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“Walter was an unimaginative, self-important toad,” he said with absolute sincerity. “And in the fifty pages I’ve read so far, I can’t find a solitary compelling reason why your father would have thought him capable of running his business, let alone caring for his daughter.”

She smiled at that, but it was a wane, fragile thing that crumbled almost as soon as it formed. “Walter was better adept at concealing his less charming qualities while Da was alive, more motivated, I suppose. Although I was never in doubt which of his titles—husband or business owner—he found most appealing.” She sat on the edge of his bed, idly smoothing wrinkles from the counterpane. “In fairness, I was never much enthralled with the title of wife, although I’d no notion just how much of myself I would lose when I became Walter Bevans’ property.”

She looked up then, vast oceans of emotion pooling in her eyes; shame, frustration, despair, all laid bare before him without the slightest compunction to protect herself. Drawn like a predator to that throbbing vein of vulnerability, Michael sat beside her on the bed.

“I was naïve, I suppose.” She let out a humourless laugh. “Spoiled by the freedoms my father permitted to the extent that, not only my autonomy, but my inherent value as a person felt unassailable.” Her gaze dropped to the counterpane. “Oh, how quickly I learned otherwise. Walter provided a prompt and comprehensive education on just how capricious a woman’s value is, governed entirely by the whims of the man she’s tethered to.” She reached for the diary and pulled it onto her lap, worrying a thumb over the blunt edge. “As my father’s daughter, I was… a whole and complete person, worthy of respect or of reproach, based solely upon my own actions, like any man.” Wisps of loose hair tumbled over her eyes, obscuring her expression. “I’ve only just begun to reclaim some of what I lost in marriage. The least of which is the financial stability of Llanelli.”

With a delicate motion, she tucked the vibrant strands behind her ear, freeing Michael from the almost unbearable compulsion to tend to the task himself.

“The truth is—” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, her voice lowering almost to a whisper, as if this admission alone, among all the others that had already laid her bare, gave her pause.

Some long-neglected instinct for decency scrambled to make itself heard, urging her to stop now, before it was too late. To keep this last, vital piece of information buried deep, as far from Michael as she could manage, because given the opportunity, he would pluck it from her fingers. Wield it without mercy. It would be one more weapon added to the arsenal she’d already unknowingly placed in his hands, ensuring that no matter what armor she donned in the end, the final, catastrophic blow would still find its mark.

In truth, it already had. She simply hadn’t felt the sting yet.

His conscience beat against his heart like the frantic wings of a trapped bird. He wanted desperately to be done with this. To sail away from Wales and all these impossibly complicated feelings.

To forget her name.

Her dogged determination.

The way her hand had felt clasped in his.

Worst of all was this suffocating tenderness, tangled inexplicably with the exhilaration of working beside her. He’d come to crave those moments when they fell into easy rhythm, the quick exchange of ideas, and the warmth that lit her face when inspiration struck. But none of that mattered. None of it could matter. This was business, no different from acquisitions that had come before. There was always a name attached to the other side of the ledger, always someone with something to lose. Once the papers were signed and the thing was done, those names ceased to matter.

Gwen’s would be no different.

Soon enough, Llanelli would become another completed transaction, and whatever strange significance she had taken on would fade with it. He would turn his attention to the next opportunity, and wonder why any of this had seemed so damned complicated in the first place.

And so Michael said nothing. He waited in patient anticipation for whatever foolish advantage she would hand him next.

Because this was who he was. This was how the game was played.

When it came, it wasn’t what he’d expected. It was, in fact, so far removed from anything he would consider useful insight that it took him several moments to work out why she’d said it at all.

“The truth is… some part of me knew what would happen after I married Walter, and I did it anyway. Because at that moment, Da’s comfort meant more to me than my own.” She shook her head. “Utterly foolish that I should care more for the quality of his few remaining days than for the thousands of my own that would follow, but there it is. And I likely wouldn’t have been happy even if Walter hadn’t been an unimaginative, self-important toad.” She looked at Michael then, her gaze steady with resolve. “Some women just are not meant for marriage.”

They stared at one another for a long silent moment, broken only by the low hum of activity in the adjacent room and the occasional crackle of the fire.

Then he saw it: the concern in her eyes, and he recognised the warning for what it was. She was warding him off, the independent little minx, worried a single kiss would have him dropping to one knee. Or perhaps she was entertaining the possibility of more than tonight, so long as he was not likely to misunderstand her intentions.

“Yes,” he agreed mildly. “I can see why you might not look highly upon the institution of marriage.”

Her shoulders seemed to relax at that.

It was a pity Walter had so thoroughly marred her view of marriage that she could conceive of no union that might give more than it exacted. In truth, Michael had never thought to marry, but his imagination had never stretched so far as to consider that a woman like Gwen might exist.

He could admit to himself now that he’d seen something special in her from the start—present in that very first letter, when she’d cut him down like a scythe through wheat. She had surprised him, challenged him, captivated him in a way he’d not experienced in years. Now that fascination was thoroughly tangled with all the wicked impulses her stubbornly raised chin stirred within his body. She had fire inside her; and some very real part of him wanted to provoke it, protect it, feed it with his own breath until they both burned. Llanelli was unremarkable in every way that mattered, but she was a prize beyond measure.

It was definitely past time to return to England.

Gwen set the diary on his lap and stood. “It’s late. I’ll leave you to your reading.” Michael rose as well, trailing her to the door, where she hesitated before crossing the threshold. “I’ll need to arrive early tomorrow in preparation for the auction. It’s been quite some time since our last, not since before Walter’s death.” She leaned against the doorframe. “The sloops and cutters always do well, and if we’re lucky Lord Henry and Mr Stansford will both be in attendance. The two of them are like hounds after the same hare, trying to outdo each other. Stansford cuckolded Lord Henry some years ago and the yard’s been profiting from his libidinousness ever since.” A wry smile tugged at her mouth. “There’s been quite a stir in town about Sam’s little yawl as well. We should do well, I think.”

He took in the relaxed slope of her shoulders, the easy curve of her smile, the rare absence of worry from her eyes, and committed them to memory, knowing that no matter how successful the auction, tomorrow would be a truly terrible day for Gwen.

Only yesterday Michael received correspondence from Smythe, confirming the purchase of the last of Walter’s outstanding personal debts. Michael had briefly considered writing a letter from Lord Michael on the spot. It would have been the simplest thing to do.

Instead, he’d waited.