It's Always Been You (York Family 2)

He knew who was waiting in the drawing room. The butler had whispered the name “Mrs. Renier,” in his ear with a tone that managed both alarm and censure.

So he expected to see Beatrice Renier when he stepped into the drawing room, but the sight of her still sunk knives of fear into his chest. “What the hell are you doing in my home?” he ground out, as if there were some mystery as to why Kate had floated up the stairs like a ghost.

“How dare you?” she spat, her lovely features twisting into ugly fury.

“How dare I what?” He glanced over his shoulder, his mind already straying to Kate.

Beatrice grabbed his chin and pulled his face back toward her.

He shrugged and jerked free of her grasp. “What did you tell her?” he demanded.

She crossed her arms and smirked. “I waited for you, idiot that I am. I dressed with such care, imagining what you might like. I had Chef prepare your favorite dishes. And then I waited for hours, like some doxy who’d lost your favor!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he snarled.

Her sneer wavered. “You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

Beatrice’s shoulders slumped and she became smaller. “You sent a note that you’d come to me, and you don’t even remember it.”

Damnation. He remembered now. Just before he’d left to retrieve Kate’s watch, he’d promised Mrs. Renier he’d come for dinner. And more. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But you’ve overreacted. What did you say?”

“Overreacted?” She laughed, tossing her head back.

“I reacted exactly as you treated me. Like a whore beneath your consideration. Exactly the same thing that other woman is to you, I assume, as you treat none of us any better than the next.”

“Get out of my home,” Aidan snarled. “Go back to your husband.”

“Ha!” she barked, brushing past him as she tugged the veil over her face. “I love how you say that as if you’re better than I. You were no better than I when we were rutting on the good china under his roof. The only difference is that I have someone to go home to, and you don’t.” She stopped at the threshold of the door and turned back. “Not even her, Aidan.”

His blood went cold. “What did you tell her?” he asked again.

“I told her the truth.”

He stood before her door for an endless moment. Fifty heartbeats. A hundred.

He was waiting for this to get easier, to convince himself that it wasn’t that bad. Beatrice was only one woman, after all. Kate must know he hadn’t lived like a monk. But the look on her face when she’d passed him . . .

No. It wasn’t that bad. Couldn’t be. He knocked on the door and waited. When she didn’t answer, he knocked again, then pushed it open, his heart skipping as the door stirred the scent of her soap in the room.

“Kate?” When she didn’t answer, he pushed the door open farther. “Kate?”

“Yes. I’m here.” She rose up from where she’d been kneeling next to the bed.

“I’m sorry about . . . that.”

She stared at him oddly, saying nothing, looking as beautiful as ever, but very pale, very stiff. He stepped into the room, and when he drew nearer, he could see why she’d been kneeling. Next to the bed lay her satchel. It gaped open, and he could see the blue dress inside.

“What are you doing?” he asked past a tight throat.

She clasped her hands together and did not look at him. “I’d like to go home early. Today, in fact. As soon as possible.”

That tightness choked him, closing off his throat in a painful grip. The tension grew, sinking impossibly deep in his chest. Fighting against it, fighting the terror, he opened his mouth, drew in a breath. “No.”

Her eyes locked on his in a shock of dark fury before sliding deliberately away from him. “It seems the best thing.”

“I’m sorry that she came here. But I haven’t seen her in months. I swear to you.” His voice sounded distant, shushed by the loud rush of blood in his ears.