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He eased closer still, silently willing her to see the earnestness in his eyes, to hear how desperately he wanted to repair what he had broken. His hands trembled at his sides, his chest still impossibly tight, but he forced himself to give a little more, to offer up a less comfortable truth. “I have no wish to undermine your authority, truly, I do not—but…” He paused to marshal his resolve, then forced himself to continue. “For my own sake, I have to admit to being somewhat grateful for Lionel’s demand. As it happens, you’re rather adept at shutting me out, and if this forces even the smallest crack in the door between us, I fully intend to throw myself bodily through it.”

He braced himself for her anger—for her disgust at the kind of man he was, the sort who, even now, would rejoice in his every advantage, rather than apologize for her loss of control.

Instead, she looked away, and the sweetest, softest laugh bubbled up from her chest. She reined it in quickly, but its echo remained on her lips, the faintest hint of a smile lingering there.

She sought out his gaze then, and his heart kicked wildly at the reluctant acceptance he saw there.

“Of course you will. But you won’t interfere with my choices during the meeting? Even if you disagree with the way I go about things?”

Could he remain silent were she to misstep? What truly constituted interference? Would it be better to offer insight in some small way, if he thought it might make the difference between gaining the contract or not?

A shrill epithet jerked his attention back to Gwen. “Lord above, I’m such a fool.” She threw up her arms, then began pacing the room. “Well, you can be in no question as to why I want you out of my life, Michael. Even now you’re searching for the loophole. Every word from your mouth comes with an angle.”

She stopped, clasped her hands, fingers twisting together until her knuckles blanched white. “Is it too much to want one conversation that isn’t a negotiation? A single blessed one where you simply tell me the truth and speak from your heart?”

Another laugh slipped free, as unstudied as the one before—the one that had filled him with such inexplicable, uncomplicated delight. But this one was its sour, sickly twin.

“It is. Of course it is, because you haven’t got a heart.”

Michael went still, a small, startled hitch catching in his breath. He looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze.

What could he possibly say? Her analysis of his character was largely accurate. Did it matter that in this single instance his pause denoted care rather than calculation? His lips parted, then closed again.

A cold, awful stillness stretched between them.

When he finally forced himself to look up again, her eyes were closed, her colour high.

“That was a terrible thing to say, and I’m sorry for it.” She shook her head, eyes opening to shift fitfully around the room. “It’s pointless to pry a promise from you in any case; I can’t exactly turn down an opportunity to meet with the East India Company.”

Appearing every bit as defeated as he felt, Gwen approached him, her hand hovering for a moment before reaching out to clasp his wrist. Her fingers were cold. “I am sorry, Michael.”

And she was. He could see that. Even though she’d meant every word, meant it still. She regretted having said it. Gwen would never set out to wound him, no matter the pain he’d inflicted with his past deceit. She was just that good.

“I’ve always had a horrid temper. I try to count before I speak, but…” She offered up a faint, apologetic smile that fell short of her eyes, then her hand slipped away.

“It’s fine,” he said, though he could hear the hurt in his voice.

After a moment, she nodded. Gradually, the set of her shoulders eased, her anger receding as quickly as it had risen.

“Michael?”

“Hmm?”

“That first day, how did you know which teacup was mine?”

The question was so odd, so utterly unexpected, that he forgot the sting of her words and answered without any of his usual careful consideration.

“It’s the sort of cup you’d have thrown away unless you loved it. At the time, I thought your attachment ridiculous—it belonged in the rubbish heap, utterly without merit. Now…” He hesitated, the words catching on a rough, mirthless laugh “… I find myself strangely jealous of the thing.”

Somehow, despite their quarreling and the exhaustion that followed, from the ashes of all the hurt feelings and mutual disappointment, a glimmer of amusement sparked in her eyes. “For what it’s worth, were I to discard you, it wouldn’t be to the rubbish heap. I’d simply return you to London.”

God, but this woman did something to him. She’d offered only the barest hint of playful banter, and his heart gave a ridiculous little lurch of delight.

“With all its smog and refuse, London is very like a rubbish heap,” he returned.

She grinned her agreement and for the space of several heartbeats, they just looked at one another. A different, softer quality to the silence, as if she was searching for something of merit in him, determined to find it there despite all his imperfections. He wasn’t sure if there was something there for her to find. But in the midst of that brief, ridiculous exchange, the life he wanted began to feel a little less impossible. He could almost make himself believe that he’d married the one woman in the world who could find that something good in him, even if it existed only in its most rudimentary, incipient form.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” she said. “If you were thinking that I did… I don’t.”