“Indeed,” Henry said. “Thank you, love. Ah—assuming that avenue is equally unsupportable, I suggest—”
“That’s fine.” Winnie heard herself speak, though her lips felt stiff and dry. “We can swear to that. I’m still… That is, we haven’t…”
Everyone in the room except for Margo seemed unable to make eye contact.
“Ah,” said Henry finally. “Well then. I can prepare the documents for the courts, I suppose.”
“Or,” Margo said, “you can stay married. It would certainly be easier.”
Winnie felt suddenly underwater, her ears muffled and her chest tight.
Stay married? To Spencer?
She felt a brief flare of hot possessive greed.
It would be so easy. To look at him, all beseeching. To tell him that she was worried for her business—for her livelihood—if the scandal of their annulment got out.
He would say yes. She knew he would. He was so careful, so good—he had pulled her out of a jail cell when he thought her a confidence woman. He had declared her his wife in front of half theton.She had seen him sacrifice himself, his desires, for the earldom—to play the role he thought he was meant to play.
He would sacrifice himself for her. And she could have him. She could have exactly what she wanted—Spencer hers, all hers. Temptation was a ripe fruit, falling into her open hand. She could have him—haveeverything.
No. No. She could not.
She could not simplytakebecause she wanted him. If she compelled him to remain married to her, she would be worse a thief than her mother had been. Far worse.
It would not be a matter of a reticule full of gemstones. She would steal his future. She would take his options away from him—rob him of the chance to marry for love—strip away his choices for the rest of his life.
She would not hurt him. She had promised herself that from the first. She could not go back on that now. She could not let him give up his life—even if he would do it, without a thought, because he believed it was the right thing to do.
“No,” she said. It had been only a moment—a taut, congealing silence after Margo’s words. No one else had spoken. “No, that’s not an option. I am going back to Wales after we return the final necklace.”
“Win,” Spencer said.
She stood on numb legs. “I beg your pardon, Lady Margaret. Mr. Mortimer. My congratulations again.”
“Win,” Spencer said again, “wait.”
“Prepare the paperwork,” she said. “I’ll sign whatever I need to sign. Testify in any court that requires it of me.”
The words were out of her mouth, hanging clear and cold in the quiet library, and she made for the door almost blindly. She wanted to go to her bedchamber, only her things were tangled up with Spencer’s there. Her room smelled of him. A button from his trousers had rolled beneath her bed. She had not slept by herself—not once—since the night of the Yardsleys’ dinner.
The wooden staircase felt cold under her stockinged feet as she went alone up the stairs.
Her feet were still bare. She had left her shoes in the library—and her petticoat—and her heart.
Chapter 14
Spencer followed Winnie into her bedchamber.
He felt a right arse. She had said—as clearly and plainly as if she’d tattooed it upon his bloody chest—that she did not want to remain married to him. And yet here he was, chasing her down, as though he might argue her into loving him.
Because that’s what this was. He’d realized it—hell, he didn’t know when he’d realized it. When he’d seen her face light up at the opera, all luminous gold, like she burned from the inside out. When she’d flung her body beneath his under an elm in the middle of Wales. When she’d taken his hand.
The moment he’d seen Henry and Margo in the library, though, he’d finally had the words for what he felt. He’d seen it in the astonished glances Henry kept directing toward Margo—as if he could not believe she’d chosen him. As if he had to assure himself that she was still beside him.
He recognized that expression. It had made itself familiar on his own face, whenever he looked at Winnie.
When you have a chance at happiness, you hold onto it,he’d said to Henry.You don’t dither about and let it slip away.
