her eyes searching, boring in as if she could read the very secrets of her soul. “No, perhaps you aren’t ready,” she decided at last. “Not yet. But you will be soon.”
* * *
Reese went straight to his office after leaving Mrs. Singletary’s home and shut the door behind him. He needed privacy, craved it as badly as air.
He laid out the contracts on his mahogany desk and began reviewing the changes he’d scribbled along the margins. He lost himself in the process, managing to focus for several hours before his mind wandered back to his morning meeting across town.
What had he been thinking? Agreeing to allow Beatrix Singletary to help him find a suitable bride?
He blamed the weak moment on the melancholy he’d been unable to shake since his disastrous evening at the opera.
Now he was stuck.
If he cried off from their agreement at this point, Mrs. Singletary would only continue her quest without his assistance. He’d seen her do it before. Several times, in fact. She wouldn’t rest until she had him happily married off.
Reese wasn’t opposed to getting married again. But he’d already had his chance at happiness. It had slipped away like water through splayed fingers. A split second had been all it took. One unseen root in the ground and Miranda’s horse had gone down hard, landing on top of her after the initial tumble, crushing her delicate body.
Reese had spent the next three days at her bedside, holding her in his arms even as it tore at his heart to watch her life slip away one strangled breath at a time.
Shutting his eyes against the memory, Reese drew in a slow breath of air. He would never love again. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how to go at it half measure. He’d learned during his brief marriage to Miranda that he was a man who felt too much, gave too much, needed too much in return. Unspeakable pain accompanied such uninhibited emotion.
Thus, he would insist the widow keep to their agreement, and only suggest women who met his specific requirements.
With that in mind, he pulled out a fresh piece of paper and began constructing his list. He came up with seven items, the number of completion.
Fitting.
A familiar, rapid knock, knock, knock had him folding the list and setting it aside. “Enter.”
The door swung open and his father’s broad shoulders filled the gap. Other than the graying at the temples and the slightly leaner frame, it was like looking into a mirror and seeing himself twenty-five years from now.
As always, Reese Sr. got straight to the point. “I need to speak with you immediately.”
Unsure what he heard in the other man’s tone, Reese pushed away from his desk. “Of course.”
He started to rise.
His father stopped him with a hand in the air. “Don’t stand on my account.”
Reese settled back in his chair.
Face pinched, his father strode through the room, then flattened his palms on Reese’s desk and leaned forward. “I’m worried about you, son.”
“There’s no need to be.”
“You left the theater abruptly last night.” He searched Reese’s face. “I need to assure myself you are well.”
“I had contracts that required my final review.”
“That wasn’t the reason you left early.” Pushing back, the older man stood tall. “I haven’t seen that look on your face since...”
He hesitated, seeming to rethink what he’d been about to say.
“Since when?”
“Since Miranda’s accident.”
Reese’s stomach took a hard roll. They never spoke of Miranda, or the accident that had taken her away from him. Now, after last night at the opera, Reese couldn’t stop thinking of her, or how he’d sat at her bedside, willing her to stay alive, begging her to come back to him, praying for God to intervene.
She’d woken but briefly, said his name in a soft, wheezing whisper and then died in his arms.
She’d been eighteen years old. He the same age. They’d had only one month of happiness together. Thirty days.
Not enough.
And yet, far too much. He knew exactly what happiness looked like, felt like and, more important, how quickly it could be taken away.
“I don’t wish to speak of Miranda.”
“You can’t run from the past.”
He had every intention of trying. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss with me? Something important?”
“This is important.”
Reese said nothing.
His father came to stand next to him. “You need to get married again. I think it will help you.”
Was the man in collusion with Beatrix Singletary? Impossible. Though they were polite with one another on most occasions, the two rarely saw eye-to-eye on most subjects. “I attempted to marry again, but—”
“You chose the wrong girl.”
Although he’d come to realize that himself, his father’s quick response gave Reese pause. “I believed you liked Fanny. You’ve been friends with her parents for years. If I remember correctly, which I do, you said you would welcome a match between myself and Cyrus Mitchell’s daughter.”
“I meant the other one. There is substance to Callie Mitchell, something far more interesting than most see when they first meet her. I thought you agreed.”
His heart gave a few thick beats in his chest. Oh, Reese agreed there was much lurking beneath Callie’s sensible exterior—a wild, perhaps even passionate streak that, if unleashed, could possibly lead to a life of recklessness.
He knew far too well how that ended.
A tap on the doorjamb heralded Reese’s law clerk. A thin young man with regular features and an eager smile, Julian Summers was detail-oriented and thus invaluable to the firm. “Mrs. Singletary’s companion is here to see you, Mr. Bennett.”
His father lifted an ironic eyebrow.
Ignoring this, Reese stood and circled around his desk. “Send her in, Julian.”
“Yes, sir.”
A handful of seconds after the clerk disappeared in the hallway, Callie appeared, head high, spine ramrod-stiff, chin at a perfect ninety-degree angle with the floor. At the sight of her, Reese went hot all over, the inexplicable sensation similar to a burst of anger.
She was the same woman she’d always been. Yet, not. The past few hours had produced a remarkable
