Those words emerged more poignant than she’d meant them to be. They both remained silent for several moments. Mark’s dark gaze was relentless on her, while hers darted about, for if it were to land on his beloved face, the tears would start again.
He gave a small shake of his head and wandered away, toward the window, where he pushed aside the curtain to stare out into the inky night sky. “And did you get what you wanted, Nicole?” Was it her imagination or was there a slight tremor to his voice?
Nicole’s hand went to her belly. This was it. The moment to secure her freedom from this mad bargain she never should have made. “Yes,” she forced herself to say. “I believe I have.”
His shoulders dropped slightly. He let the curtains close and turned back to face her. “Are you certain?”
“Relatively certain.” Her voice quavered. God strike her down for lying, but it was the only way she would be able to refuse him her bed. The only way he would understand why she was leaving. She’d worry about the consequences later. She could always inform him by letter that she’d been mistaken or that she’d lost the babe.
“So, that means…” His words trailed off.
She cleared her throat. “I’d like to return to France. Until after the baby is born. If that’s all right with you.”
“Is that what you want?” His eyes searched her face.
She turned her gaze to stare at the wall and bit the inside of her cheek. “It’s what I prefer, yes.”
“Very well,” came his calm, measured voice. “You know I won’t force you to stay.”
“Thank you.” She could barely push the words past the lump in her throat as he started past her to leave the room.
“Mark?” she called.
He stopped at the door. “Yes?”
“Are you angry? That I was investigating at Colchester Manor?”
The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Of course not. You were the one on the right path all along.”
She smiled too. “I must say I was surprised to hear you admit it.”
He hung his head and stared at his feet. “I’m no longer the arrogant young man I used to be, Nicole. I’ve seen too much of life and its atrocities.”
Fresh tears stung Nicole’s eyes, born not of grief for her own heartache but of compassion. She never thought she’d hear him say such a thing. “I always believed you hated me for not telling you I was affiliated with Bow Street until after we married.”
“No, Nicole. I didn’t care that you worked with them. I cared that you kept it from me.” He turned to face her and took a few tentative steps toward her. “Your work with the runners frightened me. I didn’t want you to be hurt. What I blamed you for is the fact that you knew who my family was. I was convinced you’d only pretended to love me. I thought you wanted to marry a duke’s grandson, not a corporal in the army.”
“I never cared that you were a duke’s grandson,” shesaid softly. “I loved the corporal. Can you believe that now, Mark?”
He searched her face, and a hint of vulnerability flashed in his eyes. “Does it make a difference?”
She had to pinch her arms to keep the tears from falling. “No,” she whispered, hanging her head. “I suppose it doesn’t. Not after all these years.”
“Do you… still want to go?” he asked, the vulnerability in the question undeniable now.
It felt as if an invisible knife carved a hole in her chest. “I must.”
He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, released it, and finally gave a nod of surrender. “Very well,” he said, as he slowly opened his bedchamber door. “Have the maids help you pack. I’ll provide my coach for your journey to Dover.”
She didn’t allow herself to weep until he shut the door behind him.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Curious Goat Inn was filled with its regular midday patrons. Men drinking and laughing, the odd woman sharing a pint, and children selling papers in the street outside. Mark strode in and immediately saw his colleagues sitting at a large round table in the middle of the room. The Cavendish twins and Daffin Oakleaf looked like a trio of Nordic gods in the midst of mere mortals. Mark strolled over, grabbed a wooden chair, turned it around, and straddled it.
“If it isn’t the stone man, himself,” Rafe Cavendish said, clapping Mark on the shoulder.
“And if it isn’t the viscount spy,” Mark rejoined, folding his arms across the chair back.
