He planned on figuring out a way to extract them both from this mess. And he knew that it likely meant never seeing her again.
This morning after he’d stormed from Edmund’s home, he’d briefly allowed himself to consider the possibility that he could marry Lady Beatrice.
The elation he’d felt at the possibility should have surprised him, but he was beginning to suspect that his feelings for this woman weren’t going anywhere, and they were only getting stronger by the day.
If they married, she’d be safe from Edmund’s clutches.
Yet, what sort of life would she have?
He couldn’t drag her to India. And he couldn’t drag her to Scotland to deal with the fall out of Edmund’s calling in of his father’s debts. And after what he’d almost done to her with Edmund, he wouldn’t touch a penny of her coin.
His businesses were starting to make money, but it would be some months before they really started to come to fruition.
Ewan wasn’t stupid, he knew her dowry verged on obscene. And if there were even the slightest possibility that she would doubt his intentions, or think he was marrying her for her dowry, it would kill him.
She already doubted what a treasure she was. He would never do anything to add to that.
And then there was the fact that he’d been lying to her for weeks.
For Christ’s sake, he’d even lied about when he’d arrived here.
How could he marry her and start a life with her without honesty? He wouldn’t disrespect her so.
No matter what way he twisted and turned his thinking and reasoning, there was no way to ask her to be his wife without hurting her. And he’d die before he hurt her.
All day, and even as they’d danced, one solution became clearer and clearer until he knew it was the only thing that could be done. The only way to protect her from future hurt, though there would be no shielding her from what he’d done thus far.
He must confess all to the earl, tell him of Edmund’s vile plans, and enlist his help in protecting Beatrice and her money. Once he secured Staunton’s help, he could perhaps drag himself away from her, knowing that she would be safe.
Because although telling the earl was the right thing to do, it would lead to the inevitable demise of any sort of relationship between him and Beatrice.
She would never forgive him. And he would never forget her.
The dance drew to a close, and Ewan felt an odd tranquillity settle over him. The calm before the storm. The peace before he blew his life apart.
“Ewan.” She looked up at him, biting that damned lip.
He still loved the sound of his name on her lips. They’d never discussed it, just sort of fallen into calling each other by their given names. It lent their relationship an intimacy that he would treasure always.
“Do you think we could take some air?” she asked.
He frowned in confusion as she furiously studied his cravat.
It had been weeks since she’d been too shy to look him in the eye.
She couldn’t know, could she?
But she suddenly looked up and he saw no recrimination, no censure in her clear gaze.
He should hand her back to her friend, then request a meeting with her cousin, just like he had planned.
Yet when she looked at him like that, he couldn’t find it in himself to tell her no.
“Of course,” he said instead, calling himself every sort of coward for putting off the moment he knew had to come.
He held out an arm to her, trying to memorise the feel of her touch.
Outside, the balcony was empty and dark, the only light coming from the half moon and a smattering of stars.
A gentle breeze played with the loose tendrils of her hair, and Ewan couldn’t help but reach out to catch a strand in his fingers, relishing the satin soft feeling of it between his fingers.
He must be a glutton for punishment. Every look, every smile, every touch would cut like a knife when he no longer had her in his life.
“Are you cold?” he asked gently.
“No, I’m fine,” she answered softly. “Are you?”
Ewan smiled down at her.
“No.”
She turned to look out over the balustrade into the darkness. He wondered what she saw out there.
The silence seemed to stretch on for an age.
But he had no desire to break it. He could stand here for eons, just being next to her, just watching her hair blow in the breeze.
“You don’t have a Scottish accent,” she suddenly blurted, and he laughed in spite of the situation.
“Does that disappoint you?” he asked, knowing he’d earn himself one of her blushes.
And there it was.
“N-no,” she rushed to assure him. “Not at all. I just – I just wondered how, if your family is in Scotland.”
Ewan took pity on her.
“My mother was English,” he started. “And I was educated at Eton then Oxford. And then, of course, I travelled to India. I haven’t really spent much time in Scotland since I was a boy.”
“Your parents must be very proud of you. Travelling to India, having all those adventures, building your empire.”
The breathless pride in her voice almost crippled him.
God, she was everything good and pure and innocent. Ewan couldn’t even begin to imagine how hurt she’d be when her cousin told her the truth.
Coward that he was, he planned to be gone by the time the earl sat her down and told her.
He couldn’t face her. Couldn’t see that look that she seemed to reserve just for him fade from her eyes forever.
“My father wanted me to travel,” he managed to get past the lump in his throat. “I think he’d be pleased with what I’ve done.”
“And will you ever go home? To Scotland, I mean. To live.”
Ewan could only stare at her, wishing for things that weren’t possible. Imagining things that couldn’t come to pass.
He imagined her in his family home. Made bigger, of
