Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

of affection offered to me freely—not because of my standing, because of who I am, my name, and not because my reputation needs saving — but because I’m me.”

He was blocking the sun, so she couldn’t be sure, but she thought he’d paled. Dragging in a breath, she concluded, “That’s what I want, and if—”

“That’s what I thought last night was all about.”

His flat tone halted her mid-rant.

She searched his eyes, could read nothing beyond an implacable determination.

“I thought”—he continued in the same cold, impossibly even tone—“that last night was all about your true affections. I thought it was about exchanging opinions — if not vows — on that score. I thought last night was about us examining our affections and thereby taking a step closer to the altar.”

Oh, God. Wildly she searched his eyes, trying to convince herself she wasn’t looking at the confirmation of her worst fears.

He’d known; he’d recognized what she’d been doing and had with cold deliberation — the same deliberate planning with which she’d approached the exchange — given her what she’d wanted. He hadn’t been swept away by passion, hadn’t been moved by her wordless declaration — he’d been as deliberate as she in using the act to communicate what he’d known she’d wanted to hear. . he’d come looking for her intending to do just that.

She’d received the response she’d schemed to get, but now she had no reason to believe he’d meant it, rather than that he’d seized the opportunity she’d engineered as the surest route to his desired goal.

The hollowness inside intensified.

His hazel eyes bored into hers; his voice dropped to a lower register. “Are you telling me last night wasn’t an indication of your true affections?”

She glanced aside. Forced her shoulders to lift in a small shrug, then elevated her nose. “Last night. . was just another night. Wasn’t it?” She glanced fleetingly at him, saw nothing but an increasing stoniness in his features, looked away and hurriedly went on, “It was, I grant you, somewhat more intense, but. .”

Why the devil had she let herself expose her heart so? It hurt. Just thinking that he’d deliberately intended to engage with her, to persuade her like that even though he didn’t — clearly didn’t — love her slashed like a blade through her heart.

Dragging in a breath, raising her head higher, she baldly lied, “I wasn’t aware it was anything all that special. It wasn’t on my part.”

Silence greeted her pronouncement.

She couldn’t look at him, didn’t dare. If she did, he would see the emotions roiling inside her.

“I. . see.” There was a tone in his voice that she’d never heard before.

She wanted to look at him but didn’t. The too-exposed, too screamingly vulnerable part of her couldn’t.

She sensed him draw in a huge, deep breath.

Then he more crisply, almost normally, said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just remembered something I need to do.”

Before she even glanced his way, Breckenridge turned and started walking back along the path, heading toward the rear of the manor, back the way he’d come.

He kept his head high, his shoulders straight.

He’d suffered rejection before.

He couldn’t remember it hurting like this.

Last night hadn’t been anything special on her part. What he’d seen as exposing his heart — and his soul, come to think of it — had meant nothing to her.

Suppressing the urge to swear and kick something took effort.

Just as well — the effort distracted him.

He knew better than to get on an unfamiliar horse in such a temper. In such turmoil. He kept walking. Out past the stables, out along a track between two fences.

Picking up his pace, he strode fast and furiously. Only when he was out of sight of the manor’s turrets did he halt. Hands on his hips, breathing hard, he hung his head.

Closed his eyes.

He’d thought. . tipping back his head, he blinked up at the blue, blue sky.

He’d thought she loved him.

But no.

For some reason, the foremost rake in the ton was impossible to love.

Perhaps because he was the foremost rake in the ton. . but that had been a reaction to not being loved by Helen Maitland. He’d thought to show her what she’d declined by becoming the noble lover all the ladies like her begged to grace their beds. .

And he’d somehow made himself unlovable in the process.

He didn’t know how he’d done it; if he knew, he’d try to change.

But no. Too late. He was what he’d become, and no matter what he thought had occurred in the dark passionate watches of the night, Heather Cynster wasn’t about to give her heart to him.

Back in the herb garden Heather stood where he’d left her, her gaze fixed on the spot where he’d passed out of her sight.

He’d gone.

Simply turned on his heel and left. . because he’d realized his tack hadn’t been working and so had abandoned it and gone off to think of some other way to pressure her?

Probably.

She’d thought back over the words they’d exchanged, but her conclusion remained the same. Last night he’d deliberately set out to use the very same route she’d thought to use to demonstrate her love for him, but his intent had been merely to tell her what he’d realized she wanted to know. While she was truly in love with him, he wasn’t truly in love with her.

He wanted to marry her because he’d made up his mind that that was the correct thing to do, and he’d decided it would suit him well enough.

After what she’d just learned, he would need to think again.

As for her. . she would have to accept that there was no future for her with him.

That there was fated to be no them.

He finally understood what it was to lose one’s heart.

His chest felt empty, hollowed out; he couldn’t think, could barely function well enough to preserve an outward glamour of normalcy.

He couldn’t let this — let her — go. Felt compelled to step far beyond what was wise and make one last push. .

Even if she didn’t love him, he loved her.

He knew it, had always in some corner of his brain suspected it, but now there was no hiding from the truth. Not after last night, when he’d thought, been convinced beyond question, that she loved him — and he’d seized on the prospect, gloried, and rejoiced — and in doing so had finally recognized all he wanted of his life.

Had recognized, with an unshakable finality, that he had never felt and would never feel for any other woman what he felt for her. She was the only lady he would ever love.

And if in general love was deemed worth fighting for, then the chance to love was even more precious to a man like him.

Such thoughts, that understanding, drove him to hunt her down.

Luncheon, as usual, was taken with the entire household in the great hall. He and Heather sat apart, with the twins and Algaria between them. Neither Heather nor he made any effort to communicate in any way, not by word or glance; if the others found anything unusual in their mutual avoidance, no one gave any sign.

When the meal ended, and everyone rose and headed off in various directions to whatever tasks and chores awaited them, he followed Heather from the hall. He caught up with her in the shadowed alcove at the top of the stairs leading down to the dungeons.