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Beatrice hurried to meet with him, not sure what she was going to say.

The entire family had come here so they could go to Northumberland in a few days for the banns to be read and then for her eventual wedding to Lord Lansdowne. But without talking to Adam after what had happened the night before, she wasn’t certain there would be any wedding to go to. Or at least, not in Northumberland.

Beatrice couldn’t very well avoid her father until tomorrow, so she just hoped she could be honest with her father without giving away too much.

She grimaced. Without explaining the entire situation, how did one say, I am not certain if I am going to marry Lansdowne, Papa. Some other gentleman might offer for me tonight. Oh, and by the way, he is going to come after dark and sneak into my bedroom without you knowing.

Her entire body heated with either shame, anticipation, or both as she entered the little library.

Her father paced the carpet, a tumbler of whisky in his hand, a frown between his brows. He raised his head as she entered, and his gaze softened.

“Come in, darling. Come in. Sit down.”

Beatrice sat in the chair by the hearth, and he settled across from her.

There was a slight pause, a brief respite as they both studied each other. Beatrice had not seen her father for a month prior to his arrival, and it seemed that he’d aged in that short time. A few more wrinkles creased his forehead and a few more gray hairs touched his temples. Was she the reason for his worries?

“You’ve grown into a beautiful and strong woman, my child,” he said with a croak in his voice. He sipped a bit of whisky and then placed the tumbler on the floor by his chair. “You look more and more like your mother every day. Except for those spectacles. Your terrible eyesight is from me.”

Beatrice let out a chuckle. “Oh, Papa. I miss her so much. I wish she could be here.”

Her father shook his head. “A part of me is glad that she isn’t here to see you get married. To see how I have failed you.”

Beatrice was taken aback. “You didn’t!”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I did.”

Beatrice vehemently shook her head. “You raised four girls all on your own. And I hope you can be proud of that… Proud of me.”

He took her hands in his and squeezed. “I am always proud of you, my bee. You took care of me when your mother died when I should have been the one to take care of you.”

“You loved her so much.”

He nodded. “I was a broken man, and I don’t know what I would have done without you or the girls. And now, to save us from ruin, you’re marrying a rich, old man.”

“It was my choice,” Beatrice asserted.

He cleared his throat and nodded. “My only hope is that you shall find a way to be happy in your situation. I know it’s not ideal to marry an old man. However, you might find solace in your children. Just like I did after your mother’s passing.”

He was so worried and apologetic that Beatrice wished she could have eased his mind. I can still be happy, Papa, she wished to say. There is this young man I love, and he’ll make it all better, you’ll see.

But she couldn’t tell him that. Not yet. She didn’t want to raise his hopes and then dash them if things went the wrong way.

“I wish I could have provided you with a dowry so you could have a man of your choosing.”

“Papa, it’s not your fault,” Beatrice started. “I don’t want you to ever feel guilt—”

“He should feel guilt.” Aunt Agnes said from the threshold. She walked into the room uninvited, shooting daggers with her gaze at her brother. “You should, Ernest. You could have found a way to provide this girl with a season in London. Dowry or no dowry, she would have found herself a better man.” She paused. “And despite your lack of efforts, she might have already done so.”

Mr. Fowley drew his brows over his eyes in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Aunt Agnes purposefully averted her gaze, and Beatrice let out a sigh. Her aunt just wanted to torture her brother because she thought he’d failed Beatrice. And perhaps in a way, he had. But Beatrice didn’t blame him one bit. And she never wanted him to worry about her. So, she finally decided to tell the truth. Or at least a part of the truth.

“There’s a gentleman who… has been courting me.” That’s one word for it…

“Courting? A gentleman?” Her father turned his head from Beatrice to her aunt and back again, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as he tried not to fly off the seat. “Who is this gentleman? Is he going to propose?”

“I don’t know, Papa—”