She pushed away from the hedge at her back and advanced on him until there was nowhere for him to go. A spark lit in his eyes that felt as though it travelled down her spine. “I asked one thing of you nine years ago, and I would never dream of asking anything of you again.”
His chest rose on a single breath, looking down at her as though he was almost afraid of her proximity. The rush of power the thought brought with it was intoxicating.
“I’m not doing this so you’ll thank me,” he said, eyes boring into hers with such ferocity, she half feared he could read her thoughts from the top of her head.
Then again, if he did so, he would probably be scandalised.
“You’re certain?” She lowered her voice and placed her hand on his arm the way she had before, walking her fingers up to the curve of his bicep. “You’re not hoping that I’ll give you my favours?”
He caught her wrist and thrust it away from him, real anger crossing his face. “That would hardly mean what it once did, Louisa.”
“Ah, so you’re jealous. Were you hoping I’d wait for you?”
He shook his head, jaw tight, eyes hooded. “This conversation is over. If you have any intention of going through Knight’s room, let me know and I’ll accompany you.”
“You have no obligation to.”
The winter blue of his eyes had darkened to navy as they travelled across her face. “Perhaps not to you,” he said, “but I have that obligation towards myself.”
“Does it relieve your guilt?” The bitterness in her voice shocked her, and his brows caught together, the anger in his face briefly shattered by agony.
He should not look at her like that.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and she did her best not to look at it. No matter what passed between them now, no matter what want still lingered in the space that separated them, the past would always sit there too. A drop of ink in otherwise clear water.
Some hurts were too great to overcome.
But when he looked at her like that, as though he were not indifferent after all, she wished their future could hold something different.
Her breath caught as he came closer, taking her hands in his. “I’m not doing this for your forgiveness,” he said, his thumbs skimming across her knuckles. Somehow, despite the fact she had taken men to her bed and bid them farewell the next morning, this felt shockingly intimate. Skin against skin. His fingers, rough and calloused, curling around hers. The ember of desire that she had carried nine years or more shifted, burst into flame. “I know I don’t deserve it. I’m doing this because no man should be able to take advantage of someone in a vulnerable position and threaten them without consequence. And because this is the last thing I can do for you.”
“Before your marriage?” she whispered.
“Yes.” His voice was grim. He was still holding her hands. “If I had accepted you that day, Bolton would never have married you. I carry the weight of that.”
Something shifted inside her, an acknowledgement of his regret, the depth of it, the power it held over him.
She had suffered. But perhaps, she thought, she might not have been the only one.
The thought was fleeting, and she pushed it aside, not wanting to give way to it. Everything was easier if she could believe the worst, if she could not acknowledge that he had done his best for her all those years ago.
“But you did not marry me,” she said quietly.
“No.”
She freed her hands from his and stepped back, giving them much-needed space. After everything, knowing he was to marry someone else should not have been a sting, but she no longer understood her emotions when it came to Henry Beaumont. “I hope you are happy with Miss Winton,” she said, and did her best to mean it as she left him in a maze for the second time in her life.
This time, however, there was no breathless anticipation. He was not an unknown, nothing but a name to place him; he was the man who had ruined her more thoroughly than Bolton ever could, and she could not risk letting him close enough to do it again.
Chapter Fifteen
For two days, Louisa contrived not to be alone with Henry or Knight. She spoke with George, discovering the location of Knight’s room, and did her best to allay suspicions by throwing herself into the party games, arranging walks through the expansive gardens, and generally proving herself to be an exemplary guest.
On the morning of the third day, however, she was not so lucky. She arose early, unable to sleep, and when she descended the stairs, she discovered that the breakfast table was already laid and someone was at it, hidden behind a large newspaper.
It was barely sunrise; she had not expected to see another person for hours yet. “Oh,” she said in surprise, and the newspaper lowered, revealing Henry’s handsome face. Of course. She had never had such opportunity to study his habits as she’d had here, and if she were paying attention, she would have noticed that he was never present to eat breakfast when she was.
At the time, she had been thankful for it, but now she saw it was because he broke his fast several hours earlier than the other guests.
