Page 45 of A Devil in Silk
“Whenever we’re together there’s trouble, Miss Dalton.” He leaned a fraction closer. “Though I’m not certain which of us causes it.”
She met his gaze. “Didn’t Miss Nightshade say misery follows you? Seems we have our answer.”
“Nightshade overlooked one important detail. Misery or not … I’m happiest when I’m causing trouble with you.”
Clara froze before pressing her hand over her heart as if to calm its frantic beat. “We should focus on the reason we’re here. You have a talent for distraction.”
Bentley inclined his head, accepting her retreat, though the soft tremble in her voice proved promising. He stepped into the bedchamber, the air stale, the silence almost disturbing.
The bedchamber was surprisingly stark.
No trinkets. No portraits. Not even a rug warming the floorboards. Just a narrow bed, a plain wardrobe, and a single candle stub on the windowsill.
Bentley noticed a valise on the floor and crouched to peer inside. “For a woman who works with the dead, she certainly lived like one. It looks like she was ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“Or she was hiding from her past.”
“Or trying to forget it,” he said.
He thought of the nursery at home, the room his mother begged him not to decorate. The fading wallpaper with painted swans. The tired rocking horse by the hearth. A locked shrine toa son trapped there. The irony was that despite inheriting the viscountcy, Bentley was still the spare.
Clara opened the wardrobe doors and looked inside. “I understand the feeling of wanting to disappear. And of ridding oneself of painful reminders.”
He hesitated. “Is that why you left Thorncroft after the accident?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, though didn’t look at him.
“You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened. Even well-trained horses get spooked at fences.” When she hung her head, he crossed the room and gently turned her to face him. “Was the horse lame? Did he not survive? Is that why you can’t bear to talk about the accident? You can tell me, Clara. Do you blame the horse for throwing?—”
“I lied.” The words burst out. “I didn’t fall off the horse.”
She slapped a hand over her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks like water breaching a dam.
While he stood battling confusion, she fell into him, her knees buckling beneath a burden she had carried for too long.
“It’s all right.” He caught her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly. “You don’t need to tell me. Keep your secrets if they’re easier to bear.”
She shook her head against his chest, a muffled sound escaping her lips, half sob, half protest. Her bonnet, slightly askew, pressed awkwardly against his chin, but he didn’t care.
“I’ve kept the truth buried for so long,” she whispered. “To speak the words aloud makes it real, and I cannot live with that memory.”
He eased back just enough to look at her, but not enough to let her go. “It’s real either way, Clara, but you’re not facing it alone.”
For a moment she said nothing, just clung to his coat as one would a mast, the only thing keeping her afloat while her tears threatened to drown her.
Then she spoke the words he’d never thought to hear.
Shocking words that landed like a low blow to the gut.
She looked up, her eye red-rimmed, her steady gaze failing to mask the pain. “My father did this to me.”
He recoiled, almost stumbled back. “Your father? Why on earth?—”
“It was an accident. I—I tried to stop him hitting Daniel, but as he swung back with the riding crop, he … he hit me instead.”
The image searing his mind was a thing of nightmares.
Heat surged through his veins, burning into a fury so fierce it threatened to consume him. If the man were alive, he would wake to find Bentley looming over his bed, knife pressed to his throat, close enough to draw blood.
