“Why must one be forced to pretend to enjoy the company of one’s family, anyway?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Simply because one shares the same blood?”
“Because they make up the foundation of one’s existence?” She countered with a question of her own. “And because they have no choice but to pretend to enjoy yours?”
“You have a mother and father? Both still alive?”
She nodded, looking wary.
“Brothers and sisters?”
“One of each.”
Jack leaned back. “Surely, you wouldn’t be here if either your brother or your father cared more about you than themselves?”
The color that had heightened her cheeks all but drained away. She didn’t argue, but blinked and then lowered her lashes to stare at her food.
“People make mistakes.” Her voice emerged barely a whisper.
And yet, she defended them. Knowing the futility of arguing with sentimentality, Jack returned his attention to the meat on his plate.
“You mention grandparents and your sister, but not your parents.” Delia, it seemed, was intent upon maintaining conversation.
“Dead.” Two random deaths—twelve years ago—Christmas night. Proof that the holidays were not, in fact, a time for miracles. “Fell asleep in their chamber and never woke up.”
Jack rubbed his chest. He wouldn’t explain how smoke trapped by a broken flue had filled their room, killing them before either realized the danger.
He stretched his shoulders and lifted his glass. These things happened.
It was always best to keep one’s expectations low.
Delia staredat the food remaining on her plate, refraining from asking for details. The conversation had gone smoothly until she’d pushed him for personal information.
How often had she asked inappropriate questions while making conversation at a garden party or a ball? No wonder her family had chosen her as the daughter to go into service.
“I’m sorry,” Delia mumbled.
“It was a long time ago.”
His response surprised her. The fact that he responded at all surprised her.
This man—this Jack person—was different from any other gentleman with whom she’d been acquainted. At times he seemed haughty and arrogant, and yet, he was friendly, helpful, and not knowing anything about her, had taken it upon himself to ensure that she had a safe place to sleep, clothing to wear, and food in her belly.
All of which she was extremely grateful for—even if it was partly his fault that she’d lost her valise and reticule.
But she owed him her life.
“Will you travel tomorrow?” The thought of being on her own again ought not to have left her feeling as troubled as it did.
The fact was, however, that she’d not done a very good job of looking out for herself.
Jack lay his silverware across his empty plate and leaned back. “The snow is already letting up, so likely. Yes.”
Earlier he’d been wearing his greatcoat, but sitting before her now, she got a better look at his clothing and physique. His shoulders were broad, even in only his shirt and waistcoat. But he was lean, and the gold timepiece dangling from his pocket drew her gaze to his tapered waist and flat abdomen. He appeared older than she’d initially believed him to be, with a few sharp wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth—late thirties.
Studying him evoked the oddest sensation—as though she wasn’t herself, but someone else, living in a different world.
Taking this meal alone in the room with him was the most intimacy she’d ever shared with a gentleman who was not a relation.
She would be alone again come morning. She didn’t want to think about that, though—that she had no money, no clothing, not even a bonnet.