Page 18 of Ten Rules for Loving the Wrong Rake

“Seventy-one items. On my list. Things you don’t notice but are more important if you know what to look for. Foundations. The roof. Trees about to fall.”

His voice was calm. Even. And that infuriated her more than anything he'd said.

“The fact remains that you let this house rot while taking advantage of Aunt Marian’s hospitality.”

His jaw tightened. There was an edge to his voice when he spoke. Slowly. "I didn't let this house do anything. And I did my share for Marian.”

“We have different understanding of what that is, obviously.”

“You have not seen this house when I arrived. There has been limited time and money.”

“Is that so?” She placed her hands on her hips. “And where have you been all day? And last night?”

“Why?”

"Because if you have been engaging in… in whatever occupation takes a man from his home until past midnight…"

Her voice died. He had shifted his weight against the wall, one knee bent, his foot braced behind him, and the linen pulled taut across his thigh. She lost the sentence entirely.

She took a deep breath before continuing. “It is obvious you have plenty of time for pleasure.”

He pushed off the wall. His breathing changed.

“And what do you know of my pleasures? Of obtaining money and resources while your biggest problem has been an overprotective family? Has your belly ever been empty?”

“Has Marian told you everything about me?”

“Almost.” He took a step toward her.

“You’ve never had to choose between mending a window and eating that week. You’ve never had to dig into a frozen ground with the wind cutting through you until your hands cracked open.”

His face was mere inches away when he leaned down and hissed, “How dare you accuse me of taking advantage of Marian. I cared about her. Where were you while she was dying? Letters are easy. Where were you?”

Suddenly her nose stung. Tears threatened to pour. She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Prison.” The word barely held together in her mouth.

His whole frame tightened into a single held breath.

"My belly might have been full, but my mind was starved. I had nothing to look forward to. No hope for freedom until my dearest aunt gave me a home. But when I was not permitted to care for my own aunt on her deathbed..." She pressed her hands to her face. "When all I have had are my mother’s voice telling me how worthless I am... my husband muttering ‘useless’ at night… You are right. I have never dug a field. I have never gone without a meal." She swallowed. "But I have not had a life. I have not had love. Not once."

Through her tears she saw his eyes soften. He looked away. Looked back.

“I do not want your pity. My trials are no comparison to true misery. But does that mean I ought to be disrespected? That every day, every conversation, you turn your back on me? Walk out mid-sentence? You grunt at me like my father used to grunt at his lame donkey.”

He stepped closer. The firelight caught his jaw. His eyes were dark and steady.

"I could never disrespect you."

"You do it constantly."

"No. I couldn't. Not you." He was close now. Close enough for her to feel the warmth of him. "I've got respect for any creature that claws its way to survival with nothing but its own teeth. You've been clawing since you got here."

She resented how the words moved through her. It was shameful how her body remembered the last time he'd stood this close, in a passage, his chest against her back, his breath in her ear.

"Stop. Do not come closer.”

He froze on the spot.

“This is what you do to manipulate me, distract me. You press me against a wall," she said. “You put your body on mine and whisper in my ear and make me feel…"