Chapter Eighteen

H ope sat in front of the mirror, watching her reflection with a soft gaze as Maddie brushed her hair, teasing the tangles out of her curls with a look of pained apology. She had retired early, excusing herself not long after dinner and retreating to her bedchamber to wash and to change for bed. After the day's events, she doubted she would sleep easily, but at least the night-time hours alone would give her time to think. And goodness, did she need to think.

She understood now that Samuel's lie had been born of some painful, unspoken experience and not simply a desire to impress her or to make her feel safe. She wondered about the nature of that experience, about who would look at a gentleman who was so kind, so caring, so jovial, so undeniably handsome and draw the conclusion that he was not good enough. Whoever they were, they were wrong. If she could muster the courage, Hope would tell him so.

Courage. That was something she was going to need in abundance, if she was going to also admit the truth about herself. If she was going to find the words to explain why she'd deceived him, not only when she'd first arrived at Hayton but for all the weeks since. She had to hope that he would understand, that he could forgive her. At the same time, she had to acknowledge that telling the truth was the right thing to do, even if he could not. She owed him that much for his protection, for his generosity. For the affection he clearly had for her. She could not countenance allowing that affection to be directed towards a woman who did not exist for a moment longer. She cared about him too deeply to do that.

Nonetheless, the very real prospect of losing that affection, of watching it disappear along with the character of the enigmatic heiress which she'd inhabited for so many weeks was terrifying.

‘I suppose it's all been a lot to take in,' Maddie said, meeting Hope's eye in the mirror and no doubt noting the pensive expression on her face. ‘I do hope you're not too cross with Mr Liddell. He isn't a bad sort, I promise you.'

Hope acknowledged the remark with a tight smile. Hayton's servants had now been released from the obligation to keep up their caretaker master's pretence and, unsurprisingly, Maddie seemed relieved. Hope had rebuffed her attempts at an apology earlier, insisting that she had nothing to apologise for when all she'd been doing was following orders.

‘I just wish I knew why he told you that he was the baronet,' Maddie continued to muse as she began to plait Hope's hair. ‘It's not like he's ever appeared envious of his brother for inheriting all of this. No, I'd say he's always seemed quite content to be his own man, and his brother's heir, of course. Although I dare say he won't be the heir for much longer, now that Sir Isaac has wed again.'

‘Again?' Hope asked, giving the maid a quizzical look. She knew that the true master of Hayton Hall was travelling with his bride, but she did not know that this recent elopement was not the baronet's first trip down the aisle.

Maddie nodded. ‘That's right. Oh, my mistress, God rest her soul, was such a wonderful lady. So beautiful and so elegant. I remember the first time I saw her, I thought she looked like a princess. How I loved to help her dress! She had the best taste in gowns, although I don't need to tell you that, do I?' Maddie added, grinning at her.

‘What do you mean by that?' Hope asked, furrowing her brow.

Hope watched as the maid's smile slipped from her face, her eyes widening in horror as realisation dawned.

‘Forgive me,' she said quietly. ‘I should not have said that. I just assumed that Mr Liddell had told you everything.'

Hope stared at Maddie's reflection, following her gaze as it slowly crept towards the mirror image behind them. When her eyes came to rest upon the bed, and the cream dress which lay discarded upon it, the penny finally dropped. The wardrobe he'd so easily produced for her—of course. He'd lied about that too.

‘There was never a cousin, was there?' Hope asked quietly. ‘There was never a trousseau, or a set of dresses left behind.'

Maddie shook her head sadly. ‘I hope now you understand my reluctance to alter them for you,' she replied in little more than a whisper.

‘Of course,' Hope replied grimly as she turned around and took her by the hand. ‘You were being loyal to your mistress. You didn't decide to offer me her dresses—Mr Liddell did. And besides, for all your reluctance, you did take up a few of them for me.'

‘Well, of course—you needed something proper to wear,' she said, blinking back her tears. ‘And of course you should have worn them. But I think Mr Liddell ought to have told you who they'd belonged to.'

Hope bit her lip, the heat of her own tears stinging as they threatened to fall. What a fool she was! A gullible, thoroughly humiliated fool. To think she'd been sitting there, wanting to trust Samuel again, recognising that he'd been hurt and wanting to understand the painful experience which had led him to make such an error of judgement in deceiving her. To think she'd been agonising over going to him and confessing all, matching his honesty with her own, when all along he was still lying to her!

And why lie about the dresses? What possible reason could he have for spinning her a yarn about a cousin and letting her put on a dead woman's clothes without her knowledge? Was he laughing at her, or could he simply not help himself? Perhaps she really had misjudged him. Perhaps he was not the decent gentleman she'd believed him to be, after all.

Perhaps she was finally seeing the real Samuel Liddell. A serial liar.

Hope leapt out of her seat and hurried towards the door. ‘Excuse me, Maddie,' she said. ‘I think I need to have a word with Mr Liddell.'

‘But...but he's retired for the night. And you're only wearing your shift!' Maddie called after her, aghast.

Hope, however, was not listening. She was already halfway along the hallway and hurrying towards a heavy oak door, beyond which lay the bedchamber of Hayton Hall's pretend baronet.

The sight of Hope standing in his doorway, feet bare, wearing only a shift, made Samuel sit bolt upright in bed. He blinked—once, then twice—convinced he must be dreaming. Convinced that he must have fallen asleep over the book he'd been trying his best to distract himself with after such an eventful, fraught day. A day in which they'd learned the truth about Miss Gordon, and he'd unfathomably allowed Hope to glimpse the hurtful, humiliating truth about him. A day in which Hope had taken hold of his hand and looked at him with such affection, such understanding. A look he hadn't deserved. A look which had occupied his mind ever since.

As Hope marched towards his bedside, however, her dainty feet stomping on the wooden floor, he realised that he was indeed awake. She really was here, in his room. And apparently, if the fierce expression on her face was anything to go by, she was very angry. Now there was a look he really did deserve to see from her.

‘You lied to me!'

Samuel threw the bedsheets back, remembering just a moment too late that he wore naught but his drawers. Self-consciously, defensively, he folded his arms across his chest as he got to his feet and stood in front of her. She stared up at him, her green eyes wild and challenging, her plait half loosened in her fury, leaving several curls of dark hair to make their bid for freedom. He found himself overcome with a momentary urge to undo the rest of it, to run his hands through that lovely hair. Resisting temptation, he clamped his hand harder against his chest. Given her anger, any such move would be seriously unwise.

‘You lied to me,' she said again, quieter this time.

‘Yes—I know I did, and you've every right to be angry with me. I should never have told you that I was a baronet.'

‘I'm not talking about that,' she replied pointedly. ‘I'm talking about the dresses. The ones which belonged to your brother's dead wife. The ones I've been wearing.'

‘Oh—yes. That.' Damn. His thoughts had been so preoccupied with his enormous lie, he'd omitted to confess to the smaller one he'd also told. ‘I'm sorry, Hope. I should have explained to you about the dresses.'

To his surprise, her face began to crumple, those earlier flashes of anger slowly replaced by the glint of tears as they formed in her eyes.

‘Why would you lie about some dresses?' she asked, stepping back and turning away from him. ‘Why would you lie about who they belonged to?'

He let out a heavy sigh, unfolding his arms and rubbing his brow wearily. ‘If I'd told you the truth about poor Rosalind, then because I'd let you believe I was the baronet, I'd have had to pretend she'd been my wife. I couldn't do that—it was bad enough that I'd claimed my brother's title; I couldn't lay false claim to his wife and his grief as well.' He stepped tentatively towards her, though her back remained turned to him. ‘Besides, you needed something to wear. I thought it was better for you to think that those clothes had come from a well-attired cousin who did not miss them rather than a lady who'd lived and died in this house. In my own foolish way, I was trying to make you feel at ease.'

‘Surely that was my decision—whether to wear those dresses or not,' she countered, still not turning around.

‘And if you had known, would you have worn them?' he asked.

‘Yes. No. I don't know.'

He stepped closer again. ‘I know I've acted badly, but it was never with mal-intent. Please believe that.'

He watched as her shoulders sagged. When, finally, she turned around, he was alarmed to see that tears streamed down her face. ‘This is all such a mess,' she sobbed. ‘So many lies. Do we even know each other at all?'

‘Of course we do.'

The sudden urge to reassure her overtook him and, before he could stop himself, he pulled her into his arms. She didn't resist. Indeed, just as she had the last time they'd embraced like this, she tucked her head against his chest. Unlike the last time, however, she wore only a thin undergarment and he was naked from the waist up. The sheer intimacy of the moment meant that tender feelings quickly gave way to more carnal thoughts—thoughts he worked hard to suppress as he forced himself to focus on all that he still had to say.

‘You do know me, Hope,' he said, softly running his hand over her hair. ‘The man you've seen, the man you've taken tea with, the man you've discussed books and theatre with—that man is me. Calling myself a baronet and all the lies which sprang from that—it was all just costuming. All just foolish window-dressing by a man who, when you wandered into his life that evening in the woods, was feeling more than a little lonely and sorry for himself.'

‘You said earlier that you knew what it was like to be looked upon as less than someone else,' she murmured. ‘What did you mean by that?'

Samuel felt his breath catch in his throat. He'd been expecting that question ever since his remark in the parlour earlier, but that didn't make the events of the summer any easier to speak about. For a moment he pressed his lips together, composing himself. Resolving finally to be entirely truthful, and to hell with the consequences.

‘There was a lady in whose company I spent some time this summer,' he began. ‘Her name was Charlotte Pearson. We seemed to get on well, and I thought—hoped, really—that it would progress to a courtship. However, Miss Pearson was very clear with me that she did not wish to continue our connection, and it quickly became apparent that she favoured my brother over me, on account of his title and estate.'

She glanced up at him, aghast. ‘This woman is now your sister-in-law?'

Despite himself, Samuel laughed. ‘Thankfully, no—Charlotte was never likely to succeed with Isaac. He only had eyes for Miss Louisa Conrad, who is now Lady Liddell.'

Hope leaned her head against his chest once more. ‘Did you...did you love Charlotte? Did she break your heart?'

He drew a deep breath. ‘I didn't love her, though I was more than a little captivated by her, at the time. And whilst she didn't break my heart, she did hurt me, and she certainly wounded my pride. I'd never been made to feel that way before, as though I was so unworthy.' He shook his head, remembering Charlotte's words. ‘She spoke as though my affection for her was offensive—she even told me that things might have been different if I had been my brother.'

‘Oh, Samuel...'

‘I don't deserve your sympathy, Hope,' he said, interrupting her. ‘Not after I've lied to you. But the damnable fact of the matter is that when you looked at me and thought you saw a titled gentleman with a grand house, I couldn't bring myself to contradict you. I liked to impress you, and I liked the way you looked at me. I couldn't bear to see your disappointment when you learned what I really am. And when I realised that it was the house and the title which made you feel so protected, telling you the truth felt completely impossible.'

‘But you did tell me, in the end.'

‘I did, but not soon enough. I should have told you right away. Indeed, I should never have lied at all.'

‘Painful experiences make us do all kinds of things to protect ourselves,' she said, her voice almost a whisper.

He sighed into her dark curls. ‘They do, but that is no excuse. I am so sincerely sorry, Hope. I'm not a man who is accustomed to telling lies, please believe that. Please believe me also when I say that if you cannot forgive me, I understand. It is enough for me to know that you will leave Hayton knowing who I really am, because the truth is, Hope, I care for you. When I kissed you in the library that evening, it was not a moment of madness for me. It was an admission of my feelings for you—feelings I had no right to feel, given I was deceiving you, but feelings which had grown nonetheless. Feelings which made telling you the truth about myself even harder. A cruel irony, but no more than I deserve.'

Hope looked up at him then, her emerald eyes still watering as they searched his. He became aware once more of her hands resting against his bare chest, of the warmth of skin on skin, of the feeling of her alluring form pressed against him. Of the proximity of his bed behind them, and the less than gentlemanly thoughts laying siege to his mind.

His heartfelt words surrendered to lust-filled passion as he captured her lips with his own, lifting one of his hands to brush her cheek whilst the other remained steadfast on the curve of her waist. His heart sang as Hope responded in kind, her mouth greeting his while her hands left the confines of his chest to explore his stomach, his arms, his back. He shivered at her touch, fighting himself to maintain control. He would not allow this to go too far. He would not take her to his bed.

Not unless she became his wife first.

The sudden thought astonished him, but not as much as Hope's swift action in breaking their embrace.

‘No,' she breathed, stepping back from him. ‘We must stop.'

He nodded, swallowing hard as he struggled to regain his composure. ‘Of course. I'm sorry. I promise I have no intention of ruining you.'

If he'd hoped his words would be reassuring, he was to be deeply disappointed. Instead, he watched as her face crumpled once more, tears spilling unabated down her cheeks.

‘Oh, Samuel, this is all such a mess,' she said, pacing about the floor.

He frowned. That was the second time tonight that she'd uttered those words. His heart began to pound in his chest as it dawned on him that all the obvious affection and ardour he had for her might not be enough. She might never be able to forgive him, to overcome the lies he'd told...

‘I know the damage my lies have caused between us, but...'

‘You're not the only one of us who has lied about who they are,' she sobbed. ‘You cannot care for me, Samuel, and you could not ruin me, even if you tried.'

‘What on earth do you mean?'

Finally, she stopped pacing. When she spoke again it was in a voice which sounded quite altered and which was laced, he was astonished to note, with a distinctly local accent.

‘I am not an heiress. I am not wealthy. I have no uncle and no inheritance,' she said. ‘My name is not Hope Swynford, it is Hope Sloane. I am an actress and the daughter of an outlaw. I am unruinable. I am the lowest of the low.'