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“But I could, if we start—” he stopped as she began shaking her head before he even finished speaking.

“Life had been s-so easy for you, had it not, my lord? I am sorry that Lionel died, and in so horrible a way. That was the first time I b-believe you were truly challenged. But you did not meet that challenge, my lord. You ran away. I do not f-fault you for your grief over your lost dreams, but I do fault you for believing your dreams were bigger or more important than anyone else’s.” Her voice had begun with a tinge of anger that faded into resigned sadness. He recognized that she was not attempting to punish him, yet the weight of her words struck him like a physical blow.

“I have behaved abominably,” James agreed. “But I am different now. “Mariah remained remarkably still, yet a pulse at her jaw betrayed a clear skepticism. To her, his words were probably a hollow refrain, devoid of anything she could trust. Hell, would he believe him if he had not had that dream? “Damnit, I know how weak those words sound. But I swear to you, I will earn your trust, Mariah. I will make this right.”

“My lord, you are not a monster, and I do not consider you one.” She looked at him sadly then glanced down at the notes before her. Funny, they did not appear much like ledgers. “I understand how it f-feels to have a dream crushed in one’s hand until it becomes a dust that never leaves one’s skin.”

Hell, that was deuced poetic. How did he not know this about her before? Suddenly, he wished to know everything. Right when she wished to have nothing to do with him.

Mariah shuffled the papers before her, then laid an elbow across them as if she wished to hide them from his view. As though he were a thief intent upon pilfering her very dreams.

“You never spared a thought for me before, m-my lord. Not after I wrote to you, not once in all these years. I cannot trust this sudden change. And I have too many people relying on me to spare any of myself on wishes. That part of me is long gone and buried.”

While the anguish he nursed had been rooted in a shallow self-pity, her indictment sparked a transformation that at last illuminated the old man’s words. I would do anything to spare her a second of pain. I would do anything so that she did not know the pain of a crushed dream.

Was this what she considered about others every day? Hell, it was painful. And exhausting. Still, he relished it. Wanting something for her more than himself. It made his chest swell and flutter. It made him feel⁠—

Alive. Hell, he felt alive, and he wished like hell he could share it with her. But she was, rightfully, more closed off to him than she had ever been.

“You say you wish to earn my trust?” she asked, steepling her fingers beneath her chin.

“Yes. I would do anything.” He stood before her, hands at his sides. He would not use charm or attraction to dissuade her. He would be better…for her.

“Then honor m-my wishes. Go to London. Leave me be.”

At her words, James drew an uneven breath. Yes, he had sworn to himself he would not use pretty words to try to change her mind, yet having his own hopes crushed so thoroughly was both humbling and heartbreaking. Swallowing, he nodded, and added before he turned to leave. “As you wish.”

“J-James?” At her voice, he swiveled with such frantic haste that he had to anchor his frame against the weather mahogany bedpost. “There is one thing you can do. Not for me. But for yourself.”

“Anything.”

Her eyes were warm and kind, like a calm lake he could drown in. “Make peace with your brother. He is a g-good man and a good brother.” Exhaling, she turned back to her stack of papers.

James was dismissed. He stood for a moment, just to bask in her presence, the way she slightly bit her lip as she wrote. The unique, crisp scent of flax and fresh mint that clung to her filled his senses. While he would do anything in his power to earn her trust and maybe someday her heart, if she wished for him to leave for now, so be it. He would honor her wishes.

“As you wish.”

James had left the previous day. As she had asked him to. For the first time that Mariah could remember, he was honoring her wishes.

Which was what she wanted.

The heat of that kiss danced on her lips and she bit her lower lip to douse the flames. She did not resent her husband, but she could not trust him, she reminded herself. Once, the admission that he was falling in love with her would have kindled poetry in her soul. Yet the Mariah of today stood by what she had said. She did not believe he truly knew her.

In fairness, few did.

She doubted her father was aware of what lived in her heart and mind.

Mariah dropped her steel-tipped pen at that thought. A profound sense of isolation washed over her as her gaze drifted to the parchment, where the intricate dance of Gaeilge and English stood in testament to her dreams.

She reached for the blotting paper as she sprinkled sand across her parchment, regret spilling across her chest like the smudged ink before her.

She wished she had more time. More time to write. To enjoy life. Time and funds to revive the assembly hall. She wished she could believe in James. Perhaps have a true marriage.

But wishes had never done anything for her. One did not have the luxury of wishes in Barnsley. Not the Irish daughter of a linen worker.

“Captain Reed has come to call, my lady.” the elderly butler’s soft voice interrupted her self-indulgent thoughts. Gathering herself and her papers. Mariah smiled as she looked up. She had it on good authority that fine ladies in London did not smile at servants. But how could she not smile at Ellis, who had kept her company in this drafty estate for so long?

“Please show him to the drawing room, Ellis.” She rose, her eyes lingering on her unfinished play before she went to the drawing room. While the room was quite formal for a visit to a home he had grown up in, Mariah did not wish for anyone to whisper of impropriety. Harrison already received enough stares as it was. She would not allow her dearest friend to be an object of ridicule.