Evan sat reeling, his blood roaring in his ears. Disbelief, anguish, as well as an enormous sense of relief, and a dozen other emotions clogged his throat and twisted his gut. Uncle Matthew was their father? He gaped at her, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you tell us?” They were the only words he could manage to speak.
His mother brought the cross to her lips and kissed it before meeting his eyes again. “I never wanted you to doubt your rightfulness to the earldom or to think yourselves inferior for the circumstances of your birth. And there was also the shame for what I had done. Matthew and I never stopped loving each other, but that didn’t make it right.”
She looked between Evan and Julia, tears heavy in her eyes. “It was my fault that James lost hold of his sanity. You children suffered so much from those months, I just wanted everything to be better for you. After he died, I had thought you moved on. That you’d healed from the pain he caused us.”
She didn’t mention her own overwhelming grief, but Evan remembered it all too well. What he’d never guessed, never even imagined, was the possibility that she would have felt guilt for some of the pain they had suffered. How could he not have known?
Raking both hands through his hair, Evan struggled to come to grips with what she was saying. Her words brought a surge of hope, and he grasped them like a lifeline. “Are you absolutely certain that we could not be his?” His heart felt as though it teetered on the edge of a precipice.
For the first time, color tinged her paper-white cheeks. “I am. James believed that both of you were born early.” She pressed her lips together, unwilling to say more.
“Good God,” Julia breathed, her hands going to her throat. “He truly wasn’t our father?”
Mother nodded, sadness weighing down the corners of her mouth. “If I had known your fears, I would have told you so long ago.” Her voice was growing hoarse. He couldn’t remember his mother talking as much in the last five years.
“Evan, do you know what this means?” Julia said, hope glittering in her eyes like diamonds.
He didn’t answer her right away. He was too busy examining the revelation from every possible direction. Matthew and James were still brothers, so the possibility of madness in the bloodlines still remained, but to know the old earl had always shown a tendency for his illness was tremendously freeing. If Evan were destined to succumb to insanity, wouldn’t it have made itself known by now?
Swallowing, he looked back and forth between his mother and sister. It wasn’t impossible that his children might inherit the tendencies, but it was significantly less alarming. He’d been prepared to pass the title to his father’s cousin, had he not?
Profound relief washed through him, a desperately needed rainstorm after decades of drought. Then he closed his eyes against the sudden thundering of his heart. Could he truly be free to have her? To love her, to marry her, to live the rest of his life basking in her sunshine? Blinking, he looked to his sister. “Sophie.”
Wiping away tears, she smiled and nodded. “Yes . . . Sophie.”
She turned to their mother and gathered her hands in her own. “You’ve given us a great gift today, Mama. Please know that you’ve caused only joy by telling us. Now, I think Evan has a lot to think about.”
Their mother’s hazel eyes flitted to Evan’s, uncertainty in their depths. He stood and offered her his hand. When he’d helped her to her feet, he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on each of her cheeks. “Thank you, my dear mother. You’ve set me free at last.”
After returning to his chambers, Evan paced back and forth, a million thoughts running through his head. He felt like a condemned man who had just received a pardon. His life was his again. It was a feeling he had never known as an adult. Nothing would dictate what he did with it other than his own wishes.
God, he had to see Sophie. As soon as possible, he had to go to her, to beg her forgiveness for the pain he had caused her and her family. Would she still have him?
Of course, it wasn’t just about what she thought anymore. From what Julia had said, her reputation had been well and truly ruined. Even if he married her, people would still say that she’d somehow trapped him into doing so. It wasn’t fair to her.
No, he needed to come up with a way to show the world that she was his choice. That he loved her, and desperately wanted her to be his wife.
He continued pacing, mulling over all the ways he could try to accomplish such a thing. It had to be much more than him simply telling people he loved her. It had to be something that would spread just as quickly as the negative gossip had, something that no one could deny or misconstrue.
In a flash of insight, an idea came to him. He went straight to the library, grabbed the book he needed, and quickly flipped to the page he remembered. With the idea solidifying in his mind, he couldn’t help but exhale a nervous breath.
With what he had planned, no one could possibly doubt the way he felt about Sophie—most especially not her.
* * *
“You’ve a letter, Sophie.”
Glancing up from her book—or more accurately, from her woolgathering—Sophie inwardly cringed at the sight of her mother standing in the doorway, her mouth pinched in a disapproving grimace. Things had been strained since their return, despite Sophie’s attempts to bridge the chasm that had opened between them in Bath. Both her parents were tense and worried, which was making life nearly unbearable.
Tossing the book aside, she stood and stepped toward her mother. “I’m sorry—I know postage is a cost we can ill afford right now. I’ll respond and ask them not to write again this month.”
“See that you do. Your friend Miss Bradford clearly doesn’t understand the wastefulness of a two-page letter.” Handing over the missive, Mama turned on her heel and marched out of the room, obviously unwilling to speak to her any longer than necessary.
Sighing, Sophie watched her mother go. She never would have imagined that she might miss her mother’s meddling ways, but it was certainly preferable to the cold shoulder. Returning to her sunny spot on the sofa, Sophie unfolded the note, which was covered in May’s chicken scratch handwriting. The second sheet of paper was tightly folded and sealed with a gummed wafer. Odd—the stationery was of a heavier stock than the outside piece.
Curious, Sophie skimmed through the note. Her friend spoke of how much she missed Sophie, and how the festival had lost its allure without her. She went on for a few paragraphs about a recent outing with Charity and Lord Cadgwith. At the end, her final sentence elicited a sharp gasp from Sophie:
Now, hopefully my ramblings have been sufficient to mask the true purpose of this letter. Open the accompanying note. Don’t forget to write me back—I am dying to know what this is all about.
With her heart in her throat, Sophie turned her attention to the little square. She drew a breath, popped the seal, and made quick work of unfolding it. The handwriting was unfamiliar—perfectly correct, but without any unnecessary swoops or curls. Her mouth went dry as she realized that the words weren’t in English.
Godiam la pace,
Trionfi amore:
Giubilerà.
With her heart pounding wildly in her chest, she flipped the paper back and forth, desperately searching for something more—an explanation, a signature, or even a word of English—but there was nothing else. There were only the nine tantalizing words, written in a language that she couldn’t understand, but that spoke volumes to her.
Evan.
Her hand went to her lips without conscious thought as hope cruelly sprang forth with enough force to rob her of her breath. Why would he send this? Was she still in his thoughts? Did he lie awake at night, staring into the darkness and thinking of her as she did of him? Did he remember the feel of their bodies pressed close, or of their lips and tongues sliding together?
She read the words again, imagining him whispering them to her. Especially the one word she did recognize: amore. Love.
Lowering the paper, she leaned back against the cushions, her eyes closed as she turned the word over and over in her mind. Love. Even after all that had happened, she still loved him so much it hurt—a physical pain that cut sharper than glass when she thought about the loss of him in her life. Was it possible he felt the same way?
Soon, she’d write May a letter, demanding to know how on earth she had gotten the letter in the first place. Sophie wanted to know if her friend had seen him, or spoken with him as Sophie herself had dreamed of doing again every day since they had parted.
But not now.
In this moment, she would hold on to his words, along with the flicker of optimism it brought to her heart. She didn’t know what the foreign words translated to, why he had written them, or what he had meant by them. But what she did know made all the difference:
Evan was thinking of her, and for now, that was enough.