In slippered feet, Angelica and I both stole down the stairs. Quietly, I unlatched the back door to find Hamilton there, his eyes bright as he slipped inside the house. “Ladies—”
“The keeping room,” Angelica whispered, nudging us to where the silver and valuables were kept and servants were not permitted. Then, with my baby niece in her arms, Angelica posted herself as guard, closing us in alone in the darkness with but a single candle.
“Is something the matter?” I whispered to Hamilton in the dim light.
“Yes,” he said, quite gravely, a tremor in his voice. “I have something to say, and if it waits another moment, I shall lose my nerve.”
I’d never seen him afraid before. Angry, dutiful, officious, charming, reckless, smug, cynical. All those things. But never afraid until now. “The story I told you before. The one about my parents. There is another version.”
“Another version?” How could there be more than one?
He took my hands in his, gently stroking his thumbs over my knuckles, then bringing them to his mouth to kiss. “There is a version of the story I have entrusted to no one else but my dear friend Laurens. But I cannot bear to deceive you.”
I should have given that casual admission more thought. That there was someone Hamilton trusted. Someone he had trusted more than me. A man I’d never met. A man of whom he spoke worshipfully. And Hamilton was not a man to worship. But all I knew then was that he was speaking of deception. That he was making me afraid now, too. And I’d always believed bad news should be delivered quickly. “Please tell me.”
“I let you believe my illegitimacy was a mere wrinkle in the law. What I didn’t say was that my mother was jailed for multiple adulteries. Suspected of worse. Held captive in a dank, dark cell, half-starved for months. And when she died, she was denied even the right to pass on property to her whore-children.”
I will never forget the way in which he uttered the word whore-children, as if hissing from a brand pressed to his skin. And it made me grasp his hands tighter, tears in my eyes. “Oh, Alexander . . .”
He swallowed. “I don’t even know if the man who I called Father is my father.”
I swallowed, too, meeting his eyes so that he would know that I meant what I said. “I understand. And I hold you blameless. None of it is your doing.”
Manfully, he squared his shoulders. “That is kind of you to say. But in courting you, I’ve shot quite above my station. I can only plead love in defense of myself.”
Emotion lodged a knot in my throat. He loved me. His sonnet had confessed as much, but to hear it from his mouth, to see it in his eyes . . .
He continued, “My feelings for you make me restless and discontent with everything that used to please me and I began to imagine the world might be different. But I’m a man of hard realities. If this must end things between us I will harbor no ill will.”
So, this was why he’d looked so tortured before he left earlier tonight. He thought it might be our last night together. And now his hands actually trembled in mine.
I reached for his cheek, and touched it, tenderly. “Alexander, this makes no difference to me.”
“It has made all the difference to my life. It’s bad enough people think I am—”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks because I love you. I love your mind, the variety of your knowledge, your playful wit, and the excellence of your heart. I love you for reasons that defy any explanation at all.”
Angelica had been right. Love was a thing beyond reason, beyond control. A thing almost predestined. And now that this powerful emotion had finally taken hold of me, I was entirely helpless against it.
He must have felt it, too, because his mouth closed over mine with such hunger it nearly frightened me. Or maybe the hunger that frightened me was my own. I realized my compromised state, only my nightclothes between us. But as his hands slid down my back with carnal intimacy, and his mouth went to my face, my neck, and my hair, there was no liberty I would not have allowed him.
“Betsy,” he said, hoarsely, stroking my hair. “You deserve better. With me, your future rank in life would be a perfect lottery. You might move in exalted company or a very humble sphere.”
“I don’t care.” All I heard was that he was speaking about a life with me. A future with me. “I love you.” I said it like an incantation.
“Could you truly be an Aquileia and cheerfully plant turnips with me?”
“Yes,” I whispered, smiling as I clutched at him.