“How about your fiancée?” she asked. “Why aren’t you in London with her?”
“I told you I jilted her.”
“What a gentleman,” she snidely retorted.
“I did it for you. You should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you!”
“I never should have proposed to her. My brother warned me, but I wouldn’t listen.”
“You seemed fairly happy that day she was here at the estate.”
“I was just pretending. I’m relieved to be shed of her, although when I met with her father to work out the details of the split, I really got an earful. If you’d been there while he was shouting at me, you’d have enjoyed it.”
“I’ll bet I would have.”
“I haven’t had anybody yell at me like that since I was a fourteen-year-old private.” He gave a mock shudder. “Do you feel sorry for me?”
“No.”
“I’m not engaged anymore. What do you think about that?”
“I don’t think anything about it.”
“I’m free to wed whoever I choose. You for instance. I could marry you if I decided it suited my purposes.”
“I already told you: never in a thousand years.”
“Why is that exactly? You used to be sweet on me. Where is your unbridled passion? You can’t tell me it evaporated. I’ll never believe you.”
He leaned in and stole a kiss, and as he drew away, her heart hammered so hard that she worried it might burst from her chest. He was enormously pleased with himself, while she was distressed, furious, and sad.
It hurt to look at him, hurt to hear his voice and see his smile. Didn’t he understand? She’d been scraped raw, hollowed out. There was nothing remaining of the person she’d once been. He’d left her an empty shell.
She scrambled to her feet and hastened off down the lane. Of course, oaf that he was, he wouldn’t let her storm off with any dignity. He came after her, his long legs rapidly covering the ground so that, shortly, they were strolling side by side.
She tried to ignore him, but she couldn’t. He simply took up too much space.
“I’ve been gone for awhile,” he said, “and now that I’m back, do you know what I noticed?”
“No, and I don’t care what you noticed either.”
“You’ve put on a few pounds.”
“How kind of you to mention it.”
“Your bosom is bigger, your tummy more rounded.”
She halted and whirled on him. “Are you calling me fat?”
“No, I’m calling you pregnant.”
She gasped. “What?”
“People claim you’re overly emotional. You cry at the drop of a hat. You’re constantly dizzy. You’re with child, Emeline Wilson.”
Could it be? Frantically, she counted the days, the weeks. It had been ages since she’d had her monthly flux, but she’d attributed it to stress and strain.
Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .
“If I had a gun,” she seethed, “I’d shoot you with it.”
“You ought to be a tad nicer to me. It sounds as if you need a husband.” He smirked. “I’m available.”
“Maybe I won’t kill you. Maybe I’ll kill myself.”
“And do away with Nicholas, junior? You never would.”
He stared in that intent way he had, the way that had previously elated her. Once, he’d made her feel as if she was the most unique woman on earth. Now she just felt tired. Tired and miserable and so very, very lonely.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a gold wedding band. He waved it under her nose like a talisman.
“What is that supposed to be?” she asked.
“What would you imagine it is?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
He clasped her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
“Marry me, Emeline.”
“What? No.”
“Marry me,” he said again. “You want to so badly. Stop fighting it.”
“No,” she repeated more firmly, but he was unfazed by her reply.
“Why not?”
“Because if I were to wed, it would be for love.”
“I know that about you.”
“You’re focused on status and revenge. You want a Lady Veronica Stewart—it’s all you’ve ever wanted—and you’ll never convince me that you’d suddenly ask me instead.”
“I have lowered my standards quite a bit, haven’t I? I’m definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel with you.”
It was the sort of sarcastic remark that once might have coaxed a pithy rejoinder from her, that might have garnered him a playful jab in the ribs. But she was exhausted and depressed and anxious to slither away so she could lick her wounds in private, while she contemplated her condition.
“Don’t do this,” she quietly implored.
“Don’t do what?”
“You assume I’m increasing, and you’ve been overcome by some odd chivalrous impulse, but it will pass.”
“You think this is an impulse?”
“I’m certain it is. Just leave it be, Nicholas.”
“You called me Nicholas.”
He flashed a devilish grin that had her heart pounding again, and a collage of images popped into her head: their first meeting in London, his initial visit to Stafford, the afternoon he’d caught her fishing in the stream, his kindness to her sisters, her developing infatuation, his ultimate seduction.
She’d been so happy then. She’d felt so vibrant and alive. How had that joy fled so completely?
“Let me share a little secret with you, Em,” he said.
“Please don’t.”
“You want to marry for love. Well, what about me? What if I want to marry for love too?”
“Then you should go find someone who loves you. You’re wonderful, remember? I’m sure you won’t have any trouble.”
“I don’t have to search,” he insisted. “I’ve found what I need very close to home. It’s been waiting here for me all this time.”
To her consternation, he dropped to a knee and clasped her hand again.
“I love you, Emeline.”
“Nicholas, no, don’t you dare—”
“Hush,” he soothed, “and listen to me for once.”
“Why should I turn over a new leaf at this late date?”
His eyes were so very blue. A woman could get lost in those eyes. She had gotten lost in those eyes. She tried to glance away but couldn’t.
“When I first came to Stafford, I hated it,” he said.
“How could I forget?”
“You made me love it. You made me love you. You’ve
