The sharp pain lodged in her chest moved to her throat. “You can’t mean that. If it transpires that Iamthe daughter of some nobody, then surely it calls our union into question.”
“By what means?”
“Because I am not who you believed me to be.” And he was a duke. Moreover, his entire world revolved around Amelia. If his wife did not know who her sire was, there was a scandal for the taking—one that would reflect poorly on Amelia if it ever got out.
“You are ever what I believed you to be,” he said gently. “Besides, what does it matter? Your father claimed you as his own; what happened privately is neither here nor there. Plenty of bastard children have inherited over the years. How is this any different?”
“Amelia—”
“She doesn’t have to know. No one has to know.”
“You don’t know my father if you think he will let this lie. He will be writing letters to all his acquaintances as we speak, informing them of my lack of pedigree.”
Hugh growled in annoyance, the sound so very animalistic that she frowned at him. “Then let him try. You can be sure he won’t succeed.”
“But, Hugh—”
“What? Have you forgotten that we are husband and wife?” He caught her hand, bringing it to his scarred cheek. “I wish I had been there with you.”
She did her best to hold on to her composure. All her life, she had prided herself on her control—sometimes it felt as though itwere the only thing that stood between her and misery. If she’d ever let her father wound her too deeply, at least she’d let no one see. When the other girls at St. Mary’s had teased her for her needlework or singing or lack of womanly accomplishments or physical beauty, she had closed off the part of herself that had cared.
But with Hugh, she was split wide.
He had forced himself into her heart, and so when he wielded the axe, he was able to render her utterly in two.
From him, there could be no hiding.
He caught her tears as they slid down her cheeks, and a choked sob left her lips.
“Chris,” he murmured. “Christiana. Don’t cry.”
“I don’t understand,” she forced through a thick throat. “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“I thought you would send me away.” She shook her head, but he caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. “We agreed,” she whispered. “When we married, we agreed that would be our arrangement, and I thought you had changed your mind about waiting until after Amelia married.” Another thought occurred to her. “WhyisAmelia here?”
In answer, he sat on the bed, the sad mattress sagging somewhat, and pulled her down on his lap. It was so reminiscent of the way she had curled up on him the day she had discovered her father had asked for her—but instead of stiffening under her, unwilling to show affection, Hugh wrapped his arms around her.
“She brought me the portrait you used to hire Mrs. Quince,” he said once she was firmly wrapped up in him. When she attempted to escape, he tightened his grip. “And she helped show me what a fool I have been.”
Christiana stared at him, her heart rocketing into her mouth. “You saw?”
“I saw. And, for a time, I was angry.”
She knew she ought to have thrown that stupid portrait away once it had completed its purpose. But she had grown so oddly fond of it.
A mistake, and one she paid for now.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.” He touched her face. “Amelia tells me you kept it because you liked it. Is that true?”
“You see the scars, and I see the whole.” She looked at his burned cheek, now on display. “Yes, I loved it. I never intended for you to see.”
“I know that.” He sighed, long and heavy. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me the most. The fire did not strip me of my pride, but it did teach me shame, and I’ve been living shackled by it all this time. Will you forgive me?” He swiped his thumb gently across her cheek, though it was dry now. Just like that, he had taken her tears.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, reaching for him. He met her gladly, kissing her with all the relief of a thirsty man given water. He drank her in until she was dizzy with it, until his sweetness softened the sting of her father’s words. His hands moved down her body, as though reminding himself of all her curves and lines. As though she were a map he was retracing so he might never lose his way from her again.