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But instead of leaving, he stepped further into her salon. It took him two tries before he could speak clearly.
    "I—I wish to apologize," he said. "The way I behaved—"
    She held up her hand, her eyes closing as if she couldn't bear to even look at him. "I have no idea what you are talking about. We have never met before, beyond a simple conversation about my ruined tarts. Why would you need to apologize about that?"
    He swallowed, the message clear. She wanted to act as if the events at the party had never happened. As if they had never discussed books or danced or kissed. And the pain of that thought startled him.
    Still, she had the right of it. It was best if that whole evening was forgotten. So he forced himself to give her a stiff bow before turning away. But he couldn't manage to leave. Not yet.
    "Why does my father hate you so?" he blurted.
    Her head lifted and her eyebrows shot into her tightly pulled hair. "What?"
    He swallowed and forced himself to continue. After all, he had begun the conversation. He could hardly turn away from it now. "I, um, I asked him about you. He is a blunt man, as you may know. His words regarding you were—"
    "I can well imagine what they were," she said, her eyes filling with tears.
    Anthony wanted to reach for her, but he held back, unsure what to do. His father had been quite vocal about his opinion. He'd called Francine a spoiled shrew, a termagant who consumes as much as a whale and looks no better. And then he'd added a whole host of other bitter, angry names that were so uncharacteristic that Anthony was taken aback.
    Meanwhile, Francine looked down at the floor and surreptitiously wiped away her tears. The kitten had conquered her piece of paper and was now resting in the corner with her "kill," so even that tiny creature provided no distraction.
    Anthony stepped forward. "Francine," he said, loving the sound of her name. "What happened? What did he do to you?"
    "Do?" Francine cried. "He was nice to me!" She released a short bark of a laugh that was filled with self-condemnation.
    Anthony lowered himself to the edge of the settee. She was curled into the side corner of the furniture, her feet tucked in beneath her skirt. That meant he could sit there—close to her knees—and still not touch her. He could be respectful of her status and his lowly position, while still sharing the same space with her. They breathed the same air, he felt the heat of her body close by, and he smelled the sweet lemon and apple scent that seemed to cling to her skin.
    He didn't ask for an explanation. First and foremost, it wasn't his right. But second, he had learned that people who needed to speak would eventually answer his questions. He only needed to bide his time and wait. Eventually it worked. She breathed out a sigh that made him ache for the pain in it.
    "Have you ever done cruel things and not even known why? When I was a child, I tormented your father. I stole his papers, dented his hat. I even cut up his scarf one winter day when it was especially cold. I wanted to see his nose turn red and run."
    Anthony smiled, though he knew he shouldn't. "My father does have a rather large nose."
    She glanced up sharply, probably to see if he was making fun of her. He wasn't. And he hoped that she could see the steadiness of his gaze.
    "I was cruel to him."
    "Why?"
    "Because I couldn't be cruel to my own father." She huffed out a breath and her fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress. "It's hard to explain. When I was little, Papa and I used to go everywhere together. He would take me to the millinery. I would play in the ribbons, and I would often eat meals sitting on his lap. But then the business became successful, he got busier, and all of a sudden, I never saw him. Even when he was home, he was closeted in his office. I used to sit in the hallway and wait for hours for him to come out."
    "You must have been very lonely."
    She was looking at him, but he had the impression that her thoughts