How could you possibly understand what it’s like to be beholden to someone else? Someone who didn’t even want you?

Eventually she woke up with a start, tangled in the bedsheets with a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. Lottie pressed a hand over her eyes and sighed. She still could hear the raw pain, the shame in his voice. How she had longed to be enough for him this time. To believe that love could mend all those old wounds. But perhaps he was incapable of such attachments now, given all he had endured. Lottie took in a deep breath. She had lost him once before and could recover again.

But it would be so much harder this time.

Lottie’s eye caught on the small painting on the nightstand. She picked up the frame and brought her mother’s Tuscan landscape close. Lottie had imprinted this image in her mind long, long ago, but it was as if she was seeing it anew. Now she had been to that special spot herself and saw it with her own eyes. Lottie smiled and traced the edge with her finger. Her mother had done an excellent job capturing the clouds. Lottie always felt a dull ache for her lost parents, but it sharpened to a pinprick and threaded through her heart as she imagined them, so young and in love, spending long, hazy days in that sun-drenched little village.

She wanted to talk to her mother now—about the village, and Alec, and the mess she had made of everything—so badly it nearly made her sick.

Lottie placed the frame back on the nightstand and climbed out of bed. She couldn’t stand being in this house much longer. There were too many memories, too much pain lurking in every shadow. She would set things right with Uncle Alfred, wait until he recovered, and then go off somewhere else until her heart mended itself, or at least until the ache was slightly less devastating. It didn’t matter where, as long as it wasn’t here.

Chapter Twenty-One

After Lottie washed and took a few bites of a cold bun, Valentina helped her change into a cream blouse and sober black skirt. The sartorial frivolity she indulged in while in Italy had no place in this house. As she headed for Uncle Alfred’s suite, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was heading into a gauntlet armed only with questions.

It was still early enough to hope that Mr. Wetherby hadn’t arrived yet, but as soon as she entered the suite’s sitting room, her heart sank. The man stood as dour and rigid as ever, talking with the nurse. He glanced at Lottie and immediately lowered his voice.

He murmured a few more words then turned to her. “Miss Carlisle.” He flashed her a tight smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you. Good morning, Mrs. Ragmoore.”

“Morning, Miss Carlisle,” she said warmly. “Your uncle’s been asking for you already.”

Lottie’s chest loosened with relief. “I’ll go in.” Mr. Wetherby stood firmly in place, watching her with his usual severity. She felt his heavy gaze on her as she opened the bedroom door. Unlike yesterday, the room was filled with soft sunlight. And there was Uncle Alfred, sitting up in bed, already waiting for her.