He pushed off the mantel and exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m quite serious,” he muttered, though even to his own ears, he sounded like a man still trying to convince himself.
Clare’s lips twitched, as if she could hear the hesitation too. “Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.”
He rubbed the back of his neck roughly, because damn it all, he didn’t know what the hell he was saying, just that he couldn’t let her leave. “I admit, I’m not entirely certain where the idea came from?—”
Clare snorted. “That much is clear.”
“But now that I’ve said it,” he went on, forcing himself to meet her gaze, “I am… serious.”
Her head tilted, eyes narrowing with skepticism. “Serious, are you? With that hesitation in your voice?”
He grasped his lapel. “Clare, I would never?—”
“You would neverseriouslypropose,” she finished for him, the humor draining from her tone, replaced by something firmer. A warning. “We’ve had fun.A lotof fun,” she admitted, an unmistakable heat flickering in her eyes before she pushed it down. “But it’s time to end this. Beyond time, if we’re honest.”
A sharp twist of something—something raw and unfamiliar—hit him square in the chest.
He scrubbed a frustrated hand through his hair. “Now who’s not listening?”
She stepped closer then, too close, her palm coming to rest on his shoulder, warm and steady. A gentle squeeze. Comforting.
He hated it.
Because she was already saying good-bye.
“Let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be,” she said, soft but firm. “We both knew from the start that this couldn’t last forever. Didn’t we?”
“Well, I—”Bloody hell. This was excruciating.
Because he didn’t know what he knew any longer. Only that the thought of her leaving—of her disappearing into France, living some fabricated life, of him never seeing her again—felt like someone was tying his gut into knots.
“Whycouldn’twe marry?” he demanded.
She groaned—actually groaned—and tilted her head toward the ceiling. “Oh, allow me to count the ways.”
Then shepattedhim.
Patted.
Like he was some poor, misguided fool.
His teeth clenched.
“It’s sweet of you to suggest it,” she went on, shaking her head, smiling—but not the kind of smile he wanted to see. This one was sad, sympathetic, resigned. “Really. But you are not required to be my hero, Ash.”
His breath caught. He wanted to growl.
“I shall go to France,” she continued lightly. “Live my lovely life as a would-be widow. You shall forget all about me and move on to your next amusement—whoever she shall be.”
Forget her?
Move on?
His chest tightened.
“You don’t want to stay?” he asked roughly, his jaw tight. “Is that it?”
Clare let out a long, measured sigh. The kind of sigh one gives a petulant child who simply doesn’t understand.
