He could tell her she was lemon ice and spiced rum and the dawn.
But somehow he knew already that it would not matter. He knew from the milky pallor of her cheeks and the frozen look about her mouth that fancy words would make no difference. He knew what she was going to say.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t—Peter, Ican’tmarry you.”
He had not expected anything different, not really.
If she wanted to marry him, she wouldn’t have presented him with a list of other women for him to court. She was the sister of a duke; he knew for a fact she’d turned down at least half a dozen proposals from men altogether more suitable for her than Peter. Steady English peers who weren’t reckless and selfish. Who didn’t need fixing.
And yet he felt cold, a bitter English cold, and sick with disappointment.
He eased back from her. “Of course,” he said. “I understand.”
“Peter,” she said again, and her hands clung together in front of her. “I’m sorry—it’s not—it’s not—”
He backed away from her a little farther, moving toward the door. He was no saint; he did not want to hear her pity. “It’s all right. Thank you for the advice. I shall—try to put it into practice.”
She stared at him. “Oh. You’re welcome. I—”
She was blinking rapidly now, no more words making their way from her mouth, and so he turned to the door and yanked at it.
It did not open. It was still locked. For God’s sake, what a time for Selina to be so utterly competent and for him to be such a consummate fool.
He spun back toward her, clenching his jaw so no more idiocy poured out.
She was already fishing for the key in a hidden pocket of her skirt. “I’m sorry. I have it. The key, I mean. I have—here it is. I’m sorry.”
She shoved the key into the lock and turned. Started to open the door and then stopped herself and shut it again.
“You should… exit first,” she said. “For your reputation. You should exit first, and I’ll follow in a few minutes.”
He stared down at her. “Formyreputation? Selina, you do understand that if we were discovered in here, yours is the reputation that would suffer? It’s not right, but it’s simply a fact.”
She laughed unsteadily. “I’m not nearly so worried about my reputation as I am about yours.”
God, his heart squeezed at that. He could not think of anyone he had ever known who cared the way she did. “You shouldn’t be.”
“I cannot help myself!” Her voice cracked a little. “I care forthe children. Your brother and sister need you, Peter, and I—I don’t have anyone who needs me.”
He lifted his still-ungloved hand halfway to her face.I need you, he wanted to say.
But he would not continue down that road. He dropped his hand.
“Put your glove back on,” she said, “before you go.”
He did. He gave her a ghost of a smile and then closed the door between them.
Chapter 11
… We’ll need at least a hundred copies of the new translation of Catullus. And two dozen more ofFanny Hill,I suppose. For a sixty-six-year-old book, it does seem to fly off the shelves.
—from Lady Selina Ravenscroft to Jean Laventille, publisher
The following afternoon, Selina sat at her escritoire and stared blankly down at the paper in front of her.
She knew what it said. She had intended to write a letter to Laventille—he’d passed along word of another inquiry into Belvoir’s ownership, this time via a “potential investor”—but she had altogether failed to pen the note.
Instead she had tapped several dozen clustered dots on the top of the page and then written in her quick, neat hand:What the bloody hell were you thinking?
