Magnus’s father being sent away as a young boy because he was violent and dangerous. He had threatened the very life of his brother—Whitby’s father. But she couldn’t speak. Her brain was muddled, her mouth didn’t seem to be working.
“It’s a vile story, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low and controlled, but seething with resentment. “My father was cut off from your high-browed family as I have always been, and it is no secret your brother and I despise each other.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Annabelle asked in a numb, shaken stupor.
“Because I knew it would cut our summer short, and…”
Magnus hesitated. A knife plunging into his heart would have been less painful to him than what he was about to say to Annabelle.
But he had to say it, because if he didn’t, she might cling to some tiny shred of hope. He had to make sure she would let go of that and never come back here. For her sake.
“And I was enjoying a very satisfying jab at Whitby,” he ground out.
Annabelle’s face went pale, and her voice trembled when she finally spoke. “You were using me?”
He paused again, his jaw clenching. “Every minute we were together.”
“But I loved you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, because I didn’t love you.”
He nearly choked on the words.
Annabelle sucked in a breath. There it was. The cold, hard truth, and hearing it spoken aloud felt like a plank across her chest. It knocked the wind out of her.
He was staring at her, his eyes dark and expressionless. “I didn’t want to say it, Annabelle, but you forced me to. So there it is. Now you should go.”
Annabelle thought about what she knew of Magnus. She’d heard that he had inherited his father’s jealous, violent nature, and that he was responsible for the death of Whitby’s older brother. John, the heir to the earldom before Whitby, had been found dead in Hyde Park when he was sixteen. His head was cracked open on a rock, and everyone knew he and Magnus had seen each other that day and fought, as they always did. Magnus had a bloody nose when they caught up with him afterward, but of course he denied having anything to do with what happened. They’d had no proof, and it was concluded that John was simply thrown from his horse.
John. John Edwards. Whitby’s first name was Edward…
Her mind spinning with horrifying revelations, Annabelle felt faint and unsteady on her feet. “I can’t believe I was sneaking around behind Whitby’s back to be with you.”
Magnus stiffened visibly, then his expression turned to a cold mask of stone. “But you were, and I helped you do it.”
Annabelle could barely think or breathe. She had believed herself in love with a bank clerk named John Edwards, but it had all been a lie. He was her brother’s enemy, and had used her and manipulated her for the sole purpose of vengeance.
“Whitby is right,” she said, glaring at him with hatred and loathing. “You are a monster.”
She turned to leave, the rain pelting her face as she stepped out from under the overhang.
“Are you going to tell him about us?” he shouted after her. “I hope you do. I only wish I could be there to see his face.”
Because Magnus never hated Whitby more than he did at that moment.
Hearing that, Annabelle stopped. She didn’t care that she was standing ankle deep in a puddle, nor that she hadn’t bothered to pull up her hood and her tiny hat was soaking up the rain. She turned on her heel, marched back to Magnus, and slapped him hard across the face.
He took the punishing strike without flinching, then bowed his head very low.
“I will tell him,” she said, “because I won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing there is a secret between my brother and me, or that you know something he doesn’t. And God help you when he finds out.”
That was the last time she had ever seen or spoken to Magnus, her brother’s enemy.
And from that day forward, he was her enemy, too.
Chapter 8
June 1892
A
“It’s a vile story, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low and controlled, but seething with resentment. “My father was cut off from your high-browed family as I have always been, and it is no secret your brother and I despise each other.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Annabelle asked in a numb, shaken stupor.
“Because I knew it would cut our summer short, and…”
Magnus hesitated. A knife plunging into his heart would have been less painful to him than what he was about to say to Annabelle.
But he had to say it, because if he didn’t, she might cling to some tiny shred of hope. He had to make sure she would let go of that and never come back here. For her sake.
“And I was enjoying a very satisfying jab at Whitby,” he ground out.
Annabelle’s face went pale, and her voice trembled when she finally spoke. “You were using me?”
He paused again, his jaw clenching. “Every minute we were together.”
“But I loved you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, because I didn’t love you.”
He nearly choked on the words.
Annabelle sucked in a breath. There it was. The cold, hard truth, and hearing it spoken aloud felt like a plank across her chest. It knocked the wind out of her.
He was staring at her, his eyes dark and expressionless. “I didn’t want to say it, Annabelle, but you forced me to. So there it is. Now you should go.”
Annabelle thought about what she knew of Magnus. She’d heard that he had inherited his father’s jealous, violent nature, and that he was responsible for the death of Whitby’s older brother. John, the heir to the earldom before Whitby, had been found dead in Hyde Park when he was sixteen. His head was cracked open on a rock, and everyone knew he and Magnus had seen each other that day and fought, as they always did. Magnus had a bloody nose when they caught up with him afterward, but of course he denied having anything to do with what happened. They’d had no proof, and it was concluded that John was simply thrown from his horse.
John. John Edwards. Whitby’s first name was Edward…
Her mind spinning with horrifying revelations, Annabelle felt faint and unsteady on her feet. “I can’t believe I was sneaking around behind Whitby’s back to be with you.”
Magnus stiffened visibly, then his expression turned to a cold mask of stone. “But you were, and I helped you do it.”
Annabelle could barely think or breathe. She had believed herself in love with a bank clerk named John Edwards, but it had all been a lie. He was her brother’s enemy, and had used her and manipulated her for the sole purpose of vengeance.
“Whitby is right,” she said, glaring at him with hatred and loathing. “You are a monster.”
She turned to leave, the rain pelting her face as she stepped out from under the overhang.
“Are you going to tell him about us?” he shouted after her. “I hope you do. I only wish I could be there to see his face.”
Because Magnus never hated Whitby more than he did at that moment.
Hearing that, Annabelle stopped. She didn’t care that she was standing ankle deep in a puddle, nor that she hadn’t bothered to pull up her hood and her tiny hat was soaking up the rain. She turned on her heel, marched back to Magnus, and slapped him hard across the face.
He took the punishing strike without flinching, then bowed his head very low.
“I will tell him,” she said, “because I won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing there is a secret between my brother and me, or that you know something he doesn’t. And God help you when he finds out.”
That was the last time she had ever seen or spoken to Magnus, her brother’s enemy.
And from that day forward, he was her enemy, too.
Chapter 8
June 1892
A
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