Page 8 of Ward

“Grace?” Mrs. Cline’s eyes widen when she spots me. I’m sure I look frantic, clutching a bottle of wine, tears streaming down my face and snot bubbling from my nose. She rushes to my side. “Are you all right, dear?”

“I’m... Yes. I’m okay.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand and try to smile.

“Are you sure?”

Not at all, but I’ve made enough of a scene already.

I hold up the Merlot. “I need to take this to Paolo.”

“I’ll take it,” she says. “Mr. O’Rourke is coming home early, so I need to set the table anyway. Shall I set you a place setting, or would you rather eat in your room?”

The thought of sitting down with Aidan, of talking to him, or simply being on the receiving end of his gaze, is surprisingly comforting. We’ve only shared one meal together, but I enjoyed our conversation so much. I ask Mrs. Cline to set me a place at the table and then run upstairs to clean myself up.

Gazing at myself in the mirror, I look like I’ve been dragged through hell.

I take a bath, soaking my aching muscles in lavender-scented bubbles for over an hour, and then put on a yellow dress. As I comb my hair, I realize how much I’m looking forward to seeing Aidan again.

I’ve missed him. It doesn’t make sense, considering how little we know each other, but I want to look nice for him. I want to look happy.

Of course, I’m beyond embarrassed when he brings up the incident at dinner.

“Mrs. Cline told me she found you trapped in the wine cellar this afternoon.” From the concerned look he’s giving me, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Cline was more descriptive than that.

“The door handle got stuck,” I say. “It scared me.”

He studies me over the rim of his wine glass as he takes a sip. I wonder if he’s drinking this afternoon’s Merlot. “Have you always been claustrophobic?”

I nibble at a French fry. “Not always.”

“Tell me,” he says. Not please, tell me, or, I hope you don’t mind me asking. Just...tell me. A command I’m under no obligation to obey.

And yet, even though I never talk about this stuff, I can’t say no.

I don’t want to say no to Aidan.

“My father had a really bad temper,” I tell him. “My mother got the worst of it, but he’d occasionally hit me, too.”

Aidan’s chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t look surprised. But then, I’m sure he has his own horror stories about growing up alongside my father.

“When I was little, my mother used to put me in my closet when she sensed him getting agitated. She’d tell me to wait inside until she came to get me.”

“How long did you have to wait?” he asks.

“A few hours. Sometimes more. I peed myself a few times waiting for her come get me. I couldn’t hold it.”

I can’t believe I just told him that. In a strange way, it feels good to talk about it, like I’m setting something heavy on the ground. I’ve been the only one carrying my parents’ secrets for so long. Now Aidan’s offering to bear them with me.

“She tried to leave him once,” I say. “He told her he’d sue for full custody of me. She’d had some problems with prescriptions in the past, and he threatened to use that against her in court. She didn’t want to risk me ending up with him, so she stayed. I went off to boarding school.”

Aidan’s eyes close as he smooths a hand over his jaw. When he opens them again, I almost gasp at the intensity in his bluer-than-blue gaze. He’s angry, but not at me. Probably at my father. But unlike my father, Aidan’s anger doesn’t scare me. He’s different from his stepbrother in all the ways that matter. He’s calm and measured. He’s kind. My best friend would probably say he seems stiff, but I find his stoicism reassuring. I can’t imagine him ever hitting a woman, or a child.

“I’m very sorry you had to endure that, Grace.” He hesitates for a second before he rests his hand over mine on the table.

Warmth fills my belly like a sip of something spiced. I smile to let him know I’m all right, really. Today’s incident was unsettling, but most of the time I have no trouble keeping my emotions in check. It’s how I’m able to practice ballet four hours a day, six days a week: while my feet are screaming, I grin and bear the ache.

“What was it you said last weekend?” I ask. “Don’t apologize for my father’s actions?”

His mouth lifts to one side. “Touché.”

Aidan withdraws his hand from mine to pick up his fork. As the heat from his palm dissipates, I find myself wishing he’d held on a moment longer.

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