Camille rebelled at the formal greeting, so distant and cold. The cut of his coat still showed the loss of frame, but the fine fabric and expert press of black moleskin made him look dashing and dangerous in a way that had her core tightening.
Camille ignored her body’s reaction. The conversation to come would be best without bestial desires complicating matters. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“May I come in? There are things we must discuss.”
She opened the door wider and closed the door when he crossed the threshold.
He followed her silently into the library, waiting for that door to close too before he spoke again.
He removed his hat almost sheepishly, his smile warming. “I was a cad for not saying so earlier, but that dress style suits you.”
Camille blinked at the sudden compliment and glanced down at her high collar and lace-lined sleeves.
“Not what you were expecting me to say?”
She turned her head, shaking off the spell of his presence and easy nature. “Charm is a weapon in and of itself I suppose. I should have prepared myself.”
He frowned. “This is to be a fight then?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t always.”
Camille turned to the cold hearth, the longing in his gaze undoing all her erected mental barriers. Barriers that must remain in place. The balance between her mental fortitude and emotion was precarious at best.
“You forget yourself, Your Grace,” she said. “If you wish to cross boundaries, I will call for a servant to act as a chaperone. Someone you cannot charm.”
“Ah, yes.” He rubbed his chin and grinned. “‘Assuming, arrogant dandy too self-important to take a shit without a valet’s admiration of skill.’”
Her eyes widened. “You remembered?”
He snorted. “I may not have your talent for insult or memory, but one does have a tendency to remember such a specific personal attack.”
“You deserved it,” she said, scales tipping towards the nonsensical. “You called me a conniving, manipulative wench.”
“You ran.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Youdeserved it.”
There was that feeling again. That flutter of excitement. Wit and humor, like a physical acknowledgment from one opponent to another.
As it had always been between them. A battle, a dance, a duel of minds and compatibility of bodies that would leave even the most rational mind spinning with the idea of soul mates.
But important parts remained missing after that horrible day at the Pony. Thrown out as easily as words too cruel to be forgiven: mutual respect and trust.
“I didn’t hide anything from you,” she said.
“I know,” he said quietly.
That tone and that face speared her heart like an arrow to the target. Just as it had always done, as it would continue to do. This was the deciding moment.
She would leave. Nothing was left to say. Too much had passed between them, happened to them. Some relationships couldn’t be saved. The close bond she’d felt—the connecting of fate’s string—was left threadbare and gaping. They’d grown too cynical, too different in their grief and struggles. There was nothing left between them at all.
Until he said the words that would connect them forever.
“I grieve for our baby too.” Unbuttoning his coat, he slid one arm free to reveal the black band.
A sob burst through her lips, too violent and sudden to stop. And then he was there, holding her in his arms, spreading slow kisses across her crown. She allowed the comfort and solace, knowing her legs and heart would buckle without the support.
“Thank you for sending that letter,” he whispered. “I was beside myself not knowing what became of him.”
