His hands slid slowly from her face. 'I guess I have my answer.'
'Robert.' She pressed her hands to her stomach, feeling the need to say something, but completely ignorant of what to say, not even certain why, in spite of everything, she felt this inexplicable need to comfort him. To make him understand. 'You just don't know what it's like. To have your heart completely, utterly broken.'
He appeared to look right through her. In a flat tone, he said, 'You are completely, utterly wrong.' He leaned forward, until his lips almost touched her ear. 'You see, I just found out,' he whispered, his warm breath a stark contrast to his chilling words. Then he turned and walked swiftly across the carpet. Without a backward glance, he quit the room. The door closed behind him with a soft click that seemed to reverberate with a funereal finality.
He was gone, and she knew he'd just departed more than her bedchamber, closed the door on more than a sensual interlude. He was literally gone. From her life. There would be no more passion-filled nights, no more laughter-filled days.
An ache such as she'd never known crushed her, stealing her breath. Nothing, ever, had hurt this way. Not even David's betrayal. Her entire body started to shake, and she staggered toward the bed. She climbed beneath the covers like a wounded animal, shivering, feeling more lost and alone than she ever had.
Yet she'd done the right thing. For both of them. She'd vowed never to marry again, to never give her heart to someone who could trample it into the ground. A man who would keep things from her. Who was capable of committing a crime.
And even if she was insane enough to push aside all the reasons he was the wrong man for her and consider his proposal, she could not ignore the fact that she was the wrong woman for him. An image of him, cavorting with his niece and nephew, flashed through her mind, leaving a poignant ache in its wake. Whatever Robert's faults, there was no denying he was wonderful with children. No skirting the obvious fact that he was a man who would someday want, and need, children of his own.
And no ignoring the fact that she could never be the woman who gave them to him.
The area around her heart went hollow, then filled with throbbing grief. The memory of him bouncing children on his knees, children who gazed at him with love-filled, excited eyes, should not hurt her so. She'd known her relationship with Robert would never lead to marriage, knew children were not in her future. But clearly they would be in his. And that filled her with a misery and longing too painful to contemplate.
Yes, she might possibly satisfy him for a short period of time, but he would eventually want children. And she could not give them to him.
He'd clearly put his past behind him, moved on with his life. She recalled his words about the fire.
It did not matter. Their whirlwind affair was over. It had simply ended a bit sooner than anticipated.
Yes, she'd done the right thing. For both of them. Her mind absolutely knew it.
Now, if she could only convince her heart.
Robert entered his bedchamber and made a beeline for the decanters. Tossing back a hefty swallow of brandy, he immediately poured another. As he lifted the snifter to his lips, he caught sight of himself in the cheval glass. From the neck down, he looked like a man who had just emerged from his lover's bed- rumpled and disheveled. From the neck up, he looked like a man who'd just lost everything he held dear-empty, hollow-eyed, and drawn.
Inclining his head at his reflection, he raised his brandy in mock salute. 'Well,
He tossed back the potent drink, relishing the internal burn, which at least served to prove that he wasn't completely numb. Perhaps after a few more drinks he might start to feel better. A few dozen drinks might conceivably be necessary.
'Bloody hell, there's not enough brandy in the entire empire to make me feel better,' he muttered. Of course, enough brandy might render him unable to feel anything which at this point would be a blessing indeed. Sloshing two more fingerfuls into the crystal snifter, he made his way to the wing chair flanking the fireplace and sank down. Leaning forward, with his elbows resting on his splayed knees, he stared into the low-burning flames, as if they held the answers to all his questions. And God knew he had plenty of questions. Problem was, he didn't like the damn answers. In truth, he'd only received a positive answer to one question: She did indeed taste like honeysuckle everywhere.
An image of them together, naked, his lips caressing her, flashed through his mind, bringing with it a wave of agony that stole his breath. He could still taste her on his tongue. Feel the imprint of her satiny skin… skin he would never touch again.
But what choice did he have? Through his own stupidity he'd lost her. She'd made her feelings unmistakably clear. She did not want him. She did not love him.
He rubbed his palm over the center of his chest. Damn it, the fact that she had turned down his proposal hurt. But the fact that she didn't love him… God, that sliced like a rusty blade. She might as well have cut out his heart and tossed it on the floor. Stomped on it while she was at it.
Yet he had no one but himself to blame. He should have told her. He'd obviously been a fool to believe she wouldn't find out, but it had happened so long ago. Had Elizabeth told her? Possibly, but he doubted it. He supposed he could ask her, but the answer made little difference now. More than likely she'd overheard some servant gossip. Or perhaps Lady Gaddlestone had mentioned it during their ocean crossing.
In truth, it didn't matter how she'd found out. In her eyes, he was guilty. Not only of a crime but for not telling her. He recalled the look in her eyes. She'd looked at him as if he were a… criminal. Accusation had shone clearly in her gaze, all but screaming at him,
God, that hurt. But he could not blame her-not when he'd said nothing to disabuse her of the notion. He'd wanted to tell her the whole truth, so badly his skin had ached, but he was bound by promises he could not break. He'd never told anyone. And he'd given his word not to. Unfortunately, there was more involved here than just his wants and desires.
Damn it, he was not a criminal.
Yes, he'd done what he'd had to do, but damn it, he'd never considered that those actions would cost him the woman he loved four years later.
If he'd known, would he have made the same choices that night? He took a long swallow of brandy, then squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course, in the entire scheme of things, his past didn't really matter a jot anyway. It was simply the final nail in the coffin. He could have been a vaulted saint, and she still would have refused him. She did not love him. Did not want him. Did not want to marry ever again. By spouting out his feelings like a faulty fountain, he'd accomplished nothing but making an ass out of himself. He'd known she'd be reluctant to accept a proposal. His fatal mistake had been underestimating the depth of her reluctance.
He polished off his brandy, then set the empty snifter on the hearth. A long groan escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands. Damn it, it was over. He had to accept it. He'd offered her everything he had-his love, his heart, his name- and she'd turned him down. Why the devil could he not have simply fallen in love with an amenable English girl with no bloody former husband or problems or madmen after them or aversions to marriage? Someone willing to allow past mistakes to remain in the past? Someone who, when he asked her to marry him, would know that the correct answer was:
