She even had the gall to put her hand on my arm and give me a little nudge toward the end of the long tables. Mr. Worth, while amusement showed in his eyes, had the courtesy not to grin. He met me at the end of the table and held out his elbow. I had no choice but to wrap my fingers around his very muscular biceps and let him lead me to the food.
He carried both of our plates while I held our glasses of lemonade to a blanket set away from the others. While no one could hear any conversation we might have, we were chaperoned by
half the town.
"I am sorry about your husband's passing. I offer you my condolences at your loss," he murmured softly, picking up a chicken leg from his plate.
My spine stiffened at the mention of Paul. "Thank you," I said tersely, using my fork to spear a slice of pickle.
"You are not saddened by his death." His words were fact, not a question, so although I glanced at him briefly through my lashes, I did not feel he required a response. "You did not care for him."
I felt as if he were prodding me with his fork instead of the potato salad. "Care for him?" I asked, my voice incredulous. "Caring would not be a word associated with Paul."
He chewed, then swallowed. "No. No it wouldn't. He was a fucking bastard."
I gasped at his words, shocked at his crudeness.
"What?" he asked, unabashed. "It's the truth. You're too much of a lady to say it aloud, but it's true, isn't it?"
I glanced around, but no one paid us any attention.
"Admit it. I know you wish to utter it aloud."
I looked at him, saw the dare in his dark eyes.
"Yes," I whispered. Then I panicked, realizing what I'd done. Mr. Worth had tricked me with false kindness. The blood drained from my face at what he would say next to me now that I'd admitted my feelings. I covered my ears to block his words. He'd call me a cruel and miserable wife. A unthankful shrew. An unbreedable bitch. Worthless. "Oh," I exclaimed, moving to stand, but the long hem of my dress made it difficult in my haste.
"Wait, Leah." Mr. Worth grabbed my wrist and stopped my motions. I was up on my knees and I looked at him, all the while moving backward. "Jesus, sweetheart. I've said something to scare you."
"Please," I begged, my breath coming out in pants. "Let me go." I was making a scene most assuredly. I frantically glanced around, blinked at the tears that threatened. "I didn't mean it and was mistaken in my words. Surely you know my word has no value and I'm just a liar. Place no value in what I said, or me." I yanked hard and he released me. Pushing off the ground, I was able to rise and dash away, not before seeing the look of utter shock on his handsome face. He was stunned. Regardless, I wouldn't look back to see it morph into anger, because men didn't want a woman to question them or to be ungrateful.
CHAPTER TWO
I couldn't run, there were too many about and I would only draw attention to myself. I smiled brittlely at those I passed and made it as far as the front of the church, where I slipped inside the quiet sanctuary unnoticed. There I let the tears fall, the shame at being so weak willed, the constant worry I would say something to make a man turn from kind to enraged.
I slumped down into the last pew and crossed my arms about my waist, hugging myself.
"Leah."
I startled at the sound of my name and whipped my head around to see Mr. Worth in the doorway, the bright sunshine at his back. I started to rise, but he walked toward me, held his hand out in front of him. "Please, no. Sit."
His voice was quiet, his motions slow and relaxed.
I sat down on the hard pew. He stood in the center aisle next to me, forcing me to look up at him. "Slide over," he told me.
I'd earned whatever tongue lashing he gave me, but at least here we were alone. No one would know the trouble I'd caused with him, the way I'd made him angry. I moved so that he could sit beside me, the sides of our bodies touching from knee to hip to shoulder. Pushing over again to create space some between us, he stilled my motions with a hand on my thigh.
I was too surprised at the touch to shift and glanced down at his large hand, the back of it sprinkled with dark hairs, resting upon my thigh. I could feel the heat of it through the thin fabric of my dress, and the weight of it felt remarkably...safe. He didn't move, didn't look at me, just sat next to me, our breaths evening out into quiet.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, his voice low. Whether the tone was to keep me calm—which it most likely was—or because of the setting, I didn't know.
His apology had me tilting my head up to look at him. He'd removed his hat and I could see dark stubble on his jaw, as if he hadn't shaved.
I frowned. "I...I don't understand."
"I put you in a terrible position. You were devoted to your husband and I only spoke poorly of him. Of course you would take offense."
He was apologizing to me for speaking ill of Paul? "You think...I mean, you're not going to yell—" I couldn't get the words out, swallowed. "You confuse me," I admitted plainly.