Page 54

“As I was saying.” He shot her a mock-chastising glare. “My companies.” He cleared his throat. “Penvale Porcelain Works was my first, and so I kept it. Call it sentimentality.” The admission made him cringe inside, but he went on anyway. “We actually made that teacup you’re so fond of—though that particular line was, of course, before my time. The old man who runs it is…” Michael thought of Brandon Marks and felt his smile crease at the corners of his eyes. “He’s eccentric, to put it mildly, but I’ve rather a soft spot for him. He’s been angling for months to expand his trade routes to the Americas.”

Michael considered telling her more about Brandon—how he’d been subtly nudging Michael away from his former path for years. He could well imagine the old codger’s face when he learned Michael had married. But there was a point he needed to make first. There would be time for stories later.

He crossed his legs at the ankles and shifted Gwen a touch closer. “I own Severn Freight and Trading Company out of Gloucester, which I retained mostly out of spite. It was the fifth—no, the sixth—company I purchased, and my uncle… my father’s brother made quite an unholy fuss when his set got word that I was dabbling in commerce. While my original motives for keeping the business were questionable, I suppose, it’s turned a fine profit over the years.”

“Michael Travers, who manages it—yes, another Michael, though this one is in fact not me—is quite the strategist and has a slew of plans for the coming year. You should see the level of detail in the correspondence his secretary sends. It makes my scheming look like child’s play, though rather more respectable, I suppose.”

“As for the third, you’ll recognise the name. Merthyr Tydfil. The yard maintains a regular contract with them… or rather, with us, for your fasteners and chains. Beyond that, we produce a fair amount of agricultural implements, mill machinery, and ironwork for the mines. We were responsible for the gates and much of the estate railings at Cyfarthfa several years ago.”

“Maintaining ownership of the company was more or less a matter of convenience, as I have a bit of property in the area. I thought if I ever settled down in my dotage, I might fancy a bit of light work to occupy myself.”

He glanced in Gwen’s direction and found her listening intently. “My point being that even after I’ve sold off my share to Smythe, you needn’t worry overmuch that I’ll grow bored. I have ample opportunities to exercise my intellect in a manner that will in no way interfere with you or the yard. While I’ve admittedly had little to do with the companies of late, beyond a general stewardship, I could certainly take a more active hand.”

He waited for relief to take hold, watching her closely, but instead she looked… worried? Resigned? Certainly, there was not the slightest hint of reassurance in her crestfallen expression.

With no notion of what had caused it and even less of an idea how to make it better, Michael lifted her palm to his lips and kissed it as she had done for him, hoping to return even a little of the comfort she had offered him. She gave him a wobbly smile.

“I’m afraid I’m not yet proficient at this aspect of marriage, sweetheart,” Michael said, holding her hand between both of his. “You’ll have to give me a hint.”

She looked down at their joined hands, then curled her fingers around his. “That sounds like rather a lot of travel.”

It would have been in poor taste to beam with pleasure when Gwen was clearly distressed, but it was a near thing. “It doesn’t have to be. Merthyr Tydfil is only a short enough journey, as you well know and on the rare occasion that travel becomes a necessity…” He paused. “The return trip home—to you—will be the very best part.”

He squeezed her hand, then released it, brushing the loose strands of hair back from her face.

That admission hadn’t been so very difficult, he decided, with a small surge of satisfaction. He was improving… might yet become competent at this husband business.

Idly, he began twining a silken lock around his fingers. “There was a time when I enjoyed the life I had. It was exciting, and it didn’t hurt that my coffers grew to exceed what my father had amassed while holding the title. Best of all, I knew it would have enraged him—were he alive to see what I’d become, how I’d sullied his name through my so-called lowly pursuits. Even so, in character, I became rather like him, I suppose.”

“But in time, the money ceased to matter, and the tedium grew to matter very much. Worst of all, I came to realise that my father would never feel the slightest discomfort in the path I had chosen—but my brother, the last person in the world I would ever willingly hurt, would bear the cost of the reputation I’d so eagerly pursued. Not that Gabriel, in all honesty, seems to care overmuch. But it will matter to his children, my nieces and nephews, when it’s time for them to make a match in society.”

“Still, I carried on. I suppose I had no notion of what sort of life might actually make me happy, so in the absence of any greater ambition, I stayed the course because… well… I was good at it. Who knows, I might have continued indefinitely, with self-loathing as the only thing to break the monotony, had a letter not arrived from a certain stubborn Welshwoman, offering me the first real possibility of something different.”

He released the lock of hair, feeling lighter for the admission. “I’m not certain what I thought I was searching for when I came here. I’m not even sure I could put a single name to it now, but I can tell you that each day I feel the gap narrowing between the life I want and the one I have.” He smoothed his hand down her hair to her shoulder, then drew her as close as he could. “I have no desire whatsoever to stray from this path.”

Gwen’s response was muffled, rather adorably, against his chest. “I understand you feel that way now but⁠—”

“I love you.” Michael grasped her firmly by the shoulders and drew her back until he could see those wide, lovely eyes properly. “It’s a bloody stupid word. I hate it with the full force of my being because it isn’t enough. It will never be enough, and I doubt I’ll ever find the will again to reduce what I feel for you to something so painfully inadequate.” He swallowed against the tightening in his throat. “But I’ve learned well enough over the course of my life that what makes perfect sense in my own head doesn’t always translate properly to anyone else. And I refuse to risk you misunderstanding this. So I’ve said it like everyone else would say it.”

There. He’d done it. Bared his soul like every other lovelorn fool, and he’d thought he’d done a capable enough job of it. Except Gwen was simply frozen in place, staring up at him, her gaze oddly unfocused.

Something inside Michael began to wither, and the old, familiar ache returned—a reminder that he was just different enough that he could never quite fit, forever translating himself for others and still somehow falling short. Lionel’s hand dragging down his face. Gabriel’s brow furrowed in that restrained, quizzical way. Affection and devotion could carry them only so far when some essential part of Michael seemed always just slightly out of step, his actions never quite matching the expectations of others.

And now Gwen could see it too.

When a full thirty seconds passed and still Gwen hadn’t said a word, Michael began to wish he’d kept his blasted mouth shut and simply carried on with the kissing. He was good at that. Far more competent, apparently, than this business of saying what he actually felt. Was it too late to steer the direction of things? He didn’t think so, but he was plainly no authority on women, or he’d never have found himself in a position where his soul needed bearing in the first place.

But no, he’d given her too many reasons to question his intentions already, and he’d be damned before he’d leave her wondering again. For now, there was nothing for it but to grow more accustomed to the fluttery feeling in his stomach that seemed to accompany soul-baring and hope he got better at it.

“Gwen?” Michael tugged gently at a lock of her hair. He would accept any response from her at this point—even a swat for badgering her like an impertinent younger sibling would be preferable to this godawful, six-thousand-ton silence.

Gwen reached up and batted his hand away, and Michael’s stomach sank as he prepared himself for the consequences of having apparently become the sort of man who stumbled through a romantic declaration, then poked at a woman until she responded.

But her expression softened.

Then she smiled.

“You’ve been perfectly, beautifully clear and⁠—”