Her throat tightened and she choked down a sob. “What?”
Surely she must have misheard him.
He tore his gaze from hers and looked away, his shoulders slumping. “I can’t court you.”
“Why not?” Her voice had risen, and she bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to continue more quietly. “What’s so wrong with me that you won’t at least consider it?”
She understood the concept of men not wishing to marry in general, but if they had feelings for someone, then why wouldn’t they put aside their previous opinions of marriage to pursue the possibility of happiness?
She would riskeverythingfor a chance with him. Why couldn’t he feel the same way about her?
He wiped his palms on his trousers and raised those fathomless dark eyes to hers. “It’s nothing to do with you. I swear.” He looked almost desperate for her to believe him. “It’s my problem. There are reasons I cannot marry, but it has nothing to do with you.”
She crossed her arms. “It certainly feels like it does. I’m the one you’re rejecting.”
He snatched her hand, but she yanked it away. “I’m not rejecting you. It’s just… complicated.”
“It really isn’t.” She swallowed around a lump, tears stinging her eyes. “If you truly wanted to marry me, then you would make it happen. If you insist that you cannot, then you must understand that I in turn cannot halt my courtship with Baron Sylvestor. I must safeguard my own future.”
Deep grooves formed around his mouth, and his eyebrows pinched together. “I understand.”
“But,” she added, unwilling to give up just yet, “if you were to change your stance on marriage, I would gladly commit to you.”
She watched him intently, scarcely daring to breathe. This was the closest she had ever come to confessing her feelings for him. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting to find out whether anyone would catch her if she fell.
Seconds ticked by. He didn’t say anything.
“Nicholas?”
Please, let him speak up. Let him decide that she was worth him dealing with whatever were the reasons he’d decided he couldn’t marry.
Don’t let him throw her away.
Still, he remained silent.
A tear trickled down the side of her nose, around her mouth, and dripped off her chin.
She swiped at her face before another one fell.
Pivoting, she stalked away.
A little under an hour later, she met Baron Sylvestor in the foyer and sent him a brittle smile. Her eyes were no doubt red from crying even though she’d dabbed them with cold water to stop them from getting puffy.
She carried her parasol in one hand and offered him the other. Betsy followed closely behind.
Betsy had tried to persuade her to stay in her room for longer to recover, but Sophie had insisted on walking with the baron. Since Nicholas was so obviously not an option for marriage, her connection with the baron meant more now than ever.
She had to secure him.
“Are you well?” The baron asked, his forehead furrowing in concern.
Sophie drew in a shaky breath. “I’m afraid I ruined one of my favorite dresses.”
It was the best excuse she’d been able to think of for her red-rimmed eyes and miserable demeanor.
His expression eased, his mouth working on one side. “I’m very sorry to hear that, but at least you have an excellent excuse to order a new dress upon your return to London.”
“That’s true.”
