Murder at Marble House(109)
They were not coming home. Ever. Perhaps that is what this house had come to mean to me—a promise that they would be back someday. But this drove home the fact that they’d chosen Paris, and all that city had to offer, over their children. I shouldn’t have been surprised. But the wound cut deep all the same, so deep that for a moment I couldn’t breathe.
“You could have said something,” I said weakly. “Instead, you sneaked around, buying my home out from under me.” Why was I continuing to blame him? Somehow, I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out at him. Perhaps only because he was here, while my parents were not. “What about Brady? Shall he have his things removed immediately?”
Derrick released my wrist. “Brady can continue to occupy the top floor.”
“How accommodating of you.”
“Free of charge.”
I shook my head. “We won’t accept your charity, Derrick.”
“Emma, please.” He reached for me again, not to seize me, but to lay a placating hand on my shoulder. The weight of it infused me with warmth. I wanted to step away, but I couldn’t . . . simply couldn’t make my feet move. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Father’s financial agent heard about the house going up for sale and contacted me immediately. He knew I was thinking about investing here in Newport. It all happened very fast—”
“Have you not heard of the telephone, Derrick? It’s a wonderful invention, and a very fast means of communication. I have one in my home, in case you’d forgotten. I’m sure the Atlantic House Hotel has at least one at their guests’ disposal.”
His hand left my shoulder. His cheek gave a telltale twitch. “I thought it was the best solution—better, as I said, than letting your house go to strangers.”
“I intend to buy it back,” I announced, surprising myself, and him, judging by his expression. When he started to speak, I cut him off. “No, I don’t have the money—yet. But in time I will. Somehow. I’ll work harder, write more articles. Promise me, Derrick. Promise me that when I have the money, you will sell me my house back.”
He studied me a long time. Gradually the pain of guilt smoothed away and the familiar Derrick reappeared: patrician, confident, and just a little bit cocky. “You know, Emma, there’s a way for this house to be yours without your having to buy it.”
He smiled his dashing, heart-melting, infinitely infuriating grin, and everything inside me froze. I braced for his next words, certain I knew what they would be. A war of uncertainty waged inside of me, along with a wisp of anger. Would he actually dangle my childhood home in front of me as an enticement to marry him? Could he be so manipulative?
The words never came. He merely stood there, smiling, allowing his implied meaning to stew inside me. Villain.
I raised my chin. “I’m going home. Would you like a ride into town?”
“No, thank you. I need to speak with the tenant who’s moving. I’ll make my way back into town later.”
“Well, then, good day to you, sir, and enjoy your house. For now.” With that I strode past him, climbed back into my carriage, turned Barney about, and drove away, leaving Derrick standing in front of his new property, thinking whatever he would.
It was only once I’d turned the corner that my eyes began to burn and my surroundings blurred. Good gracious, I’d lost my house, my childhood home....
No, that wasn’t it, not entirely. I couldn’t have said exactly what it was. Mere emotional exhaustion, perhaps. Yet, by the time I reached the other end of Third Street, the breeze had dried my tears to sticky tracks against my cheeks and, in spite of everything, a little smile forced its way to my lips. I might have lost my house to a sneaky rogue who believed he could manipulate me . . .
But I hadn’t lost him—I hadn’t lost Derrick, however much I kept telling myself I needed to set him free.
No, he would be here, an on-and-off Newporter, and—
I put from my mind any further thoughts of what that would mean. I simply refused to consider it.
Derrick would be here, and for now . . .
That was enough.