They saw the tension tugging at his mouth, across his cheekbones.
His words might be polite.
But his eyes were shattered.
Angelique and Delilah thought they were witnessing a man coming apart. At the very least, in some terrible pain.
He’d arrived somewhat wild-eyed. He was leaving in a similar condition. And in between he’d looked as though he’d finally found a home.
Then again, this was a man who apparently did not live his life by halves.
What onearthhad transpired?
They noticed he hadn’t insisted the gossip item had no merit. Nor had he explained how he happened to know that Miss Keating was distressed.
Then again, perhaps he didn’t owe them an explanation.
They had both learned that formidable men knew a thousand ways to disguise anything that might be construed as weakness.
“We are sorry for your distress, Lord Kirke, and we respect your wishes. We do wish all the best for you. I know Mr. Delacorte in particular will miss you. You are always welcome here,” Delilah said gently. For this was true, for now.
He paused. “I have enjoyed my stay... more than I anticipated.” He smiled faintly, realizing how thatsounded. But his voice was rueful and wistful in a way that made both of their hearts contract with sympathy.
And then he smiled, and when he smiled it was so staggeringly clear how this challenging man could buckle any woman’s knees.
“Please give my regards to your husbands and to Mr. Delacorte. Tell him if he practices hard enough, he might one day be as good as I am at chess.”
With this last little bit of mischief fomented, he bowed, and then he and his portmanteau went out the door.
Catherine retreated to her room and packed her belongings swiftly. Blindly. Punishingly, as if her two-year-old dresses were transgressors. Remembering how hopeful she had felt the last time she’d packed them.
How could sheeverhave been so foolish and naive? Thanks to Lord Kirke, naive was the last thing she was now.
She was still shaking violently from the storm of emotion and shock.
I am willing to marry you.
Thegallof him. The bittershameof it.
The ghastly, howling pain of it.
To be a problem to besolved, an albatross to be worn about his neck for the rest of his life.
Not a prize to be claimed.
Or a woman to be loved.
She sat down hard on the bed and dropped her face into her hands.
She was furious because she could see so clearly now that she had only herself to blame for all ofthis. What manner of madness had overtaken her? How had she ever thought she’d be equal to London? How had she thought herself equal tohim?
No one can make a fool of you if you don’t allow them, he’d said.
A stubborn echo of her usual common sense responded to those words. Because she was sensible, was she not? Because she knew what he’d meant. She subscribed to this philosophy, too.
And yet it also went some way toward absolving him of responsibility for what had happened.
He was a clever man, she’d grant him that, she thought bitterly. Quite the nimble thinker.