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His mouth. His hair. His hands. She had forgotten none of it. Sheltered and closeted away from society as unmarried women were, she had suffered twice as long as she should have under the weight of his memory. Cloistered as she had been, he had been the first man to truly turn her head, the first man to make her see her appeal and worth as a woman. Whether he had meant the words he'd said, she didn't know. She thought he had. He seemed to genuinely like her, and she had been genuinely infatuated with him. In fact, she'd been on the verge of falling in love with him, so much so that when she caught him with Lydia, she tried to make up a thousand excuses for him. She had wanted to forgive him for betraying her with her own sister. What did that say about her own character? She had to be defective to be sure.
     
     
His hair was longer now. It made him look a bit like a pirate— or the hero of one of Byron's poems. Oh, it would be so much easier to hate him if he were ugly! But she was so tired of despising him. She was so tired of carrying this secret, and it had felt so good to reveal the truth to him— as if that huge weight had finally been lifted from her shoulders.
     
     
It wasn't hate that drove her to her father's room now. It was fear. She was so very, very afraid that if Brahm remained in their house, she would start wanting to forgive him again, that she would want to believe that he was sorry and that he might have become a different man. She was afraid that she might like him. Worse yet, she was still a cloistered, sheltered woman. Older, yes she was, but she was terrified that she might yet be that naive girl at heart.
     
     
She was afraid that if she gave up her hate, if she let it all go, it might turn toward her sister, and she could not hate the child she'd practically raised, not for that man— not for any man.
     
     
If she gave up her hate, if she believed in him, then he would have the power to hurt her again, to make a fool of her trust once again. That would not happen. Could not happen.
     
     
She wanted Brahm Ryland gone. Now .
     
     
Her sisters gathered around her as she knocked on her father's door. God bless them, they looked so outraged on her behalf. There had been many times in the past when they acted as though they resented Eleanor and her dual role as oldest sister and surrogate mother, but on the odd occasion when she needed them— or they thought she needed them— they flocked to her, doing whatever was necessary to protect and support her.
     
     
From behind the heavy oak door, Eleanor heard her father call for her to enter. She turned the doorknob before her courage could desert her.
     
     
Jeramiah Durbane reclined on his bed, a great mountain of pillows supporting his impressive frame. At almost seventy years of age, he had pale hair that was more white than blond, but his blue eyes were still bright with life and his physique impressive with youthful vitality.
     
     
That was, he had been vital until this illness struck. It was only because of this illness that Eleanor had agreed to this foolish house party. If her father wanted to dress in a frock and walk into town, she'd agree to it if it might keep him with her just a little longer.
     
     
He hardly looked like a man with one foot in the grave today, however. He eyed his daughters with a suspicious wariness that only the father of five girls could conjure.
     
     
"Good God," he muttered gruffly. "There is only one thing that could bring the lot of you bursting in here like that. I must be dead— or I shall soon wish I was."
     
     
Eleanor might have chuckled at her father's wit were she not so prepared to be angry with him.
     
     
"A guest has just arrived that I thought you might be interested in, Papa," she informed him, choosing her words carefully.
     
     
That her father didn't look surprised sent a tremor of welcome unease down her spine. It had been he, not Lydia.
     
     
Which meant that Brahm's arrival