While she wanted to dispute his words, Mara felt herself wavering. “Be that as it may, it doesn’t change anything.”
He raised a brow. “Oh, I highly disagree. I think it changes everything.” Standing right before her now, he reached out and captured a lock of her hair. Rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, he whispered, “You always had such beautiful hair.” Roarke searched her face, those hypnotizing, hazel eyes warming. “Perhaps you just need a reminder of what it was like between us.”
Mara’s eyes widened. For a brief second, with his lips curved ever so slightly, his touch warm and gentle, she could almost imagine that all the lonely, grief-filled years had melted away. Already the memories of a thousand kisses and caresses came rushing back like high tide. It could have been one of the days they had run off to the stables together to kiss in the hay, or perhaps to take a walk hand in hand over the moors. Or maybe it was when they had sneaked off to the shore to engage in a playful water battle until they were both soaked to the skin and their laughter rang on the waves.
Such stolen moments had been the best times of her life—and the most naïve.
Instantly, a shutter fell over her face. She knew that if Roarke touched her all would be lost. Even so, her lips tingled in expectation of his kiss—along with other areas of her traitorous body that she had long since ignored, while he allowed the anticipation to draw out, making her wonder about his intentions.
Mara clutched the counter behind her for support as he leaned ever closer, their mouths mere inches apart, breaths mingling. “You can try whatever tricks you want to browbeat me into a confession, even seduce me, but I’ll take my secrets to the grave.”
Roarke felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips. Second point, Mara.
He had to give it to her. In the intervening years, she had gained some fortitude, and he certainly knew that a strong backbone wasn’t earned lightly. He definitely had his work cut out for him in breaking down those walls she’d built around herself. But in the coming days, he intended to see them crumble. When it was all said and done, she might win a few battles, but he would win the war.
Conceding this victory to her, he reluctantly stepped back, letting the strand of her hair slip from his fingers. The shade had always fascinated him, a mixture of yellow sunshine and white clouds, and an unwilling spark of memory assailed him. He recalled with hazy clarity the feel of her lips beneath his own, the touch of her satiny fingertips on his chest, the taste of her smooth skin…
Roarke took a steadying breath before he turned and gathered his hat and cane that he’d set aside earlier. “I have no wish to intimidate you, Mara, but I will learn the truth one way or another. I don’t intend to be made a fool of twice.” Opening the front door, he turned back to where she’d paused in the doorway to the kitchen. “Rest assured I will be keeping track of you in the interim, so if you think to thwart me in any manner, I will tell you now that your efforts will be futile.”
Her voice was even when she replied, “I didn’t doubt that, although I have no intentions of being cowed.”
Turning, he smiled inwardly, the promise in his voice more than evident as he spoke over his shoulder. “Sleep well, my dear, for none of us know what the morrow will bring.” With that, he shut the door.
Roarke frowned as he made his way back down the stairs. He might as well have been punched in the gut for as miserable as he suddenly felt, as if hehad been at fault for her sudden disappearance—and for all those intervening years of misery.
Damned if he hadn’t wracked his brain these past few hours, ever since he’d recognized Mara at that blasted haberdashery, trying to figure out if there was, in fact, something he had done for her to go to such drastic lengths. But he hadn’t been able to come up with a single blasted thing.
However, the question remained—what could have possibly been enough motivation to make him believe she was dead? Did she hate him so much?
In some ways, Roarke almost wished she’d stayed dead to him, because then he wouldn’t be going through all this emotional chaos. Over the years, he might have finally married and taken his place in society, along with a seat in the House of Lords and done his duty by England. But like a festering wound that would never heal, he’d never had a moment’s peace of mind where Mara was concerned. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her until long after he’d thought her gone and buried, she’d haunted his heart and soul.
He had a sinking feeling that he would never be free of her as long as he lived.
* * *
Roarke strode up the steps of Lord and Lady Weston’s townhouse and rapped his cane on the door. The butler opened it moments later, and upon recognizing the viscount, invited him in. After taking Roarke’s outerwear and walking stick, the servant bade him wait in the front parlor while he went to fetch his mistress.
Too anxious to sit, Roarke walked over to the window and glanced out at the bustling city traffic, though none of it registered. His mind was too jumbled with thoughts of the past and what he planned to do next. Granted, he fully intended to use all the resources at his disposal, including having an overdue chat with his mother. But since she was still ensconced at the Marksley estate with his eldest sister, Margaret, awaiting the birth of her first grandchild, the idea that she might return to London earlier than planned was unlikely. And traveling to the country was equally out of the question. He didn’t need to air his grievances around Margaret during an already difficult time.
But while two important witnesses were unavailable at the moment, he still had his sister Lyra, Lady Weston, to question.
“Roarke, what a pleasant surprise.”
The viscount turned as his sister entered the room, and he almost regretted his impulsive decision to quiz her. While Roarke was the only son, preceded by Margaret, Lady Marksley, Lyra was the baby of the family. She had been lively and exuberant of character in their youth with her bouncy, golden curls and vibrant dark eyes, but that innocent sparkle of happiness had withered and died the moment she’d married Roger Coventry, Earl of Weston. The match had been at his mother’s insistence during Lyra’s come out season and being a dutiful daughter, she had acquiesced to their mother’s wishes. Now, at one and twenty, after three years of marriage and two miscarriages to her credit, she was a mere shell of the girl he’d once known.
“Shall I ring for tea?” Lyra offered politely.
Roarke’s expression turned even more dismal. “That’s not necessary. I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”
Lyra’s forehead creased in a slight frown, though she took a seat on the settee, where her brother sat next to her. Taking a deep breath, he looked directly at her and plunged forward. It was now or never. “I recently discovered that Mara Miller is alive.”
His sister’s face turned white. “What?”
“My thoughts exactly,” he concurred dryly.
Lyra’s brown eyes widened as she covered her mouth with her hand. “But, how can this…be? Are you quite certain it was Mara? You’ve only returned to England. You could be confusing the past with—”
“Ispokewith her, Lyra. It’s most certainly her.”
