Born of Persuasion by Jessica Dotta Page B

over my shoulder, certain that defiance must be written over my every feature. Though it was dark, I saw him—and knew he saw me—although nebulously. Damp curls rested against his pale face. His countenance gave the impression he’d returned from the scene of a great tragedy.
    “You went to her?” His cry was impassioned with pain, his voice hoarse. “You entered into an agreement for her to arrange a marriage?”
    I said nothing as he circled to the front of me, though my stomach hollowed with the realization there was no stench of ale upon his breath.
    “What of us, Juls? Why drag me to that godforsaken dinner if you had no intention of acceding to our betrothal?”
    I tightened my wrapper, narrowing my eyes at him.
    “What?” he shouted. “Are you going to deny that, too? We were never engaged? Was it not this very spot!”
    “No,” I slowly said in a tone that Sarah would have called quarrelsome. “I do not deny that we were engaged, only that you intend to honor the commitment.”
    He emitted a growling sound. “I’m not the one who walked away from here and never came back. It’s been three years, Julia!” His bellowing caused birds to take noisy flight from their trees. “You’re the one who refused to visit after learning I intended to enter the church. You’re the one who couldn’t stand to look upon me in my vestments. You’re the one petitioning others to find you a husband.”
    “That wasn’t me! That was Mama! And we didn’t even know you intended to enter the church. But it was you who betrayed us. You. You knew what the church did to my family.”
    “Not the church. One man, one vicar. You know nothing about what you’re rejecting alongside me. You’re ruining our lives because of the actions of one person. One!”
    “Do not presume to lecture me. You knew you were severing all relations with us. Well, take your accursed church. Take it and go. I no longer want you.”
    His eyes blazed as intensity marked his features. Until that moment I never noticed he stood a full head taller than myself, for he’d always seemed exactly my height. “Fine.” He ground the words out. “Do not expect me to come grovelling at your next beck and call. May you find what you deserve with Lady Foxmore. She’s as false as you are.”
    Turning his back to me, he stalked off into the ebon shadows.
    I did not move, my face still twisted in anger and my body heated from our exchange. To an outsider, I might have appeared unmoved, untouched by the scene. But in truth, I struggled not to fragment into irrecoverable pieces.
    I’d never told anyone, but conjuring Edward in my mind had helped me survive Mama’s burial. While gravediggers dug the cold, wet earth, I’d stood in the rain, listening to their shovels chink against the bones of the excommunicated, trying to callous myself that in a few years hence Mama would likewise be disinterred to make room in the crowded yard.
    The apothecary, Mr. Hollis, stuttering and turning various shades of red, had advised me to attend the body until the very end—here he’d been obliged to remove his spectacles and wipe them—because without my presence, someone might show their reverence to the church by taking their fury out on Mama’s coffin, as they had my father’s. The risk of her body being seen was too high.
    For hours I ignored the reek of corpses by pretending Edward’s strong hand cupped my elbow. To drown out the gravediggers’ cursing, I’d made up encouraging words which Edward might have whispered in my ear.
    That night, as I stood bareheaded in that dismal, dripping bower, memory of Mama’s burial found me anew. The heartache I’d refused to make room for suddenly rose up, seizing me. Warm tears blended on my cheek with the cold rain. It was a strange breaking, to grieve that something imaginary wasn’t real.
    We are not meant to take gnawing pain and cocoon it inside, for the ache only grows. That first sob rent its silk envelope,