She and Drake did not speak as he led her to the carriage and settled her against the cushions. He gave instructions to the coachman and then stepped up into the carriage and sat across from her. He must have sensed that she needed space to breathe. She felt as if her lungs could not get enough air.
The carriage had been making its slow progress through the London streets for several minutes before she spoke.
"He thought I was my mother."
"You must look like her." Drake's voice was soft, comforting.
"But my mother would have aged since he last saw her. How could he have thought I was her?"
"The shock of seeing you, looking so like her, after all these years would have done it."
"Twenty-odd years. He hasn't seen my mother since I was a baby. How strange. Although she died ten years ago, sometimes I feel as if I've seen her just yesterday. Is it the same for him, do you suppose?"
Drake didn't answer. He just looked at her as if waiting for something.
"What?"
"It must have been difficult to see him like that."
She drew her gloves off, focusing on each finger as if it mattered. "It was unexpected."
"It was a bloody disaster."
Her head came up at his harsh tone. "Why are you so upset? You've been pushing me to meet him all along."
He flinched as if her comment hurt. The truth sometimes did. She should know.
"You should have had the opportunity to meet your father for the first time in private. Your aunt should have left instructions for him not to be admitted."
"She could hardly do that to her own nephew."
"She bloody well could have."
Something triggered in her memory, and she felt herself staring at Drake as if seeing him for the first time. "You knew."
He raised his brows in inquiry. "Knew what?"
"Who he was. You knew he was my father before I said anything. You told me it would be all right."
His expression turned wary. "Yes."
"How?"
"Your aunt told me when I went to speak to her about marrying you."
He had gone to speak to her aunt?
Things started slipping into place in her mind, and although she was not morning sick, she certainly felt nauseous. "Lady Boyle said that you planned to find a wife this Season."
Although he did not smile, his eyes grew warm. "Yes, but you saved me the trouble."
"She said you wanted to marry a well-connected paragon."
He shrugged. "One's plans are not always reflective of the eventual outcome."
She nodded. "That is true. I am not a paragon." She met his gaze, her heart feeling battered. "But I am well connected."
His eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to say?"