He still looked nervous. Though, to his credit, he didn’t look more nervous now, even after all of her family was ranged in back of her.

“I will.”

Olivia uttered a squawk of protest that was quickly stifled, likely by Ida’s glower.

She turned to them. “I can handle this by myself. You should all go.”

The sisters filed out the front door, Ida tossing Lord Stanbury one more derisive look, Olivia trying to whisper in Della’s ear until she waved her sister away. Sarah and Mr. Wattings disappeared down the back stairs.

And he was still standing at the door, to one side so he could allow the remaining duke’s daughters to exit.

“Come in, then,” she said, not waiting to see if he would follow before returning to the dining room.

Of course she felt him at her back—all that huge, glorious, muscled warmth that still made her a bit gooey inside, even though she was still mad at him.

She held the door open as he entered, then shut it firmly behind them as she gestured to a chair.

“Sit.”

He didn’t argue. He likely didn’t dare.

Something must be wrong with her that she thoroughly enjoyed that.

She remained standing, folding her arms over her chest. Tapping her foot.

“Well?” she asked at last.

He still looked nervous.

Although there was something in his gaze, something predatory, that made her shudder in a delicious way.

Oh dear. Perhaps she didn’t have the upper hand after all.

“I am sorry,” he said at last. “I did the wrong thing. I didn’t respect your wishes. I wanted to help so desperately that I ignored how strongly you felt, and I did what I thought was best. I didn’t ask you. I just—did.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“And,” he continued, closing his eyes as if in concentration, “I have to admit that the idea of me helping you was so compelling I didn’t even stop to think about how you would feel.” He opened his eyes. “Your father is even worse than you’d intimated. I wanted to protect you from having to deal with him and from ever having to see that Baxter.” He spat the name out, making Della wish she felt like smiling.

But she didn’t. She was still angry.

“You’re so fiercely independent, Della. I thought that if there was a way to relieve some of what you carry around every day it would be an honor. I was an idiot—”

“You were,” she interrupted.

“But I hoped that you might be . . .” And he paused, and she could see him wince as the word came to him.

“Grateful?” she supplied.

He closed his eyes again, and swallowed.

“Yes.”

A moment as she processed what he’d said, and how she felt, and what she wanted to do now.