Mrs. Dove-Lyon tilted her head, as though weighing his words carefully, before shifting to look at Rosilee. The widow’s calculating gaze seemed to assess her, as if silently asking whether Rosilee would accept this declaration.
Blake came to a halt a few paces from her. His eyes—those piercing, stormy eyes—never left her face. But before he could speak, the mysterious man coughed.
“Glad to see you, brother.”
“Reaper,” Blake growled, his tone low, dangerous. “I’ll deal with you later.” To Rosilee, he said softly, “I’m sorry.”
It was everything she had wanted to hear, everything she had longed for—but the wound he had inflicted still throbbed painfully.
“I’ve been a fool,” he went on. “I thought I was protecting you, but I was just too afraid to face my own feelings. I love you, Rosilee. Without you, I am nothing. Please... do not do this. Don’t marry someone else. Marry me.”
Her breath caught in her throat. The words she hadn’t known she’d been dreaming of hearing were finally spoken. And yet, the sting of his rejection still lingered. He had pulled away from her before, brutally—how could she be sure he wouldn’t do it again?
“You wounded me more than you can know,” she whispered, her chin trembling.
“I know I did. I’m sorry, Rosilee. If you can forgive me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Please let me.”
Rosilee stared at the man she’d come to love with all her heart. She said nothing, her mind and soul in turmoil within her. But as she looked into his eyes, glimpsed the raw sincerity there, something shifted inside her. Slowly, cautiously, she stepped forward and reached for his hand. The moment her fingers touched his, a wave of warmth spread through her, melting the icy barrier that had begun to erect in her heart.
“I don’t want anyone else,” she whispered. “I never did.”
“My, this is a rather touching scene,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “But it’s still a scene. And scenes must be paid for.”
“How much do you want?” Blake asked.
Rosilee cast a worried glance between the three people standing there.
“It’s not money I want.”
But before any of them could say another word, growls and loud crashes came from below, startling everyone into silence.
“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice—Baston—drawled, and Rosilee gripped Blake’s hand tightly.
Rosilee couldn’t help herself, she stepped up to the balustrade again, Blake hovering close at her back. Baston’s eyes settled on her instantly. Rosilee’s heart plummeted. That villain stood in the entrance of the gaming floor, flanked by two menacing figures!
A wicked smile curled his lips. “Isn’t this a lovely reunion? You had me fooled for a while, Lady Rosilee, slipping away like that, but I’m afraid nothing has changed.”
Hah! “Everythinghas changed, Baston.”
“Is that so? But I’m afraid, Lady Rosilee, your brother’s fate still rests with me.”
Blake tensed beside her, his hand giving hers a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have as much of an upper hand as you think,” Blake said.
Baston scoffed. “Don’t I? Your supposed advantage is naught but vapor. Those men sniffing around my home—yours, I presume?—they are no threat to me. The viscount and I are bosom friends.”
Hah! What friends? The lying blackguard!
“When last did you call on your bosom friend, being here in London and all?” Blake countered dryly.
“I have trust in my men,” the man snarled. “Yours are just ruffians for hire, aren’t they?”
What on earth were these men on about?
“Aren’t you the same ilk?” Blake bit out through gritted teeth.
“You would know, would you not, Your Grace? Since you too, hired me, a mere ruffian, to spy on Lady Rosilee?”
A soft curse.
