Dash watched her swallow hard, his heart pounding so loud, surely she heard it too.
“So you have not decided?” The question scraped raw in his throat, uttered for the second time.
“I need to speak with him.”
Was she punishing him? Did she want him on hands and knees?
“Damn it!” His curse split the silence, shattering the fragile peace between them.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pushing herself upright. A single tear slipped free, catching on her cheek. “I cannot simply change my entire life in the space of a few months without considering everything that’s happened.”
“I know,” he ground out. “Damn it, I know.” He had been so patient—but she had been patient too, and then suffered for it.
He sat up beside her, shoulders tight, stiff, then jerked his legs to the floor. Rising, he tugged his trousers into place and began fastening his falls. His fingers fumbled over the buttons, clumsy where they had once been deft.
She slid from the table after him, skirts falling askew about her ankles, her bodice slack and gaping. For a moment she tried to hold the fabric together with both hands, her arms crossed over her chest, but the effort only emphasized her helplessness.
Merde. Dash stepped forward. “Tenez-vous tranquille, princesse,” he muttered, rough with frustration but unable to stop the endearment. “Hold still.”
His tone was sharp, but his touch was not. His fingers, though hurried, were gentle as they drew the stays into line and fastened each hook. The intimacy of dressing her again cut deeper than undressing her had. Every tug a reminder of what he was losing.
Her lashes lowered as he worked, and he thought he felt the faintest tremor in her shoulders, whether from sorrow or regret, he could not tell. When he finished, he smoothed the fabric once before letting his hands fall away.
She lifted her chin then, but when she searched his face, he could not meet her eyes.
He had nothing left to give.
“If I don’t hear from you in three days’ time, I’ll leave for Dasborough Park without you.” His voice was flat.
Her hand drifted to his arm, light, tentative.
He flinched at the touch.
“I’m sorry, Dash. I’m so sorry.”
Her words, steeped in anguish yet empty of promise, hung in the air.
He did not move. He only stood there, listening. The door opened. Her footsteps receded—each one a dull hammer striking the silence, striking him.
He waited until even the faintest echo was gone.
And then he erupted.
With a savage kick, he sent the table crashing onto its side, the splintering crack ricocheting through the hothouse like the echo of his breaking heart.
Three days.
A sharp bark came from the doorway. Lancelot waddled in, disapproving of the noise.
The dog trotted to the overturned table, lifted his leg, and relieved himself upon it.
If that wasn’t indicative of the entire damned situation, Dash didn’t know what was.
He bent to rub the hound’s head. “Not sure I can fix this, old man.”
Lancelot barked once.
“I know,” Dash muttered. “I know.”
