instead he’d held firm and told her nothing.
Admitted nothing.
For the rest of the day, through the long evening, he’d held to a rigidly correct distance. If it hadn’t been for the heat in his gaze she might have thought he’d decided to return to treating her as he had over the past years in London, that as far as he was concerned the interlude between London and the Vale had never occurred. . but those dark, smoldering glances had given the lie to that.
He’d admitted nothing yet remained unswervingly fixed on marrying her.
All of which left her in a complete quandary.
Did his refusal to admit he felt any strong “affection” for her mean that he did but was — in typical male fashion — doing his very best to hide it?
Or instead had he refused to give her any hope because he truly didn’t feel any real affection for her, only lust, something he presumably would know all about, and recognizing that, he was too honorable to pretend to feel the “affection” she required in order to falsely gain her agreement to marry him?
She could hardly fault him if the latter were the case.
And if it was, she wouldn’t be marrying him.
Which very definitely meant she shouldn’t get up, slip through the corridors, and make her way to his bed.
She might actively want more experiences to build her store of memories against the lonely years ahead, but. . going to him would prolong his belief that if he persevered, he would eventually wear her down — wear her out — and she would agree to marry him without the vow of “affection” she sought.
In that, he wouldn’t succeed, but there was, unfortunately, another pertinent consideration.
What if she fell pregnant?
There’d be no avoiding the altar then. Even more so given he needed an heir.
Introducing a child into their equation was the only twist capable of forcing her to put aside her requirement for “affection” and marry him regardless.
That was something he might guess.
Something he, given his continuing determination to wed her, might seek to use if she continued to refuse him, and then she’d never know which of his potential reasons — true “affection” or mere honor linked with lust — was his real motivation.
So. . no further indulging.
At least not unless she had better proof that he truly did love her.
She wasn’t afraid of using the word, yet simply thinking it evoked a wellspring of yearning, a hollow need that encompassed her heart, and had grown deeper and broader over recent days.
An emptiness she prayed would one day be filled, by a partner, a lover, a husband who loved her.
She sighed, then sat up, thumped her pillow and slumped down on her side, her cheek pillowed on soft linen.
Not the same as being pillowed on his chest.
Nowhere near as soothing.
But it was safer this way.
Besides. . it was entirely possible that abstinence would make the heart grow fonder.
Whether it might make his heart any easier to read was another matter altogether.
She wasn’t coming.
Hands beneath his head, Breckenridge lay on his back, stared up at the ceiling, and felt the realization sink to his marrow. He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or aggrieved.
In the end, aggrieved won out.
How was he supposed to convince the damn woman to marry him if she avoided him? Especially if she avoided him here, at night, in the arena in which his persuasive powers were strongest?
Perhaps he should go to her?
He debated the option for a full five minutes but reluctantly conceded that if she didn’t come to him, then he couldn’t go to her. Such an act would smack of a need he was trying hard to hide; the suggestion that he would rather not be parted from her for even one night was simply too revealing.
Besides, if she didn’t want to sleep in his arms. .
The thought shook him but effectively refocused him on the question of why she hadn’t come slipping through his door.
All conceit aside, he knew she’d enjoyed their interludes every bit as much as he had, and even if she wished to hold to her stance of not marrying him, why would she deny herself a pleasure that, if she prevailed, she wouldn’t have available for many days more?
Why put an early end to their liaison?
To punish him for not admitting to “deep affection”?
Or to prod him into admitting the same?
Or both?
The more he thought of it, the more he was convinced the answer lay somewhere along those lines.
Lips twisting wrily, he turned on his side, pulled the covers over his shoulder, and closed his eyes.
What was sauce for the gander in that regard was also sauce for the goose.
Breakfast the next morning was the usual noisy, warmly inclusive Saturday morning meal Heather recalled from previous visits to the Vale.
Sadly, the effervescent buzz of conversation, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the chiming of crockery, only made her temples throb more definitely.
She hadn’t slept well. And she knew at whose feet to lay the blame.
Breckenridge sat alongside Richard toward the other end of the table; between sipping tea and nibbling toast, she cast dark glances his way — glances he chose to ignore.
Rising temper did nothing to ease her burgeoning headache.
Finally the meal, shared with the entire household, was at an end.
Seated at the middle of the high table, Catriona rose and looked at Heather. “I need someone to take a basket to one of the farms — some items to help a new mother. Her babe’s only two months old. Can you take it?”
A nice long walk in the fresh spring air was exactly what she needed. She nodded and pushed back her chair. “If you’ll tell me the way, I’ll be happy to.”
Catriona glanced at Lucilla and Marcus, seated to Heather’s right. “Why don’t you two act as guides?”
“Yes, please!” Marcus shot up from his chair.
Catriona smiled. “It’s the Mitchells’ farm.”
“We know the way,” Lucilla assured her. Looking at Heather, Lucilla added, “We won’t let you get lost.”
Heather felt her lips curving for the first time that morning. “Thank you. I’ll put my faith in you.” She arched a brow at Catriona.
“Megan Mitchell, and the babe’s Callum. He’s a healthy boy, but if you sense anything amiss”—Catriona included Lucilla with her eyes—“be sure you tell me when you get back.”
“Yes, Mama.” Coming around the table, Lucilla took Heather’s hand, then peeked down. “Good — you have your boots on. So we can go and collect the basket straightaway. Cook will have it ready.”
“Yes, all right.” Allowing herself to be towed around and off the dais, Heather exchanged a laughing glance with Catriona, then surrendered and let the twins drag her on — all the while pretending not to notice the increasingly black frown on Breckenridge’s face.
The instant Heather disappeared through the archway leading to the kitchen, Breckenridge cut across Richard’s dissertation about the local crops to ask, “How far is the Mitchell farm?”
His expression mild, Richard replied, “About a mile and a half, maybe a bit more, further into the Vale.”
In the act of swanning past, Catriona paused. “You don’t need to worry. They’ll be perfectly safe. The way’s all on Vale lands, after all — I would know if anything threatened.”
With that, she passed on.
Richard cast him an understanding glance. “I take it you’ll be busy this morning?”
Breckenridge grunted and left it at that. Richard didn’t need more of a reply.
