Page 96

“Art…” She stepped closer. “I understand if you feel sad—”

“I don’t.” He cut her off.

She licked her lips. “Very well. What do you feel?”

He stared into his glass. “I feel a weight on my shoulders.”

“Could I help share the burden?”

He snorted. “You are the burden.”

Lydia’s eyes widened.

Art grimaced. “I didn’t mean it that way.” He set his glass down and stepped closer. “I just meant… with every passerby stopping to offer condolences, all I can think about is how I have to keep you safe. Hidden. And all I want is for you to be by my side.”

“Then let me,” she cried. “I’m not the one hiding. I’m willing to stand beside you—”

“And then what?” he snapped. “The scandal will consume us. I’m an impoverished lord now. I can offer you nothing but gossip and ruin. I’ve been selfish, and now I understand that I should have let you go.”

Lydia stilled.

Her mind reeled, but she forced herself to stay calm.

This was his grief speaking.

He had only just begun to feel the weight of his new responsibilities. And now, he was pushing her away.

But she would not budge.

“You wanted me to stay,” she said evenly. “You begged me not to leave you. And I promised I wouldn’t. What does my word mean if I change my mind the moment things get hard? If the wave is coming—then let it hit. I will stand beside you through it all.”

Art looked at her, his expression almost puzzled—as if he didn’t quite understand the meaning of her words.

That was fine.

She would repeat them. Day after day, moment after moment—until the time came when he believed them.

A knock on the door interrupted them.

Lydia exhaled a frustrated breath. Would they ever have a moment of peace in this damned house? But she supposed this was what she had signed up for when she agreed to marry a marquess.

A footman entered, carrying an envelope on a tray.

Art took it, reading the name aloud. “The Marquess of Rivendale.”

Lydia froze.

Rivendale. The name was familiar.

Right.

He was the marquess she had stolen a locket from a few years ago.

And then, a few days later, she had seen Art in his carriage with his sister—the night he had mistaken her for a ghost.

“He probably just wants to offer his condolences,” Lydia supposed. Rivendale was Art’s distant relative, after all. But he had always found it difficult to travel between locations, so sending a letter was his best option.

“It says urgent,” Art mumbled, striding toward the bedside table to retrieve a letter opener.