Moonlight on My Mind by Jennifer McQuiston

Not that she didn’t deserve some measure of it.
    “Perhaps you seek the pleasure—the notoriety—of being the one to bring me in,” he went on. “Or perhaps you have a moribund fascination to see the reduced circumstance of a man who might kill his own brother?”
    Good heavens. Did he really believe she was capable of such a thing? “I’m here because I felt you deserved to know,” she protested. “That you would want to know. There would be no reason for me to fabricate such a thing.”
    “What you fail to realize is that I am in regular correspondence with my father, and the letter the coachman mentioned is undoubtedly from him.” He crossed his arms, though she could see his fists clench reflexively. “My father is the only person I trust, and I have no intention of returning until he sends word.”
    Julianne considered the possibilities, given her regrettable knowledge of the past week. “Are you sure the letter is from your father?”
    “My father is the only person who knows where I am.”
    “Not the only person,” she pointed out. “ I learned where you were, after all. Perhaps someone else has sent you a letter. Your friend David Cameron. I believe he enjoyed an extended stay in Brighton after his recent marriage.”
    “Cameron and his new bride returned to Moraig a sennight ago.”
    “Well then, perhaps the mail was delayed en route to Moraig.” She thought back to the solemn graveside service. It had been a beautiful ceremony, the leaves of the nearby trees just beginning to turn in color. But she had not spared much time admiring the beauty of a Yorkshire autumn. The countess’s frozen vigil, and the tears of her two small girls, had held Julianne’s attention far too well. “I saw him buried, Patrick. There can be no mistake.”
    He stared at her a long, fractious minute. “There can always be a mistake.” His unspoken accusation hung in the air between them.
    Julianne shook her head, anger beginning to simmer now at his refusal to entertain the truth. Her imaginings of this interaction—and she had entertained a few—had never gone like this. “You are the new Earl of Haversham, Patrick,” she told him. “And because of that, you must return now .”
    His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Do not call me that,” he all but growled.
    “Which? Patrick? Or Haversham?”
    “Either.”
    “Then what should I call you? Channing no longer fits. You can deny it, you can hate me, but it will not make it any less true.”
    Somewhere in the house, the lamb found its voice again. He turned from her with a muffled curse and snatched a half-full bottle of milk from a nearby shelf.
    “There’s more,” she offered to the hard slant of his shoulders.
    He tied a slip of cloth over the bottle with a length of twine before turning back around to capture her in the steel band of his gaze. “You’ve told me my father is dead.” His voice rang hoarse, a sure sign that the crack in his prickly, competent armor had widened to a chasm of canyonlike proportions. “How much more could there be?”
    Julianne wished she had more than her voice to convince him, given that he seemed to distrust her so much. “An inquest has been called into Eric’s death. I’ve been told I will be expected to testify.”
    His face betrayed no expression. “There has always been talk of an inquest, and nothing came of it. My father has assured me—”
    “Your father cannot help you in this. Not anymore.” Julianne drew a deep breath, praying the maddening man saw reason. “You need to return, Patrick, and fight these accusations through the proper channels. That is why I am here.”
    The little lamb called out again, fainter now, as if it had given up all hope of its dinner and was now considering crying itself to sleep. He snatched up the lantern and strode toward the door, his wide shoulders filling the frame. But something halted him, just on the threshold of the hallway. He turned his head over his