“No,” she gritted, “I only think to avoid marriage to you!”
“By catching pneumonia and dying?” he demanded.
“You do not want this, either! Send me home, Devlin, and we will both be free!”
“I am afraid I have agreed to this union.”
She swatted at her tears. “I can hardly comprehend why.”
His face was taut, indicating some tension, but he did not hesitate. “They are right.”
“They are right? The earl and countess are right? You now accept blame—and guilt—for your actions?”
“I do.”
“You lie!” She advanced. “You have no guilt, no regrets!”
He was motionless. It was a long moment before he spoke and when he did, it was slowly, with the utmost care. “Actually, you are very wrong, Virginia. I do have guilt, and I have had so for some time. The other night at Lord Carew’s made it impossible for me to deny it. I regret using you as I have.”
She could no longer breathe. Was this the truth?
“I am sorry I brought you into this,” he added grimly. “And now I will pay the price of having used you so callously. It is what an honorable man would do.”
She was afraid to believe him—and she reminded herself that this change of heart had nothing to do with love. But it was a change ofheart.It was evidence of a conscience, of a soul.
“I see I have dumbfounded you,” he said with some self-derision. He walked past her toward the liquor bottles placed on a nearby table. “I am rather dumbfounded myself. A brandy should warm you far better than a cup of tea.”
“The tea is laced with whiskey.” She stared at him as he poured. She was stunned and she did not know what to think or what to feel.He was sorry. He was genuinely sorry.But what did it change? He had hurt her too many times. She knew if she married him, he would hurt her again and again. A conscience was not love. Behaving honorably was only that.
He faced her, a snifter in hand. “My mother is planning a wedding for the twelfth of December—two days before I set sail.”
Her pulse began a heavy, rapid beat. “I saw your orders,” she said stiffly.
He stared, his expression a mask devoid of emotion.
“You go to war against my country, my countrymen. What kind of marriage is that?”
“Yes, I do, and we shall make the best of it. We will hardly be the only couple with divided loyalties in this conflict.”
She trembled, cold all over again. She knew she was losing—she had lost every single battle she had ever waged against this man. “I cannot marry you, Devlin. Not now, not ever.”
He straightened.
“I mean it,” she said nervously.
A terrible silence ensued. He looked at her for a long time with such a severe mask in place that it was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling—if, indeed, he felt anything. He set his glass carefully down. “But my regret is sincere. I am sorry for everything and I wish to make amends. I wish to save your reputation.”
She felt like weeping. “Your regret comes too late!”
He looked at her, his gaze searching. “You did not always hate me.”
She stiffened. “This is not about hatred. My letter was sincere. I do not hate you, Devlin, in spite of all that you have done.”
“Then accept this marriage, for Tyrell is right—it is in your best interest.”
“I want to go home,” she heard herself say, almost pathetically.
He started.
