She choked on her emotions. Did she really wish to know what he was thinking? His expression was such a peculiar one. Why had he come into her life? she wondered. Before she could stop herself, she asked him, “Why did you come, my lord?”
For an instant, Christian was taken aback by the innocent question.
The look in her eyes told him she had no inkling what it seemed she was asking. A rueful smile curved his lips, for he hadn’t, didn’t she know.
“I mean to say... I know that my father?—”
“I’d as soon not discuss your father,” he snapped. His jaw working, and then he said, softening the angry sting of his words, “If you don’t mind... not now.”
“O-Of course,” she whispered and closed her eyes.
Seeing her anguished expression, the way she turned from him, Christian felt his gut twist.
After a moment, her long lashes fluttered open, and she turned to him. He wanted so much to reach out and wipe the corners of her eyes with his thumb—before the regrets could come. He didn’t think he could bear it if she cried. If possible, her eyes became greener, brighter, in the wash of unshed tears. Their gazes held, and then hers skidded away.
He swallowed the lump that tried to strangle the words into oblivion. “I came,” he began, hating himself for being so callous with her feelings.
She waited expectantly, her chin lifting, her eyes alight with hope as she awaited his response.
Ah, Christ... he had the greatest desire to kiss those eyes closed once more lest she discern the fateful emotions that warred so violently within him, to feel the silky curl of her lashes against his lips, to soothe away her troubles once and for all. She didn’t deserve the grief that lay in store for her... the heartache he was sure to give her.
Damn her brother for an uncaring ass.
She needed someone to protect her.
The question was... could he be that man when he was the greatest thing she had to fear?
“I’m—” His voice caught at her hauntingly tender expression. She went so still that he suspected she’d ceased to breathe.
God damn him to hell, the reassuring words would not come, no matter that he desperately wanted to speak them.
Anything he said right now would be binding. Was he ready to drag her along his life path, when his life was never more uncertain?
“I’m not sure,” he said finally, shaking his head, gritting his teeth against the lie. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes swam with tears as he said again, softly, “I don’t know, Jessamine.”
Bloody hellif he didn’t.
Tossing down the last swig of his brandy, Christian poured himself another, emptying the second decanter for the night. Disgusted with himself, he set the snifter down and lifted the container, staring down into its crystalline depths as though somehow he might find the answers revealed to him amid the acrid-sweet fumes within.
What the devil was he supposed to have said to her? I came, Jess, my love, because your whoreson brother offered me a tidy little sum to break your goddamn little heart?
Turning the decanter, he examined the beautiful etchings, a delicate floral scrolling pattern. The extravagant bit of glass had graced Hakewell’s library for as long as he could recall.. his father’s... his father’s before him... damn them all to hell.
Damning himself as well, he hurled the decanter at the lapping flames across the room, aiming too high; it struck the mantel with a deafening crash, shattering into a profusion of multicolored shards.
He shouldn’t care—had trained himself not to—but the simple truth was that he was fast losing his heart to the little twit. God’s blood, but he should wed her and end the torture once and for all.
Wed her.
The thought wasn’t altogether unappealing.
Scowling, he resisted the urge to glimpse over his shoulder to be certain there wasn’t some demon angel perched there, whispering noble suggestions into his ear. There was nothing noble about him, and he’d be doing her a disfavor, bringing her into his life... his world... his disgusting secrets...
Secrets that could destroy him.
Secrets that could devastate her.
The firelight cast the room in an eerie light, basking all it touched in deep orange-red hues. Squinting against the shadows, he slouched backward into the elaborately carved damask chair, surveying the room before him. Upon entering, he’d drawn the curtains to let in the muted afternoon light, but the sun had long since set and the night mist cast an opaque veil over the half-moon rising.
