Jacquie D'Alessandro (29 page)

“Andrew, I am not a young virginal miss to be ‘compromised.’ I’m a grown, Modern Woman, indulging in a mutually pleasurable affair. When you said you wanted a wife, you described a paragon of perfection whom I doubt exists.”

“No. I was looking right at her. You are all those things I described and so much more—a woman with flaws, who in spite of them, because of them, is the perfect woman for me. I’m asking you to reconsider your feelings on marriage. To instead consider your feelings for me.” He studied her for several seconds, then said quietly, “I know you care. You never would have taken me into your bed, into your body, if you did not.”

Heat stung Catherine’s cheek. “I did not take you as a lover to pry a marriage proposal from you.”

“I know. And there is no need to pry. I offer my proposal willingly. And with great hope that in spite of all I told you tonight, you will accept.”

“When we entered into our liaison, we agreed it was only temporary.”

“No,
you
insisted it was temporary. I never agreed. And even if I had, I hereby formally renege. I do not want temporary. I want forever. I want to be your husband. I want to be a father to Spencer—if he wishes me to be so. At the very least, I want to be his friend and champion.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ve told you about my past. I’ve told you how I feel about you. My heart, my soul are yours. Tell me what you want to do with them.”

Catherine locked her knees to steady their trembling. “You don’t understand what you’re asking of me, and clearly you don’t know what marriage means to a woman.
It means I cease to exist. I would lose everything because it would no longer belong to me, it would belong to my husband. My husband could banish me to the country, neglect our child, sell off my personal belongings—and all legally. I’ve already lived through that horror. I do not require more money, or family connections. Marriage has nothing to offer me.”

“Clearly we use different dictionaries, because to me, marriage means caring for one another. Loving together. Sharing laughter and helping through pain. Always knowing that there is another person standing beside you. For you.”

“I must admit, your definition sounds lovely, but experience has taught me marriage is not that way. Do you honestly believe your definition is realistic?”

“I suppose that depends on
why
a person marries. If one marries for money or social position, then I agree it could prove disastrous. But if the marriage is based on love and respect, because you cannot imagine not spending every day of your life with the person who owns your heart, then yes, I believe it can be all those wonderful things.” He reached for her hand. After gently placing the ring on her palm, he folded her fingers closed and nestled her fist between his hands. “Catherine, if you decide you don’t want to marry me, let it be because I’m not from your social class. Because I’m a common American. Because I have a scarred past. Because you don’t love me. Please don’t refuse me because you think I’ll take things away from you when all I want to do is give to you. Everything. Always. I want to take care of you.”

“I believe I’ve demonstrated quite well over the past decade that I do not need a man to take care of me.” A sick feeling of loss washed through her at the hurt that flared in his eyes. True, she did not want a husband, but
she realized with sudden stinging clarity, neither did she want Andrew simply to disappear from her life. “Why don’t we just continue on as we have?” she said, hating the note of desperation she heard in her voice.

“Having an affair?”

“Yes.”

Her breath stilled while she waited for his answer. Finally, very quietly, he said, “No. I cannot do that to you. Or Spencer. Or myself. If we continue, eventually someone would discover the truth, and the gossip would only hurt you and Spencer. I’ve no desire to sneak around, grabbing stolen moments, and keeping my feelings hidden. I want it all, Catherine. All or…nothing.”

The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. There was no mistaking the resolution in his voice and eyes, and anger shot through her. “You have no right to issue such an ultimatum.”

“I disagree. I believe the facts that I’m painfully in love with you and have shared your bed gives me that right.”

“The fact that we shared a bed changes nothing.”

“You’re wrong. It changes
everything
.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “Catherine, either you feel the same things I do, or you don’t. Either you love me, or you don’t. Either you want to spend your life with me, or you don’t.”

“And you expect me to give you an answer right now? All or nothing?”

“Yes.”

Catherine stared at him, the pressure of the ring pressing into her palm. A myriad of conflicting emotions battered her from every direction, but she shoved the jumble aside and focused on the anger—toward him for forcing her to make a decision like this and toward herself for even hesitating. Her choice was clear. She didn’t want a
husband. So why was it so damnably difficult to say the one word that would send him away?

Because that word would do just that—send him away.

She moistened her dry lips. “In that case, I’m afraid it’s nothing.”

Several long, silent seconds passed, and she watched his expression go blank, as if he’d pulled a curtain over his feelings. A muscle jerked in his jaw, and his throat worked as she imagined him swallowing his disappointment. He slowly released her hand, and a small voice inside her cried out
No!,
but she kept her lips pressed firmly together to contain it. She slowly opened her hand and held out the ring to him. He stared at the gem for so long, she thought he would refuse to take it. And actually he did just that by finally holding out his hand, forcing her to place the ring into his palm. After she did, he quickly stepped away from her and quit the room, softly closing the door behind him without a backward glance.

Still staring at the closed door, Catherine sank onto the settee. The warmth from where his hand had held hers only seconds ago had disappeared, leaving a chill in its wake that shivered through her entire body. Her mind, her logic, told her she’d made the right choice. The eviscerating ache in her heart, however, indicated that she might have just made a terrible mistake.

Just before dawn Andrew sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows propped on his knees, hands cradling his aching head. But the dull throbbing there was nothing compared to the soul-ripping pain in his chest.

How was it possible for his heart to hurt so badly yet continue to beat? He wished he could blame the outcome of his proposal on its precipitous delivery, but he sus
pected that even if he’d taken months to court Catherine, in the end, she still would have refused him.

But at least then you would have had those months with her,
his inner voice taunted.
Now you have…nothing
.

He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. Clearly he’d made a mistake forcing her to choose all or nothing, but damn it, he’d wanted her for so long, been waiting so long. Had been so hopeful that she’d come to care for him. Would realize they
belonged
together.

An image of that bastard Carmichael dragging her toward the springs flashed in his mind and his hands clenched. What had triggered such deep hatred of the
Guide
that he’d been driven to kill the author? Yes, the Today’s Modern Woman premises and explicit content were scandalous—but to the point of inciting murder?

He recalled meeting Carmichael after the shooting at Lord Ravensly’s birthday party. Something odd, almost familiar, had struck him about Carmichael while he’d listened to him give his account of witnessing a man running into Hyde Park after the shot was fired. And he’d experienced that same sensation at both the duke’s soiree and at the museum yesterday. Philip had said Carmichael had spent time in America…

Andrew closed his eyes, forcing himself to recall every detail of his encounters with Carmichael, first at the parties, then at the museum—

An image flashed in Andrew’s mind, of Carmichael stroking his chin, prisms of light bouncing off the square-cut diamond-and-onyx ring he wore. Recognition hit Andrew, and everything inside him froze. Carmichael had been wearing that ring at both parties as well. It wasn’t the man who had inspired that flare of memory—it was the
ring.

Andrew dragged his hands down his face, his heart pumping hard. If he hadn’t relived the day Emily died, he would have missed it. He’d buried that hurt, that image so deeply…but there was no mistake. Carmichael’s unusual diamond-and-onyx ring was identical to the one that Lewis Manning was wearing the day Andrew had shot him.

Carmichael isn’t after Charles Brightmore. He’s after me.

The truth struck him like a blow, and his mind reeled. Carmichael must have some connection to Lewis Manning. There was a resemblance, around the eyes, he realized as pieces rapidly clicked into place. Was Carmichael Lewis’s father? Uncle? Father, most likely, Andrew decided. Which would certainly give him a motive to hate Andrew.

When Catherine was shot, Andrew had been standing next to her. The bullet had been meant for
him
. And tonight, Carmichael had planned to kill him—a plan set awry by Catherine’s presence. She’d unknowingly saved his life and nearly drowned in the process.

He blew out a long breath and raked unsteady hands through his hair. Jesus. All he’d ever wanted to do was protect her, and
he
was the danger. Which meant he had to get away from her. Immediately.

After eleven years, it appeared his past had finally caught up with him. And had twice nearly killed Catherine. Well, Carmichael wouldn’t get another chance.

Andrew walked swiftly to the wardrobe, pulled his leather satchel from the bottom, and quickly began shoving his belongings inside.

Don’t worry, Carmichael. You’ll find me. I’m going to make it very easy for you.

Catherine sat in her wing chair, staring at the grate of the fire that had burned out hours ago, the dead, gray ash a perfect reflection of her mood.

With a sound of disgust, she rose and paced. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d made the right decision, the only decision she could have made under the circumstances. All or nothing? How could she possibly have agreed to give him “all”? She couldn’t have, and it was that simple. Yet in spite of that logic, she somehow still felt as if she’d been sliced in half.

Dear God, the things he’d told her. His past should have shocked her, but after hours of thought, the ordeal he’d been through only served to reinforce her sympathy and admiration for him. Yes, he’d killed a man, but a man who only seconds before had tried to kill
him
. A man who had killed his wife—a young woman he’d risked a great deal to help. Andrew had lost
everything
, and all in the name of love. Yet he clearly had not turned his back on love, on marriage, as she had. He was kind, noble, generous, thoughtful, and…

Oh, my, the way he’d looked at her, his heart in his eyes, all raw desire and naked emotion. She halted, and her own eyes slid closed, picturing him as clearly as if he stood before her. No one had ever looked at her like that before. And God help her, as much as she hadn’t wanted it, as much as she’d tried to deny it, she wanted Andrew to look at her like that again. She simply wasn’t ready to give him up as a lover.

She opened her eyes and resumed pacing, her mind racing. Surely if she put some effort into it she could convince him that his proposal was precipitous and persuade him to continue their liaison. Today’s Modern Woman
would not allow him simply to have the last word and walk away. No, Today’s Modern Woman would use all the ammunition in her feminine arsenal to tempt, allure, entice, and seduce him around to her way of thinking.

The instant the realization hit her, it was as if the sun broke through a bank of dark clouds. Why had it taken her all night to realize something that now seemed so obvious? She roundly cursed her stubborn streak, but at least she’d come to her senses.

The sooner she began her persuasive campaign, the better. And what better way to start than issuing him an invitation to return to Little Longstone next week? Even better if she were to issue the invitation right now. In the warm intimacy of his bedchamber. While she was dressed in her nightrail and robe.

The pale light of dawn was just breaking through the windows as she left her bedchamber and hurried quietly down the corridor. When she reached his door, she tapped lightly. “Andrew?” she said softly.

Silence greeted her, and she tapped again, but still heard nothing from within. Concerned, she turned the handle and opened the door enough to peer inside. Her heart stuttered, then she slowly pushed the door wide.

The room was empty, his bed undisturbed. She scanned the room, noting with stunned dread that none of his personal items remained. As if in a trance, she crossed to the wardrobe and pulled open the oak doors. Empty.

A sharp, acute ache stole her breath. With hot moisture pushing at the backs of her eyes, she turned toward the bed, and her heart leapt at the small bundle set on the pillow. She dashed across the carpet and snatched up the note on top of the parcel. Breaking the seal, she scanned the words.