“Are you crying?” He strode to her side, lifting her glasses so he could see the moisture gathering on her lower lashes. “Because of me?”
“No.”
“Then why?” He swept a thumb under her eyes and examined the liquid on the leather of his gloves. “Unless you are pretending not to be upset, which would be a foolish lie when the evidence is working against you so definitively.”
A half-smile caught her lips, and she turned, as though to hide her face. “Stop it. I’m supposed to be angry at you.”
“If I am not the reason, what is?” Belatedly, he remembered breakfast that morning. In his anger, he had forgotten that she had received more than one letter—and the other had been from her father.
No one had ever told him how complicated it was being a husband. For her to confide in him, he must encourage her to trust him. All while denying her requests and protecting the interests of his sister—his sister, whom he would punish for having shut them in here like this.
He pinched his nose. What was he to say?
Finally, he settled for, “I’m sorry, Chris. It was never my intention to upset you.”
“You give yourself too much credit,” she said, but her voice was thick, and he caught the way she subtly wiped at her eyes before turning back around to face him. “I read my father’s letter.”
Just as Hugh had thought. This new coal in his gut was anger, and he never thought he would be fully free of it. “What did it contain?”
“Nothing of note,” she said bitterly. At the sight of her distress, he was unable to prevent himself from taking her hand in both of his. For the first time, he wished he were not wearing gloves so he could feel her skin to skin.
“Tell me,” he murmured.
“I thought you were angry with me.”
“I was angry at—” Himself, he realized. At having wanted something more from her than she was prepared to give. Angry that she had prioritized her friend over his sister. Angry at the world for how easily it rejected those within it. “I’m sorry.”
“My father expressed his pleasure at my having made such an advantageous match,” she said, her voice wooden, as though she were reciting from a script. “He wrote to inform me that although his debts are paid, his circumstances are worse than ever, and that he requires money in order to maintain his standard of living. As summer draws to an end, he will require coal money, and of course, money for servants.” Her gaze flicked to his, then away. “He is bedridden, you see.”
Hugh did see. Hugh saw very clearly. This man, who did not deserve the love of such a woman, thought to take advantage of his daughter once again, instead of working to allow his land to maintain him, as any member of the gentry ought.
He was a viscount, for God’s sake. The estate was not nearly as vast as Hugh’s own, but it was more than sufficient to support a modest lifestyle—perhaps even a moderately extravagant one—if properly managed.
Evidently, Lord Barnsley had no intention of managing anything—save his daughter.
“Hugh,” Chris said, her face tipped back to his, a frown between her brows now. “There is no use in getting angry at him. He would never understand any of it.”
“I will not allow you to send any money to him,” he said. “You have pin money, of course, but its only condition is that you spend it on yourself.”
She shook her head. “I have no wish to spend it on him.” Sadness flooded her eyes, just for a second. “The moment hesold me into marriage, however fortunate I may have been in my husband, I stopped thinking of him as my father.”
Heat radiated through his chest at the compliment, and he rubbed at the fluttering sensation. “As far as I’m concerned, he relinquished the title long before that.” How to put this right? No wonder she clung so desperately to that foolish friend when she had known no love in her life. He reached a thumb to where a tear quivered at the corner of her eye. “Give me the word, and I’ll travel there myself to give him a piece of my mind,” he said quietly. “Just give me the word, Chris.”
“But traveling is uncomfortable for you. And Yorkshire is so far away.”
True, the journey would be unpleasant. But he had faced a great deal of unpleasant things in his life, and the prospect of confronting her father would prove so satisfying that it would be worth the pain.
“Give me the word,” he repeated.
“Hugh.” She cupped his face in her hands, and he suppressed the shudder at having her hands against his scarred skin. But there was no sign of disgust on her face. “He is ill, likely with very little time left. Let him die and pass from this world. I wouldn’t have you wasting your time and energy trying to make him see something he won’t. He will never regret the way he treated me because it brought him some small comfort at the time. He never had any affection for me.”
His hands found her waist without meaning to. She was so small in his hands, so fragile, as though he could snap her like a twig. How could he eradicate the sorrow from her expression? It seemed a crime that she had never experienced affection the way she ought.
“He had more than he ever deserved in his hands,” he said, the words coming too fast. “If I could go back and erase all that happened to you, I would.”
She placed her finger against his lips. “I would never choose that.”
His anger was impotent inside him. Since the fire, there had been so many injuries he had been unable to fix. So many cruelties committed to the people for whom he was responsible, and he had been unable to repair those, either. He was unable to repair his own damned body.