“From what I have observed, you haven’t a need for complaint.”
“Haven’t I? Do you think I am without feelings?” His lip curled. “Like you?”
“What are you saying, Bernard?”
“I am saying I am done with being one of your playthings. Done with you. “
“Just now, because you didn’t like my latest story, you’re giving me a congè?”
“This didn’t just happen this moment.” His expression eased. No, closed was a more apt term. “Ratherford told me if I didn’t either wed you or let you go, he was going to call me out.”
“But why? What does it matter to him?”
“An authoress must be beyond reproach, especially if she is writing for children. Consider it a compliment, sweeting. He considers you a very valuable asset.”
“Wait, you knew you would say goodbye today? Before…?” She had to stop and pant a moment, so great was the outrage. “Then what was this afternoon, an extended farewell?”
“Call it that if you like.” He looked off to the side, as though he must avoid her gaze. “You know my weakness in regards to your physical attributes.”
He meant her bosom. He’d told her often enough that he’d seen none to compare. Renewed heat boiled through her.
He laughed softly. “From appearances, one suspects you to be a woman with strong and deep passions. The sad truth is that you have merely wanted me to refine your innate talents and make a writer from a scribbler.”
Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Pure fear that he spoke the truth. That she was nothing inside. Nothing. The constant ache inside her swelled into agony. The hurt was bone deep. How could she hurt so deeply inside, all the time, unceasing, and yet he said she felt nothing? He wasn’t the first to say that. Only the latest.
Harsh words rose to her lips. The only protection she knew. “I like the rent money, too, Bernard.”
He laughed again, the sound cold, empty.
It cut into her like shards of ice.
“I had hoped for so much. You were my perfect ideal of feminine attractiveness. You can spin your stories and write quite well. However, you could do so much more if only you weren’t so damned closed off to others. To life itself. You want to stay cloistered here. You want to hide. I don’t want a wife who wants to hide. I want someone who will strive to be the best she can be. I want someone who will share life with me.”
A series of jarringly hard heartbeats slammed her chest. Marriage? The shock left her reeling. He was leagues above her, in social station, prospects, and talent. “Bernard, please, we never spoke of matri—”
He turned back to her. His eyes were shiny.
As though an iron fist had closed over her throat, her words cut off. She had shaken her head and looked away.
“You broke my heart.” His words had fallen softly in the wake of his boots on the wooden floor planks.
* * * *
“You broke my heart.”
She bolted to her feet and began to pace. It did no good. The words still echoed in her head, just as they had done every quiet moment and occasional sleepless night since Bernard had walked out. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. “No, no, I never promised you anything but what was agreed upon! Your money and my willingness in bed. I never promised to love you!”
“Thérèse?” The deep, hoarse voice carried a note of desperation. “Thérèse!”
She rushed to lean over the bed. She laid a hand on David’s forehead.
It was warm, but the fever had ebbed. Her energy drained, she dropped to sit on the bedside like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
“Thérèse.” His voice cracked. It resounded in her chest like a vise closing over her heart.
“Yes, I am here.” She heard the weariness in her voice.
He opened his eyes and seemed to stare through her. He grasped her hand with a surprisingly tight grip. “You mustn’t run from me again.”
His raspy tone carried such desperation. The vise in her chest tightened.
“I won’t.” What else could she say?
He squeezed her hand relentlessly, threatening to crush her bones. “You must promise.”
His pain resonated in every part of her. Burning emotion pressed on her throat so hard, she could barely breathe. “Rest, David.”
Her strangled voice sounded like a stranger’s.
Still holding on as though his life depended on it, he gave her hand a shake. “Promise.”
This time his tone held the steely determination of a command. And that, even more than before, seemed to speak of his desperation.
It was so easy to say, “Of course I promise.”