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Initially, resentment and anger that her mother could’ve so readily agreed to Heartwaite’s suggestion had hardened Regine’s heart. Eventually, however, she’d had to confront the indisputable truth.

Mama had been at her wit’s end and without recourse. If she could protect her three youngest daughters by sacrificing the oldest, she’d do so. And she had. But, as Regine had learned while her mother lay dying, remorse and guilt had plagued Mama. She’d regretted depriving Regine of the life she might’ve had with James.

Mama had known they were in love.

If Christiana hadn’t just seen her fifteenth birthday, she might’ve become the duchess, but Mama wouldn’t wed a child to George-Arnold, Duke of Heartwaite. So she, too, had done what must be done. Such was the way with women, always at the mercy of men and society.

A tangled knot of emotions, almost impossible to separate, had paraded through Regine. Remorse. Guilt. Resentment. Forgiveness. And finally, after a long while, acceptance and healing.

“I am sorry, Regine.”

Did he realize he’d used her given name? The sound on his lips was a consecration to her ears.

“I didn’t know about your mother.” James laid his warm hand atop hers, and she wanted to weep at his attempt to console her.

The compassionate gesture came so unexpectedly, she shot him an astonished look. She yearned to turn her hand over so that their palms lay against each other, to entwine their fingers as they had hundreds of times prior. A lifetime ago.

His sympathy and touch were her undoing. Fighting the tears burning behind her eyelids, she summoned a brave, if somewhat wobbly, smile.

She still loved James. Always had. Always would. Her heart would forever and always be his. But she’d lost her chance for a life with him.

“Have you married?” Blast and damn her tongue.

Though James’s hand covered most of Regine’s small one, he knew the fine-boned appendage as well as he did his own. Her fingers were delicate, not overly long, and the right forefinger had a scar from knuckle to knuckle where she’d cut herself when she was eight.

He shook his head and withdrew his hand, his palm burning with sensation. “I have no wife.”

“Oh.” Her pretty mouth compressed into a ribbon and color bled into her cheeks as her raven eyebrows, an exact match to the midnight tresses mostly hid by her bonnet, swooped together. “I see.”

Did she? Really?

Bloody unlikely.

The only woman he’d ever loved had married another. He’d begged Regine not to. Would’ve done anything to make her his. In the end, she’d chosen the wealthy, titled, decrepit old duke over him, slashing his heart to shreds.

So much for true love, happily ever afters, and all that blasted fairytale rot and rubbish.

She took a careful sip of her coffee, an expression of bliss softening her features. The mole to the left of her mouth teased James, as it had all those years ago. Begging him to kiss the beauty mark as well as those soft, cherry red lips that tasted of apples and cinnamon and Regine.

Firmly tamping down the incipient feelings attempting to burble to the surface, he gulped a mouthful of cold coffee, barely concealing a grimace as the bitter brew slid down his throat.

“I didn’t realize I’d grown so chilled completing my errands,” she said, conversationally.

Yes, let’s discuss the weather as if we’re mere acquaintances. Not a man and a woman who’d vowed to love one another for eternity.

After slicing a glance outside—much wiser than making a colossal ass of himself gaping at the beautiful woman across from him—he brought his brows together. Scowling at the undeserving ashen sky, he jabbed a thumb toward the street. “It’s freezing out there, and those look like snow clouds. Don’t you have a coach or carriage?”

Pinching his lips tightly, James cursed inwardly. He sounded worried—concerned for Regine’s wellbeing. She was nothing to him now. Merely a woman he’d once given his heart to, and she’d annihilated the organ before casually tossing it in hell’s flames. Now only cinders remained.

She took another sip of coffee as Mrs. Delaney delivered the pastries. “Here you are, Your Grace. I took the liberty of bringing enough for you, too, Mr. Brentwood.”

God. He nearly rolled his eyes. As if he could swallow food, with his mouth dry as dust.

“Thank you.” Regine’s sable lashes widened as her hydrangea-blue eyes lit with pleasure. She took a dainty taste of the pastry. “Delicious,” she declared to the anxiously hovering proprietress.

After another awkward curtsy, Mrs. Delaney hurried to assist patrons at another table.

“I asked my driver to wait with the coach two streets over,” Regine said, in answer to James’s inquiry. “I wanted the exercise. I often take long strolls.”