Griffith wished he had the freedom to treat her former lover as he wished, but that wouldn’t be the right thing for him to do. Not if he cared for her. Or, more accurately, not since he cared for her.

No, he would pay the blackguard off and then confess his love to her with a clear conscience.

“And so we decided to run away together. I bundled all my jewelry up, just like the heroines in the novels do when they are escaping, and snuck out of the house after a particularly late party. We were together for only a few weeks before I realized he was not who I thought he was. I believe he was equally disenchanted with me,” she said wryly. “But by then I knew I was carrying Nora, and I thought we would both just have to suffer one another for the sake of the child. Luckily, he made the decision by deserting us soon after Nora was born.”

Now she didn’t sound heartsick, and he tried not to feel pleased that she so clearly did not miss Nora’s father.

“But why am I telling you this? It is likely you already know all the sordid details.”

I don’t, Griffith nearly said. I was waiting for you to tell me.

But she was still speaking.

“I wanted to tell you because I wanted you to know that this is different.” She placed her hand on his leg and squeezed. “This is different,” she said in a softer voice. “I know my own mind, so much more than before. So while it might seem as though I am repeating my mistake, I can assure you I am not.”

What was she saying?

“What I am saying,” she said, as though she could read his mind, “is that I have—I have feelings for you.” She cleared her throat, and he stroked her arm, reminding himself to have patience.

“I believe I might have fallen in love with you.” The way she spoke made it sound as though it was an accident. As though she hadn’t meant to, but it had happened nonetheless. Like eating an additional biscuit at tea when you were already full, or forgetting to greet someone you’d met on only a handful of occasions.

But this was love. Much more than a sweet or a mistake.

“Well?” She sounded impatient, and he resisted the urge to grin. His impatient Della, when he was being nothing but patient.

“Thank you,” he said at last, squeezing her shoulder.

“Thank you” was such a paltry response.

He could do better. He would do better. “And I have to say that I—” At which point the carriage slowed, and he glanced out the window, a dawning sense of horror filling him as he saw they’d arrived.