How to Turn a Frog into a Prince - Bree Wolf Page 0,66

I—”

“With the exception of you and Pierce, of course,” she amended. “Did you not notice people staring at you whenever you spoke to me? Did you not wonder?”

Nathanial shrugged. “Well, I’m new to Town. I’m an American. I suppose that, too, will draw people’s attention. Zach wrote to me when he first arrived here and he described the ton’s reaction in very much the same manner.”

“While that may be true,” Charlaine replied, “it does not change that nothing can ruin my reputation for it already lies shattered at my feet. Not because of something I did, but because of who I am.” She shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

Anger stirred in Nathanial’s heart. “That’s outrageous! I will—!”

Her hand settled on his. “Don’t,” she whispered sweetly. “I’m happy with my life here, with you and…my family.” She glanced in the direction of the house. “I have everything I need.” Eagerness came to her eyes then, and she patted his hand. “Now, it’s my turn to ask a question.”

“Very well.”

“At the wedding,” she began, her brown eyes lingering on his face in a rather watchful way, “I noticed how you kept looking at your sister-in-law. It made me wonder until I realized you were not looking at her, but at the ring upon her finger.” Her brows arched up in question.

Nathanial inhaled a deep breath and, again, his hands rose to run over his face, the tips of his fingers pressing upon his eyes. “It was my father’s,” he said without looking at her. “It is a family heirloom, which he’d given to my mother on the day of their wedding.”

Her hands touched his, urging him to drop them, to look at her.

Finally, he did. “When she died, he gave it to us,” he told her, fighting not to drop his gaze, but to continue holding hers. “It was meant to be passed on to the next generation and the next after that.” He gritted his teeth.

“You feel as though you failed him,” Charlaine observed, her hands still holding on to his.

“I did fail him!” Nathanial snapped, anger and shame once more boiling in his blood. “I gave it to Abigail, thinking that…” Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “I was wrong, and my parents’ ring ended up in the hands of an English bastard,” he flinched as the last word tumbled from his lips, “who took it back to England and then lost it in a card game as though it meant nothing.” His hands tightened on hers, and he belatedly realized that she was no longer the one holding on to him, but that he was holding on to her. “If Zach hadn’t managed to locate it, it would have been lost forever.” Staring at her, he shook his head. “Do not tell me I did not fail him for it is clear as day that I did.” He released her hands and rose to his feet.

As Nathanial made to walk away, her voice rose soft and kind behind him. “My father always said that many roads lead to happiness. That it is our duty to ourselves to find the one that is right for us.”

With his back to her, Nathanial barely heard her all but silent approach. Her hands came to rest upon his shoulders, warm and soft and strong, and he inhaled a deep breath. “It was not the ring your father wanted you to pass on to the next generation,” Charlaine told him, her warm breath brushing over his neck. “It was the story of your parents’ love that he wanted to preserve, a story that he hoped would inspire you to find a love of your own. Abigail was not that woman for you, and your father would have been proud to know that you had the strength to walk away and begin again.” Her hands gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “You did not fail him. You made him proud.”

Stunned beyond words, Nathanial turned to look at her. Her hands fell from his shoulders and landed in his own. “How can you possibly know that? You never met my father. You cannot know how he—”

“I know because of the way you speak of him,” Charlaine said, her gaze steady as it held his. “I know because I can see how much you loved him. I know because of the man you are, always striving to make your father proud. Only these expectations you’re trying to live up to are not your father’s,