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“You gave me your word, Michael.”

“I… I didn’t…” Biting back the remainder of that God-awful admission—one that would undoubtedly invite perfectly reasonable questions about his feelings, he groaned.

“What! What didn’t you do? Because it looks very much as if you ignored every blessed thing I said, decided my wishes were an inconvenience, and engineered a way to take what you wanted anyway!”

A heavy throb settled behind Michael’s temples as the unfamiliar—and utterly infuriating—sensation of helpless frustration tightened its grip. He’d thought her undeserved anger preferable to admitting the truth his actions had unwittingly exposed—that, almost from the start, he’d been incapable of taking Llanelli from her. But this... this was bloody torture.

“Three small requests, Michael—that’s all I asked. Do your promises mean so little that you would cast them aside at the first possibility of an easier path to what you want?”

He drummed his fingers against the tabletop as an alternative to yanking out his own hair. “I would argue whether a wife’s insistence that her husband remain entirely excluded from her affairs outside the bedchamber constitutes a minor request, but despite my opinions on the matter…” He squeezed his eyes shut, drew a steadying breath, then opened them again. “I’ve upheld those requests without exception.”

He sounded stiff and detached even to his own ears, but the prospect of losing the minuscule fraction of ground he’d gained over the last eleven days sent his emotions skittering into disarray. Instinct had taken hold, smoothing the edges of his voice, stripping it of anything that might be used against him in the confrontation to come.

Gwen blew out a furious breath, tossing her plait over her shoulder.

It was as if he’d said nothing at all.

Even though he’d told her the truth and had yet to be met with the barrage of uncomfortable questions he dreaded, he found no relief. No easing of the hollow ache in his chest. And somehow he was still making everything worse.

When had it started to matter so much? Why did she matter so goddamned much? He could not make sense of this attachment. The stab of pain he experienced each time he felt her slip further away.

Michael ground his teeth, holding himself rigid against the sudden, reckless urge to lay himself open before her—to give her anything she wanted. Whatever she needed. To spill every terrifying truth at her feet and have done with it.

Afterall, every attempt to regain his advantage had only served to drive her further from his grasp. Clearly some shift in strategy was in order. Whether or not he was prepared to explain himself fully, there was a great deal of reassurance he could give, and perhaps, for now, it would be enough.

“Gwen.”

Her head snapped up from where she was worrying the fabric of her sleeve between her fingers.

“I did not insinuate myself into this situation with Lionel beyond my initial inquiry, at which point I made my admiration for your leadership and sound judgment abundantly clear.”

For an instant, pleasure drifted across her face, almost immediately replaced by suspicion, then disbelief.

Michael bit back a curse, frustration welling up like saltwater through a faulty hull. “Just this one time, will you choose to believe me?”

At the skeptical lift of her brow, a rough sound tore from his throat. He thrust his fingers through his hair.

“Very well—forget blind faith, it’s ludicrous anyway.” He sighed. “I did not ask to be involved in any way. Look at the situation logically, Gwen. It may not be fair, but as a woman and new to running the yard, the proposal would never have made it past the secretary’s desk without my seal on the envelope, let alone as far as a signed contract.”

She pursed her lips, folding her arms across her chest, but he could see that, at least in this, she believed him.

That was what was important. He was vindicated.

He waited for the hollow feeling in his chest to subside, for the ache to ease now that she accepted his words as the truth.

But nothing at all changed.

Because apparently, his body’s ridiculous, tempestuous reaction had not the slightest thing to do with his own wounded pride. Standing there, all his bloody heart cared about was the disappointment still present in her eyes.

When he opened his mouth to speak again, he scarcely recognised his own voice. “I’m sorry, Gwen. I’m sorry the world is the way it is.”

“That said,” he swallowed roughly, “Lionel’s insistence I attend the negotiations is only partly due to your gender and relative inexperience. I’ve known the man for years—we played cricket together at Oxford. But I swear it, Gwen, when I reached out to him, I did so only with the prosperity of Llanelli in mind. With you in mind.”

Although nothing in her posture invited his approach, Michael drew a step closer anyway, compelled by the almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch her—to find the part of Gwen that still wanted to believe him and cling to it with both hands. Even now, he could see it, that stubborn goodness, her determination to think the best of people, struggling toward the surface. It wasn’t in her to choose resentment and mistrust if another option existed… if he could give her even the smallest reason to trust him.

He could do that.

He could.