He drew a tight breath, kept his gaze on her eyes. “Caring for someone means, however reluctantly, giving some part of yourself into their keeping. They—the one cared for—becomes the repository of that part of you”—his eyes held hers—“of that something you’ve given that’s so profoundly precious. That’s so profoundly important. They, therefore, become important—deeply, profoundly important.”
He paused, then more quietly stated, “As you are to me.”
The clock ticked; their gazes remained locked. Neither moved.
Then he stirred. “I’ve done all I can to explain, to make you understand.”
His expression closed; he turned to the door.
Leonora tried to rise. Couldn’t. “Where are you going?”
Hand on the knob, he looked back at her. “I’m leaving. I’ll send your maid to you.” His words were clipped, but emotion, suppressed, seethed beneath them. “When you can cope with being important to someone, you know where to find me.”
“Tristan…” With an effort, she swiveled, lifted her hand—
The door shut. Clicked with a finality that echoed through the room.
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She stared at the door for a long moment, then sighed and sank back on the chaise. Closed her eyes. She comprehended perfectly what she’d done. Knew she would have to undo it.
But not now. Not today.
She was too weak even to think, and she would need to think, to plan, to work out exactly what to say to soothe her wounded wolf.
The next three days turned into a parade of apologies.
Forgiving Harriet was easy enough. The poor soul had been so overset on seeing Leonora lying senseless on the kitchen flags, she’d babbled hysterically about men attacking her; one minor comment had been enough to attract Tristan’s attention. He’d ruthlessly extracted all the details from Harriet, and left her in an even more emotionally wrought state.
When Leonora retired to her bed after consuming a bowl of soup for luncheon—all she could imagine keeping down—Harriet helped her up the stairs and into her room without a word, without once looking up or meeting her eye.
Inwardly sighing, Leonora sat on her bed, then encouraged Harriet to pour out her guilt, her worries and concerns, then made peace with her.
That proved the easiest fence to mend.
Drained, still physically shaken, she remained in her room for the rest of the day. Her aunts called, but after one look at her face, kept their visit brief. At her insistence, they agreed to avoid all mention of the attack; to all who asked after her, she would be simply indisposed.
The next morning, Harriet had just removed her breakfast tray and left her sitting in an armchair before the fire, when a tap sounded on her door. She called, “Come in.”
The door opened; Jeremy looked around it.
He spotted her. “Are you well enough to talk?”
“Yes, of course.” She waved him in.
He came slowly, carefully shutting the door behind him, then walking quietly across to stand by the mantelpiece and look down at her. His gaze fastened on the bandage still circling her head. A spasm contorted his features. “It’s my fault you got hurt. I should have listened—paid more attention. I knew it wasn’t your imagination, what you said about the burglars, but it was so much easier to simply ignore it all—”
He was twenty-four, but suddenly he was, once again, her little brother. She let him talk, let him say what he needed to. Let him, too, make his peace, not just with her but himself. The man he knew he should have been.
A draining twenty minutes later, he was sitting on the floor beside her chair, his head leaning against her knee.
She stroked his hair, so soft yet as ever ruffled and unruly.
Suddenly, he shivered. “If Trentham hadn’t come…”
“If he hadn’t, you would have coped.”
After a moment, he sighed, then rubbed his cheek against her knee. “I suppose.”