told me that in Paris, the police beat Elijah so badly he could not walk. How am I supposed to approve of something that—that—”
“My father could have me locked up on a word,” Serena said flatly. “Lord Braithwaite threatened and insulted me at a ton party. René could pretend to be my husband and take everything I owned, and no one would stop him. Because I’m a woman and because of the life I’ve lived, I sleep with a bar across my door and a loaded pistol in my night table. And I’m not asking for your approval for any of it.”
In a sudden, blinding flash everything was clear. It was as she said: Elijah and Serena weren’t angry with him. They were just sick of being afraid. But they couldn’t stop, because it was dangerous simply to be themselves, simply for them to live honest lives. And what he had said to Elijah was, If you stopped being yourself, you would be safe. No one had ever said that to Solomon, because it was already safe to be him. No wonder Elijah was angry.
And no wonder Serena was angry. He remembered what she’d said outside St. Andrew of the Cross: You think that if you just keep digging at me and trying to crack me open I’ll giggle and say, ‘Oh, la, Mr. Hathaway, what a tease you are!’ It wasn’t really true; he had never wanted her to be sweeter or kinder. But he had wanted to crack her open. He still did. He wanted her to show herself to him, all the thoughts and feelings she’d been hiding for years.
He’d thought he could make her happy, that everything would be all right if she would just understand that he didn’t care about her past—but she was right, it was easy for him not to care. It was Serena who cared, who cared deeply because she’d been deeply hurt. She was still being hurt every day, every time some blackguard like Smollett made a crass joke and every time a party of young bloods bullied a waitress.
This wasn’t about him. It was about Serena, and about his brother. They were sick of being afraid—and hell, so was he. He was sick of being afraid that he wasn’t good enough, when it had never been about that to begin with. He was sick of dragging things out because he was afraid to put them to the test.
“You’re right,” he said.
She blinked, her face going from “ready for battle” to “speechless” in about five seconds. He couldn’t help laughing, even as his heart ached. How was he going to live, knowing that Serena was across town making a face and he couldn’t see it? “You’re right,” he said again. “I haven’t been fair. I was afraid, too. Afraid of being alone, I suppose. Afraid of being without you. But—you know, I—” His voice cracked. Damn.
“Solomon—” she said, and he loved the way she said his name so much that he had to keep talking or he might do something selfish like tell her that.
“I never believed, before I met you, that I could go my own way,” he said. “That I could deserve more than someone was willing to give me. That love might not be worth the sacrifices we have to make for it. You’ve taught me that. What I mean is—I do understand, if you decide you don’t want—” He waved a hand between them, as if in a moment the word that would describe all that lay between them would pop into his head. As if such a word existed. He shook his head. “This.”
She stared at him, the shadows making her eyes look huge. “You’re giving up?”
He stood up. “That’s exactly the problem. This has turned into some kind of tug-of-war. I’m not giving up. I’m just saying that I won’t push you anymore. I won’t ask for anything. I’ve been torturing you, and it’s not fair. If nothing’s changed when we go back to London on Sunday, I’ll leave. Just please—make a decision that will make you happy. Take good care of yourself.”
She looked as lost as he felt. He went to the bed and stood looking down at her: at her perfect face and her perfect body that suddenly, for the first time, looked ordinary.
She wasn’t a goddess, or an angel, or a harpy. She was a woman, a frightened, unhappy, determined, beautiful woman, and he loved her so badly that just leaning down