Just loving him. Always loving him.
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. She stared up at him, inhaling deeply of his beloved woodsy scent. “Why are you here, Spencer?”
“Is it not obvious, princess?” His voice was low and intimate, pitched for her ears only, velvet seduction to her senses. “I am here for you. Come home with me to Bainbridge House, Boadicea. Please.”
It was all she needed to hear.
It was all she had ever wanted to hear.
She turned back to their startled audience. “Ladies, I fear I must adjourn this meeting for now.”
“Yes.” Clara gave her a look rife with meaning. “Go with your husband, Bo.”
She nodded, feeling halfway as if she were in a trance as she turned to leave with Spencer.
“Oh, and Bo?” Clara called after her.
She stopped, looked back. “Yes?”
“If the outcome is anything less than ideal, you cannot keep me from doing what we discussed earlier.” Clara’s tone was pointed, her expression unflinching.
Oh dear heavens. The Countess of Ravenscroft was a veritable outlaw. She met her friend’s gaze. “I would not expect anything less.”
And then she took her husband’s extended arm, feeling unaccountably awkward and nervous, allowing him to escort her from the salon. His big, warm body burned into hers. Shock still reverberated through her as they left Ravenscroft’s townhome, exiting past the watchful eye of the much-aggrieved Osgood.
She could not seem to find her tongue, so it was just as well that Spencer informed the butler that they would send word regarding what was to be done with her belongings. She left with nothing but the dress she wore, and she didn’t care. It was only when she was ensconced in the carriage, seated opposite her husband, that the enormity of it all finally hit her.
She could not look away from him. “You came for me.”
His emerald gaze was intent upon hers, inscrutable. “Yes.”
“To London.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “When was the last time you were in London?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Not since before Millicent’s death.”
The admission cost him, she could tell. Relinquishing the tight rein on his control in such astonishing fashion could not have been easy. Indeed, she suspected nothing about this was easy for him, which meant that he must care a great deal for her.
Hope, that stupid and persistent creature, bubbled up within her once more. It had been years since he had been in London, and yet here he was, handsome and elegant as ever, seated opposite her in a gently swaying carriage that smelled of oiled Moroccan leather. He had come for her, and surely that had to mean something. She loved him so much that being in his presence once more was enough to soften her toward him. But still, she could not deny that he had explaining to do.
If he would deign to, that was.
“What has changed, Spencer?” she pressed.
“Did you leave me?” he asked instead of answering her question, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, peering at her face as though he could read all the knowledge he required there. “Please tell me that you do not wish a divorce. I cannot—losing you would be more than I can bear, Boadicea.”
Oh.
“Of course not.” She paused, gathering her tumultuous thoughts. “I left because there was not room enough for me and all your ghosts both. I cannot be the sort of wife who does not want to own your whole heart. It isn’t in me.”
“Youdoown my heart.” His husky baritone sent a frisson through her. “It is all yours. Only yours. If you will have it, that is.”
You have my heart.
Had she heard him correctly?
