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When her fit of weeping had ended, he’d set her on the blankets and handed her a cool, damp cloth to erase the evidence of her tears.

Experience had taught her that her eyes would remain swollen and red for an hour or two.

She must’ve looked a sight.

As soon as she’d composed herself, Cassius had retreated behind his wall of cool politesse again—had once more erected that fortified wall he used as a buttress from getting too close to her. From letting her get too close to him as well.

She recognized the pattern by now.

It should not bother her.

Should it?

After all, she wasn’t interested in their relationship developing into something more, either.

Liar. You don’t really believe that.

No, Beatrice would not—could not—entertain dangerous, foolish ideas. Without compunction, she shoved the traitorous thoughts over the edge of a very steep mental cliff.

If she hadn’t decided many years ago that she would never trust a man to the point of loving him and giving him her heart, Cassius Westbrook might be the very gentleman who could have convinced her that love and the potential for happiness were worth the risk of heartbreak. But she had made that decision, and she would not regret her choices.

As much as she trusted him, she couldn’t extend that confidence to her heart.

Look what had happened to Mama.

She’d loved a man who had deceived her into giving herself to him with the promise of marriage when the bounder was already married. Mama had learned the truth too late—when she already carried Beatrice in her belly.

Oh, the scathing scorn and disparaging contempt Mama had endured.

Even as a young child, Beatrice remembered the snubs, the elevated noses, and turned backs. As if Mama were diseased. Those hypocritical snobs.

Uncle Cedric had only reinforced Beatrice’s perception of men as self-centered, thoughtless, and inconsiderate creatures.

Cassius Westbrook might be the exception to the rule, but Beatrice would not gamble her future on that. Besides, after his broken betrothal, he had locked his heart and thrown away the key.

Moreover, in her half-unconscious, half-awake state, at some point, she’d heard Cassius telling his brother he couldn’t wait to reach their family home so he could wash his hands of her.

Not in so many words, but she’d caught the gist of what he meant.

He didn’t want to love anyone either.

Hadn’t he been more than clear on that front?

It was far wiser and safer not to risk one’s heart.

Fortunately, unlike most women who depended utterly on men, Beatrice possessed independent wealth and need never submit to a man’s dictates again. Well, once she collected her inheritance in London, that would be the case. Until then, she was wholly reliant upon Cassius.

All day, she’d strained to hear the slightest unnatural sound in the woodlands. Anything to alert her to an unwanted human presence. Instead, bird calls filtered through the trees, and squirrels chattered back and forth. The hours crawled by with the slowness of a snail on hot pavement until her nerves were bowstring tense with anticipation.

Though Cassius affected an air of nonchalance, he didn’t fool her.

His keen artist’s eyes missed nothing.

If a dog twitched an ear or lifted a snout and sniffed the air, his shoulders tensed and his features hardened.

Idly petting Teddy, Beatrice swung her attention to the open window to her right. It was impossible to tell the precise time, but from the gradual quieting of the woodlands and waning light, she guessed it must be nigh on to dusk.

She coughed, not the lung-rattling hack of twenty-four hours ago, but a productive cough.