But he remembered it as though he were standing beside her just yesterday. “You were afraid to marry me, at first. But after I convinced you, you said you’d dreamed of marrying me. That this was what you’d hoped for.”

She kept her gaze averted. “I might have been caught up in the moment.”

He drew nearer, trapping her against a stall. “I married you to avoid my father’s interference. And to take you away from here.” He rested both hands upon her shoulders. “You never knew that your brother sent me, did you?”

She shook her head.

“He asked me to come and ensure that you were all right. When I saw this place…” He shook his head. “You didn’t deserve to live like that.”

After a pause, she inclined her head. “It no longer matters.”

But it did. He could see it in the way she guarded her emotions. “Would you have married me if you had known the truth about why I was there?”

She shrugged. “You said everything I wanted to hear. I had no one to blame but myself.”

“I hurt you when I left. I am sorry for it.”

A tremulous expression glimmered in her eyes, but she shielded the vulnerability. Though she might have dismissed it as unimportant, he knew better. He wanted to atone for it, to start again.

Without acknowledging the apology, she said, “Let us go into the house.”

The manor boasted fourteen rooms, but Stephen could not remember a time when the house had held all its furnishings and paintings. The brick façade was covered in ivy, the vines smothering cracked windows. The panes were rotted, the wood crumbling in places. It was a home that evoked despair.

“Are you certain you wish to enter?” he asked.

She nodded. “It wasn’t always like this.”

Emily moved up the crumbling steps, running her hands along the entryway until she felt a loose brick. Wiggling it forward, she reached into the hollow and withdrew an iron key. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. The smell of dust and decay permeated his senses.

Nothing of value remained. The walls were discolored with light squares where paintings had once hung. As he walked toward the drawing room, he spied an old, battered Grecian couch peppered with moth holes. Spider webs glistened against the heavy green velvet curtains by the windows.

“Daniel sold the étagère,“ Emily remarked. “Just before we married. I used to love tracing my fingers on the wood. Mama had porcelain shepherdesses on display.”

“Were you happy here?” he asked.

She shook her head. “They always argued over money, over which pieces to sell. After Papa died—”

A shudder pulsed through her. Her family’s tragedy had been retold in countless drawing rooms. Rather than beg for help from a family member, her father had hanged himself. She buried her face in her hands, trying to gather her composure.