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  “You see,” he said uncomfortably, reaching up to pull on his cravat, “I have learned something about you that I feel is incompatible with what I require in a wife.”

  Oh no. There were only two things that could make Henry say such a thing. The first was that he’d somehow learned about her true heritage. The second was that he’d found out about her writing.

  Either one was disastrous.

  “What’s that?” Her voice was a strangled whisper.

  “You…” He pressed his lips together until they were so thin they seemed to sink into his mouth. “You have written novels.”

  It was like someone wrapped a cord around her windpipe. She couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth but no words would emerge from her strangled throat.

  His expression grew hard. Even angry, and she’d never seen Henry angry. She could feel the blood draining from her face and the strength leaving her leg muscles, making her knees wobble. Somehow, someway, she found the strength to remain standing.

  “You’ve been writing disgraceful novels. Romantic”—he said the word with a disgusted sneer—“shocking, scandalous drivel that is an embarrassment to your family—indeed, to me.”

  Spots swarmed her vision. He was right, of course, which was why she kept her writing a secret. She kept the secret highly guarded—even her editor didn’t know her real identity. Only two people knew. Her brother Sam, who was the most discreet person she knew—he wouldn’t tell a soul, probably not even under penalty of death.

  The other person who knew was Camden McLeod.

  Cam had told Henry about her stories. She’d trusted him—hadn’t even worried once about the disastrous power he held over her—since he’d left her room three mornings ago.

  He’d betrayed her.

  She staggered backward, her arm flailing to find something she could lean on, because her legs could no longer support her. She came in contact with one of the pillars and sagged heavily against it.

  “Do you deny this allegation?”

  She didn’t answer. All she could see was the utter disgust in his expression. That would be how Trent and Sarah would look at her when they found out. After all they’d done for her, they would be so disappointed…

  After a moment of silence, he pulled a thin book from his coat.

  “Well, then. Does this look familiar, my lady?”

  It did. She could see the title from here. One Night with an Earl, her most recent published story.

  Henry opened the book to a random page and read aloud. “ ‘He kissed her. Hard, bluntly, thoroughly.’ ” He was turning red in the face, each word now coming out with bluster. “Good God!” He slammed the book shut and threw it to the floor as if it were a hot coal that had burned his hand to the bone. It landed at her feet.

  He looked at her, for the first time. “What kind of woman are you?”

  A living, warm-blooded one, she wanted to say. But what good would that do? Henry didn’t want a living, warm-blooded woman. He wanted a duke’s daughter. He wanted a dowry. He wanted someone who would meekly stand by his side and bear his children and refrain from embarrassing him.

  The biggest secret of all, the one that her family members all held close to their chests in hopes of protecting her, was that she wasn’t even a duke’s daughter. She was the product of the duchess and her gypsy paramour. She was only a half-sister to the Duke of Trent, and not through the duke’s line.

  What would Henry say if he knew all that?

  She’d planned to marry him under false pretenses. What on earth had she been thinking? Looking at him now, she hated herself for pretending she was someone she was not, for trying to live a life she wasn’t meant to lead.

  She sank to her bottom on the floor, sliding down the pillar. She buried her face in her hands. She was a stupid, stupid girl.

  He stood over her. Not the Henry she knew, who was so kind and solicitous. This Henry was an angry, callous man. A man who despised her for the sin of being who she was.

  “I will leave it to you to inform your family,” he said coldly.

  She looked up from her hands, knowing tears streaked her face, but who cared? “Inform them?” she asked shakily.

  “That we are no longer engaged,” he clipped out.

  That suddenly seemed insignificant compared to what he might tell them. What he could now tell the world, and would, if she knew him. Surely he’d be interrogated about the reasons surrounding the dissolution of their engagement. There was no reason for him to lie. In fact, his reasoning would reveal her as the guilty party. His excellent reputation would remain intact.

  “What about…about…?”

  “About your perverse activities?” He made a noise that sounded like he was spitting. “Believe me, I would be happy to discuss this with your brother—in fact, I would be happy to reveal your disgusting hobby to the world. But I won’t. Your secret is safe.”

  “Why?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “What?” How could it be none of her concern?

  “Tell them you changed your mind. I don’t care what excuse you use, as long as it doesn’t portray me in a negative light.” He hovered over her. “If you slander me in any way, the truth will be revealed. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.” But why wasn’t he shouting the truth from the rooftops? It made no sense.

  Glancing at him, she found him looking down at her with that same expression of disgust. “Very well. I shall take my leave, then.”

  She nodded.

  He stepped to the door, then turned back to her. “I am very disappointed to learn this about you, Esme. I’ve known you your whole life and thought you were a better woman than this. I’m thankful this truth about you was revealed before it was too late. This is just proof that women need a tight rein, or they will abuse their freedoms. I will find a wife, and trust me, she will be biddable and compliant, not someone who will abuse her freedoms to engage in despicable practices.”

  She stared at him. What would he have done—what would she have done?—if he’d discovered her secret after they were married? Good Lord, she couldn’t even imagine.

  He swiveled and went out the door, closing it with a snap behind him.

  Esme didn’t move for several minutes, her heart racing, her scrambled mind trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  She was no longer engaged to marry Henry Whitworth.

  She needed to invent an explanation for the end of her engagement.

  The last thing on earth she wanted to do was hurt her family. But could she continue to lie to them?

  Cam had betrayed her. He had learned her second-biggest secret; he’d told it to her fiancé.

  Henry knew about her writing but didn’t intend to tell anyone about it. Why?

  She was no longer engaged to marry. She was…free.

  Why would she think of herself that way? She should be brokenhearted, but she wasn’t. She was confused and so, so angry. Not with Henry. With Cam, for not being the man she thought he was.

  He’d been right, though. She should be brokenhearted, devastated, miserable right now. Her fiancé had just broken off their engagement. But she wasn’t. Instead, it felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  She’d been lying to herself since the day she’d agreed to marry Henry. She’d never loved him. She’d never wanted to be his wife. His rejection had broken the mask over the truth, and she could see it clearly now. Cam—horrible traitor that he was—had been right. She never would have been happy with Henry Whitworth.

  This was proof that she shouldn’t trust herself in matters of the heart. She’d truly convinced herself over the past several months that being Henry’s wife was what she wanted.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She would never be Mrs. Henry Whitworth. Now she needed to come up with a story as to the reason why.

  Chapter 14

  A half an hour later, Esme was ready. Anger had fortified her, steeled her bo
nes, grown a thick shield over her heart. She was going to speak with her brother and sister-in-law. Then she was going to find Camden McLeod and tell him exactly what she thought of him.

  She trudged upstairs to the nursery, where she found Sarah and Trent, who was holding a sleeping Theo on his shoulder while he talked to his wife in low tones. Lukas and the governess were nowhere to be seen.

  Sarah smiled at her and murmured, “What did Mr. Whitworth want?”

  Esme blew out a breath through pursed lips. She could tell them here, now…but Trent might start yelling, and she didn’t want to wake her nephew. “Can we talk about it downstairs?”

  “Of course,” her brother said. “I’ll put him down and join the two of you in the drawing room.”

  Esme nodded, swiveled, and returned to the drawing room, walking like an automaton with Sarah beside her, the silence heavy with what needed to be said.

  Trent joined them a few moments later. Esme had already poured herself a glass of claret for fortification and had drunk half of it. But perhaps she didn’t really need it. She was feeling strong. Maybe her anger at Cam had fortified her enough.

  “What’s wrong?” Sarah asked, her brows knitted together as Trent sat beside her on one of the gilded green velvet sofas. Esme sat on the matching sofa across from them, though she didn’t think she’d be able to sit for long.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “What? Why?” Sarah asked. Trent just frowned.

  She looked into the red liquid in her glass, then back up at her brother and sister-in-law. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Whitworth and I are no longer engaged.”

  Trent straightened, his blue eyes—so different from her dark brown ones—suddenly seeming hyperfocused on her. “What happened?”

  “He decided we wouldn’t be compatible.” Usually she would have withered at speaking such a sentence. But now she added, “Honestly, he was right.”

  He had been right. She’d been the one lying to herself about their compatibility.

  Both Trent and Sarah stared at her, mouths agape.

  “I thought you were happy with the match,” Sarah murmured.

  “Yes, I thought I was, too. But it was a mistake from the beginning. I only realized this today—just now.”

  Trent shook his head. “It’s not like Whitworth to renege on something of this magnitude. He wouldn’t do so without good reason. There has to be more.” He leaned forward, deep furrows of worry carved into his forehead. “It wasn’t about the identity of your father, was it?”

  Esme swallowed hard. “You’re right, there is more. But no, evidently he knows nothing about the real identity of my father.”

  They looked at her expectantly. Sarah shifted on the sofa—her belly had grown larger over the past week and she now constantly needed to adjust herself to find more comfortable positions.

  “He discovered something about me. Something I have been keeping a secret for a long time now. Something only Sam knows.” She didn’t want to talk to them about Cam’s knowledge of her secret—not right now. She’d tell them later, if it became necessary.

  “And this secret…it is serious enough to end an engagement?” Trent asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Sarah and Trent exchanged a glance. When they returned their gazes to her, they looked wary. “Is it something we should know, Esme?” Sarah asked.

  Esme sighed. “I honestly don’t know, Sarah. I didn’t tell you at first because I knew you wouldn’t approve. Then I knew you’d be embarrassed, and God knows, I have already been a source of embarrassment for you far too many times.”

  “Nonsense,” Trent muttered.

  “And then…” Esme shook her head. “Oh, I just didn’t want to disappoint you. Either of you.”

  Sarah rose awkwardly from the sofa, Trent hurrying to help her up, and went to Esme. She sat beside her and wrapped her arms around her. “Esme,” she said quietly, “we love you. We’re proud of you. You seem to think you’re an embarrassment and a disappointment, but you’ve never been either.”

  Trent remained standing. “She’s right. You’ve always been too hard on yourself.”

  “Well”—Esme’s voice shook—“Henry believes I’d be a disappointment and an embarrassment if we were to marry.”

  Trent frowned. “Whitworth’s always been a bit of a prig. And sometimes he can be rather hypocritical about it.”

  Both Esme and Sarah looked at Trent in surprise. He shrugged. “If the man doesn’t think my sister equal to the task of being his wife, then he no longer deserves my respect.”

  Lord, how she loved her brother. Esme smiled despite herself, then wondered at her feelings. How quickly she could go from deeply admiring someone to nearly despising him. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Now,” Trent said, “what is this secret?”

  “I’m truly not sure you want to know,” Esme said.

  Trent folded his arms. “I must know,” he said quietly. “You live in my house, and I need to know what’s going on here.”

  Esme nodded. She took a swallow of her claret. She’d prepared for this. When she’d been sitting alone earlier, she’d decided that she was done pretending. She wouldn’t blatantly lie to her brother and Sarah about the dissolution of her engagement. She didn’t want to tell the truth, either. But she would, if that was what Trent and Sarah wanted. And if they wanted her to give up her writing…well, then, that was exactly what she’d do. At least until such time as she could claim her earnings and live on her own. Then she’d make her own way. Until that time, she lived under Trent’s roof and would do as he said.

  “I…have a profession, you see,” she said. “I…I am a lady novelist.”

  They both stared blankly at her, as if they didn’t understand what she was saying.

  “I write stories,” she said. Then she clarified. “Stories of men and women finding everlasting love.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. Trent’s mouth worked, but no words emerged.

  “My stories have been published,” she said, and a touch of pride crept into her tone. “Three of them. I’m writing the fourth as we speak.”

  “You’re…a writer?” Sarah breathed.

  Esme nodded. “Yes. I’m a writer.” It was the first time she’d ever said that aloud, and she liked—no, loved—the sound of it. She was a writer.

  Suddenly it seemed ridiculous that she should be ashamed of it. She should be proud. It had taken a great deal of hard work, study, and failed attempts for her to get to the point of publishing three novels.

  “Oh, Esme.”

  “I’m sorry if it disappoints you.” She spoke directly to Trent. “I know it’s not an acceptable activity for a duke’s sister. But writing…” She shook her head. “I am so awkward and awful in society. When I’m writing, I can be whoever I wish to be. I can be awkward or polished, ugly or beautiful, strong or weak, experienced or innocent.”

  “That makes sense,” Sarah murmured.

  “But if you order me to stop writing,” Esme told Trent, “I will. I won’t go against your wishes.” It hurt her to say those words, true as they were.

  “You said your books have been published?” Trent asked. “Can I read them?”

  Esme gulped. “No, Trent. Please don’t.”

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Because…they are…they are very intimate.” Oh Lord, her cheeks were ablaze.

  Trent frowned. “But…How do you…? How can you…?”

  Oh dear. “I’m not experienced in such matters,” she said. Had she ever felt so uncomfortable? She didn’t think so. “I just write about them. From my imagination.”

  Ugh, that didn’t sound quite right. But she couldn’t take the words back.

  “I see.” Trent didn’t seem able to look her in the eye—he was as uncomfortable as she was. “Clearly you use another name in these writings?”

  She nodded. “I do. No one has discovered my true identity…until now.” Thanks to Camden McLeod.
r />   “I see,” Trent said.

  “Henry promised he wouldn’t tell a soul, as long as I never besmirched his name.”

  Trent nodded thoughtfully.

  “Esme, you look terrified,” Sarah said. “Don’t be. Your brother isn’t going to ask you to stop writing. Clearly it is an activity that brings you happiness. We wouldn’t take such a thing away from you.” She looked up at her husband. “Would we, Simon?”

  Trent’s brow furrowed. “It’s a complicated issue. I need to think it through.”

  Well, Esme had already thought it through. “If the truth was widely discovered, it would bring scandal yet again upon our house,” she said quietly. “You know that’s the last thing I want to do.”

  “But the deed is already done. You’ve written three books, and these books have been published,” Trent said.

  Esme nodded. “Yes.”

  “If you write more, it wouldn’t make much of a difference,” he said. “Your work is already in the world.”

  “It is. I suppose the only way it would be more dangerous to our family would be if one of my books suddenly became very popular. But I don’t see that happening, really. My audience is somewhat small.”

  Trent nodded.

  “If you suddenly became famous, I’d only be more proud of you than I already am,” Sarah proclaimed.

  Esme turned to her sister-in-law. “Are you sure? If the truth was discovered, people would mock me—mock us. We’d be fodder for horrible gossip, yet again.”

  “I’m proud that you’re a published author,” Sarah said stubbornly. “That is nothing to sneer at. It is not easy to find a publisher who finds your work worthy of printing. You must be very talented. And I intend to read all three of your books, no matter how much you might blush.”

  “Oh dear,” Esme murmured.

  “Esme,” Trent said, “you seem to think that after all the scandal our family has suffered, I am susceptible to it. But I’m not. I’ve become hardened to it to the point of immunity.”

  Sarah smiled lovingly at her husband. “And after all the scandal and gossip about us, your reputation is stronger than ever. I think you secretly wish for more scandal just to fortify your status as a paragon.”