He had never loved her. He had never felt an inkling of what he felt for Jo.
“You had a choice then, Nora,” he said calmly, clearly. “You could have married me. I had asked for your hand and you accepted. But when your father decided I was not worthy of his darling, being an earl’s by-blow rather than a viscount, you severed all connections with me. And yet now, you return, ten years later, claiming to love me?”
She touched his coat sleeve again, clinging to him. “I know how you must feel, Eli. I do not blame you for your anger toward me. I am angry with myself. The last ten years have been penance. I have been waiting to contact you, terrified you would revile me.”
“You think too much of yourself.” He looked at her, truly looked at her, the woman who had left him jaded and broken in his youth, and he felt nothing. A curious absence of…anything. Neither anger nor hatred nor love. Only disinterest. “I hardly revile you. Indeed, I do not feel anything for you. But I must thank you for the choices you made. I understand now, even if I did not in my youth, that you did me a grand favor in crying off. I would never have known happiness and true love if not for you.”
What he meant, when he said those words, was that he was wholeheartedly grateful Nora had deemed him unsuitable. Grateful she had deferred to her father’s judgment. Because he could see quite clearly now that she was not the woman who was meant for him. And he could also see that her defection had settled him upon the path that had led him to the woman he loved.
To Lady Josephine Danvers.
To Jo.
To Josie.
Mine.
“Oh, my darling Eli,” Nora gushed, completely misunderstanding what he had attempted to convey. “You are my happiness and true love also.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, holding up his hands to keep her from advancing any farther. The very notion of her touch repulsed him now. And not just because part of him was convinced she was seeking him out because she knew he possessed untold wealth and she appeared to be pockets to let, existing on a strained widow’s portion.
But because there was only one woman whose touch could move him. One woman he loved. One woman he wanted, now and forever. And her name was most assuredly not Nora, Lady Tinley.
“I do not love you,” he told Nora. “I love my wife.”
Jo’s feet ached.Her back ached. Her heart ached.
Every part of her was weary.
The last few days had been exhausting, both physically and mentally. She had spent far too much time contorted in chairs and carriages, not enough time sleeping, too much time crying. She was drained, emotionally exhausted. She missed her husband, his comforting embrace, his kiss. She missed sharing his bed. Missed…
Well, selfish wretch that she was, she missed the way their life had been, before the tumult. Not because she regretted Lila’s entrance into their life—quite the opposite—for her new sister-in-law was a tenderhearted delight. But because she could not help but to feel a chasm between herself and Decker, a distance which had not been present before their frantic rush to Hertfordshire and his mother’s death.
Poor Lila had just fallen into her bed for a nap, a tear-stained mess once again, and Jo had stayed with her, reading to her until the young girl’s breathing had finally become rhythmic and even. Sleep—much-needed—had claimed her at last.
And now, as she emerged from Lila’s room, the housekeeper Mrs. Crisply informed her there was an unexpected guest who had been seen into the public salon where they entertained visitors.
“A guest?” Jo repeated, frowning. “We have only just returned to Town.”
Mrs. Crisply shook her head, her displeasure evident. “I do believe the lady in question was asking for the master of the house in particular, Mrs. Decker. I thought to let you know.”
Theladyin question? Misgiving filtered through Jo at once.
The housekeeper’s subtle disapproval was not lost upon her. Although Mrs. Crisply had been running Decker’s house well before he had married her, Jo had nevertheless connected with the efficient, kindly housekeeper from the moment she had become the mistress of Decker’s townhome. And she heartily appreciated Mrs. Crisply’s warning. After all, though the woman was circumspect and would never carry tales, Jo suspected she must have seen some things which would give her cause for concern during her tenure and whilst Decker had carried on as a bachelor.
“Thank you, Mrs. Crisply,” Jo told her. “I will see to this unexpected visitor.”
Even if it was the very last thing she felt like doing. Still, a question prodded her, undeniable. Why would this woman, whomever she was, seek an audience with Decker in particular?
Jo made her way to the salon in automaton fashion. But as she approached the room, the familiar sound of Decker’s baritone reached her, mingling with a distinctly feminine voice. Puzzled, she stopped just short of the open door, where she had a perfect view of Decker standing far too near to a lovely woman she had never seen before. There was something undeniably familiar about their mannerisms toward each other.
Jo paused, understanding that somehow this woman was no stranger to Decker. That they knew each other. The fiery-haired beauty was saying something in a low, entreating tone.
He said something in return. Jo thought she heard a name. But surely not. No, it could not be…
“Nora,” Jo heard him say.
He would hardly be addressing this unexpected caller by her Christian name. Would he?
