Page 29

Well, there was only one thing to do, wasn’t there? Only one he could live with, anyway. He’d toss the letter in the fire. Tell Gwen the truth and forgive her debt. She’d hate him, of course, but that was unavoidable. And then he would… what?

Go home, he supposed.

Back to London.

Gwen would have her yard and he… he would never see her again.

He’d go back to his money and his uncluttered desk. His uncluttered heart. Nothing would make him laugh when he wasn’t expecting it. Nothing would have him waking in the morning, with a sense of eagerness and unknown possibility. No one would challenge him him or make him feel⁠—

Alive.

His throat tightened.

His feet pulled him closer to her and he reached for her hand. It was cold in his.

That damned inner light of hers had burned bright enough to draw him across the Bristol Channel, bright enough to drive shadows he hadn’t even noticed from his world. Was he truly going to give that up? The time he’d shared with Gwen, no matter their conflicting interests, had been… right. She fit in a way nothing else ever had. And not everything between them had been a lie. She had seen him when he’d let it happen. Not Lord Michael. Him. Or parts of him, anyhow. She’d seen his arrogance and his ruthlessness. She’d seen his eagerness to work beside her, argue with her, laugh with her.

And she’d liked him still.

Perhaps she could again.

He could be an asset to the yard. He could make her happy. So why was he doing this? Why should he sacrifice what he wanted most when he’d been the one to win the game? Gwen was every bit as attainable as the yard he no longer wanted for himself.

He simply needed to propose a different arrangement.

One that would quiet the nausea in his stomach.

One she would forgive him for… eventually.

“The bank,” she said, dropping his hand to resume her harried pacing. “It won’t be easy to convince them, but with the auction as proof of…”

He shook his head. Took a measured breath. “You’ll find that avenue is closed to you, Gwen. I’ve seen it rather neatly done.”

Gwen’s steps slowed, then stopped altogether. “How do you...” She searched his face. “What do you mean? What is...” Her words faltered.

“You didn’t...” Her voice dropped. “You couldn’t have...” Her half-formed thoughts trailed away as she turned to face him fully.

He tried to keep his breath steady as he met her horrified gaze, the final pieces falling into place. The truth was there now—plain and cruel—and he could neither turn away nor shield himself from the hurt and betrayal reflected in her wide, unblinking eyes.

“Yes. You have the right of it, I can see. I did warn you that Michael is no angel.” He leaned a hip against the desk and crossed his arms. “Sit down, Gwen, so we can talk.”

Gwen reared back, faced scrunched in anger, two delicate fists clinched at her sides. “I will not sit down… or sell Llanelli to you, you lying, manipulative twyllwr. I want you off my property in the next five seconds or I swear to God I’ll drag you out by your ear, you see if I don’t…”

He bit back the unexpected smile her fearless audacity provoked, and held out his hands, palms out. “I don’t want Llanelli anymore, Gwen—you can keep it. And what I’m offering… what I want will ensure it never comes under threat of sale again. It will remain exactly as it is, only… prosperous beyond anything you’ve imagined. Just—please. Sit down.”

She crossed her arms, meeting his impassive gaze with one that threatened murder. “You came here to help me.”

“I merely answered a solicitation for a financial consultant, an expert in the field of business and negotiation.” He spread his hands, inclining his head. “Of which I am… and consult, I have.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You lied to me. You stood there and lied to my face, and Christ, I believed you. Every word. I trusted you.”

He shook his head. “I never lied. I simply didn’t offer up answers to questions you didn’t ask.”

“You’re splitting hairs. You deliberately deceived me.”

Michael straightened, dropping his arms. “Yes, that much is true.”

Letting out a slow breath, he sought her gaze and his chest constricted at the pain and revulsion in her eyes. “I’ve never claimed to be a good man, Gwen—I’ve never found much advantage in that particular virtue. But I don’t lie, and any deception I carried out was only possible because you failed to look very hard at any of this. Five minutes with a copy of Debrett’s would have given you all the truth you needed. Lord Michael Anson, third son of the Duke of Northam, born 1790. It’s there in black and white. I gave you my name, for Christ’s sake.”