Miss Sandrine Oliver, because the only thing he’d ever be was bad. Theworld would have been a better place if he’d died instead of his mother. He didn’t deserve the love of someone like Sandrine.
Dane couldn’t control the actions of others, but he could control himself, and he’d decided that love wasn’t worth the pain. He’d never lose his heart. Never marry. Never sire children. It was too great a risk to take.
“Your face has gone cloudy, Mr. Smith. What are you thinking about?”
“My family. Those that are left. My father died a year ago.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it. Is that why you wear mourning garb?”
Mr. Smith stared broodingly at the garden wall. She’d noticed a darkness in him at times, an edge to his voice. He’d known suffering, she was sure of it. She laid a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“It’s not a secret. You already know that my mother died in childbirth.” He spoke to the stone wall, not to her. She heard unshed tears in his voice, suppressed grief.
“My father and my much older brother never missed an opportunity to cast all the blame on me. They were angry with me for robbing the world of her smile, of her generous and kind heart.”
Sandrine tilted her head, hoping he would meet her gaze. “You can’t be blamed for that.”
“Yet, it’s true that my birth caused her death. They have the right to resent me. I wear thesemourning colors to remind me of my dark origins. The light I stole from the world.”
“Oh, Danny.” She held his hand, threading her fingers through his. “You didn’t do it on purpose.”
“My brother has made it very clear that he will do everything in his power to sire sons so that there’s no danger of a wastrel like me carrying on the family name. He has two girls already, but his wife is with child at the moment, and they’re convinced that this one will be the male child he longs for. My brother’s line will flourish, while I will never marry. I’m the blighted branch of our family tree. My line dies with me.”
“Isn’t that rather an extreme decision to make?”
“My brother’s marriage was a society arrangement. I used to have foolish notions about falling in love, but I gave up all that nonsense long ago. Love means handing people the means to fatally wound you. I loved my older brother, and he used that devotion against me, time and time again. My friend, Deckard, left for war an engaged man, only to return and find that his fiancée had jilted him for his younger brother. He came home thinking that every scar, every sacrifice of war had been worth it to protect her. And then she married his brother and shattered his heart just as his body had been broken by combat.”
“What a tragic tale.” She was beginning to understand some of the desperation and pain she sensed under his teasing, confident exterior. This was the reason he raced curricles. He thought he didn’t deserve to live. Maybe he even sought death.
She laid her head on his shoulder, wanting to be closer to him, to give him comfort.
It was very wrong to be here alone with him in the secret garden—her mother would be outraged if she knew—but Sandrine couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty for following her heart and trusting this man. She’d only known him such a brief time, but she’d begun to believe that their chance encounter on the beach had been fated.
She’d been raised to be a good, obedient, faithful girl. And that meant marrying the pious Mr. Pilkington and living a safe, protected, ordinary existence.
Safe... and dull as mud.
Danny made life exciting and extraordinary. These sparks of attraction flaring along her skin where their hands met, the answering glow deep within her belly, the conflagration of joy in her heart: surely, he felt it too.
There was a connection between them, like the lavender that grew in both this garden and her own. Underground roots that touched, kissed, danced beneath the soil and sprang up in unexpected places, reaching for the sun.
She wanted to understand him more fully, to comfort him, and perhaps with time, make him see himself the way she saw him. It didn’t matter what he’d done. He was here now.
He washersnow.
There were shadows in his eyes and on his soul, but if he allowed her to care for him, to love him, he would change, he would want to start a family with her, to grow ever closer through the years.