She looked away then drew herself up firmly and faced him again. “Your duty is to England as my duty is to Leaudor. Neither of us can compromise that aim. We…we can never be,” she said quietly.
He struggled with the magnitude of what she was saying. Until a few moments ago, he hadn’t known himself that he was capable of giving up everything that he was to be with someone he loved, but when faced with the prospect of leaving her, he only knew he must return. He could notbewithout her. Whatever that entailed.
“Look at me, Isabella. Look atme,” he said when her gaze fluttered briefly over his face. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me. Want us. That you don’t…love me.”
She had never returned his sentiment. Had looked away when he confirmed his declaration. He had to know. Was he so horribly wrong? Had he thought he finally realized the true depth and scope of loving another person only to realize how very mistaken he was?
She pressed her lips firmly together then took a deep breath. “I don’t love you, Merrick.”
And there it was. His worst fear realized.
All the air left his lungs as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Old hurts came rushing in from the past. Not good enough. Not worthy.
“I admit I hold a certain amount of affection for you,” she stammered when he said nothing. “And Leaudor owes you a large debt of gratitude.”
“Stop,” he bit out, holding a hand up. “Save your gratitude. I don’t want it. I’ve heard all I need to hear.”
He searched her face for some sign that he was wrong, that he was in the midst of a terrible nightmare. Her usually vibrant, oceanic eyes stared dully at him, something remarkably like sympathy reflected in them.
God, what a fool he was. Shepitiedhim.
“If it pleases you, Your Majesty, I would like to procure immediate passage back to England.”
He spoke stiffly, formally, as if they had never spent an entire night loving, as if he weren’t speaking to the woman who comprised the other half of his soul.
“Captain Montforte will see to it at once,” she said, her voice barely recognizable through his haze of anguish.
His father. His brother. Kirk. None of them mattered, their betrayals, their disappointments paled in comparison to this.
He turned, no longer able to look at her. With measured steps, he slowly walked away. Out of her chambers. Down the hall. Out of the palace. Out of her life.
Chapter Thirty
London, England
October 1815
It was over.
Bonaparte had been recaptured. The fighting was finished. England was safe again. For the moment. Until the next mad scheme. Until one country sought to dominate another.
For how long such peace would last was anyone’s guess. There were always plots to circumvent, assassinations to prevent and information to gather. Investigations to lead. It was a never ending cycle. And he was so damn tired.
Simon stood outside his London address staring at the empty townhouse he called home.
“Is there anything further, your lordship?” the driver of the hack called down to Simon.
Startled into action, Simon bent down to collect his bags. He nodded at the driver and started up the walk toward his door. He glanced skyward. It would rain soon, ushering in brisker autumn air.
As he stepped inside, he dropped his bags in the foyer and shrugged from his overcoat. Timmons bustled in, a welcoming smile on his face.
“Welcome home, my lord.”
He bent to take Simon’s bags and hurried up the stairs, leaving Simon standing alone once more.
Simon walked into his study, satisfied to see a fire burning in the hearth. He poured a drink and stood in front of the flames to rid himself of the chill that had seeped into his bones.
He felt no joy to be home again. Just overwhelming fatigue. He hadn’t felt joy since his last day on Leaudorian soil.
