Page 70 of The Lady Tempts an Heir
If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.
Oscar Wilde
Max sat on the sofa and held his face in his hands. It didn’t help that they smelled like her. Lilies and the sweet salt of her body.
That conversation had not gone at all as he had anticipated. He had been prepared for Helena to assert that the physical distance between her life in London and his life in New York was too great to overcome. He’d had a list of counterarguments ready in his head.
They could compromise. He’d agree to return to London every year. Or she could reside here for three months and spend the rest of the year with him—six months if she balked at that. He’d been prepared to agree to any amount of time if it meant that he could have her.
Her next declaration would have been something about her family, and then his family. He would have argued against both, because nothing mattered except what was between them. Nothing except the fact that he loved her. That she loved him if only she would let herselfacknowledge it. Then he would have kissed her and petted her until she admitted that she felt the same. They would have spent the night again in her bed, and in the morning he would have kissed her goodbye, secure in the knowledge that she would be joining him in a few months at most.
This... this was so much more severe than he had ever dared to imagine. He had known that her first marriage had produced no children, and he had never seriously contemplated the reason for that. Violet had mentioned once that Helena’s husband had died from some sort of intestinal cancer, and Max had merely assumed that the man’s illness had prevented or at least greatly interfered in their plans for children.
“Max.”
August stood framed in the doorway, her smile fading as she saw the expression on his face. He could only imagine how he must look. His eyes were dry but burning. His chest felt hollow, ravaged by grief and anger and despair in a way he had never experienced.
She walked cautiously into the room as if expecting something to jump out at her. “What’s happened? Where is Helena?” She looked around, searching the shadows.
“Gone. To her room maybe.” His voice sounded vacant and dull.
Her hand settled on his shoulder, and he nearly shrank from the comfort. “Did you argue?”
He shook his head. “Not really, no.” Taking in a shuddering breath, he said, “I told her I love her, and she told me the reason we can never marry.”
“Oh, Max, I’m so sorry.” She sank onto the sofa beside him and put her arms around him. “I would have sworn she would say yes to you. I know this was all pretend, but I saw the way she looked at you and you at her.”
“It’s not for lack of affection.”
She was silent as she pulled away to study him, a crease forming between her brows. “Then why?”
He didn’t mean to talk about it. Helena might not want anyone else to know, but the words came out of him of their own volition. “She’s unable to bear children, and she believes that if we marry, I will eventually resent her for it.”
August let out a little gasp of surprise even though she tried to stifle it. Eventually, she said, “And is she correct in her belief?”
He looked at her so sharply, she flinched. “No! How could I resent her for something she cannot control or change?”
“Then you’re prepared to accept that you won’t father children if you marry her?”
It was his turn to flinch. “Dammit, August.” She was always pointed and honest, getting to the meat of any issue facing them.
He stood and walked to the window, his gaze locked on that damned tree that had overseen the worst heartbreak of his entire life. That was the crux of it. That was what kept him here, paralyzed with pain and rage. His instinct had been and still was to fight for Helena. She had quickly come to mean more to him than anyone he had ever met.
But what if there was a kernel of truth in her words? Not that he could ever resent her, but the part about wanting children.
He had always seen himself having children. He had always known that one day the reins of Crenshaw Iron would go to his child. And he had reveled in that. Found security and purpose in those dreams of the future. Hell, Helena had even come to feature in some of his wilder imaginings as the mother of that child.
What if he couldn’t make that longing go away so easily?
He wanted to rip the thought out by its roots and tear it apart. He despised himself that he couldn’t because a thread of truth kept it intact.
Even as he acknowledged that, he also accepted that it didn’t matter. He wanted Helena more than anything else.
“Excuse me,” he said as he made his way from the room, his need to see her and reassure her overcoming everything.
He almost went directly to her room but changed his mind. Instead, he went to his room, locked the door, and took the small oil lamp from the bedside table. With renewed purpose, he let himself into the cramped passageway and went to her room. Pausing at the door, he listened for any sounds coming from within. It would not do to walk in while a maid was helping her undress. He wouldn’t mind, but the poor maid might be scandalized. Hearing nothing, he pushed open the door.
A low fire burned in the hearth, and a single sconce inside the door was lit, but the room was empty. Her bed was turned down waiting for her, but she was nowhere to be found. Cursing softly, he debated waiting but determined it would be best to return to his room to do so, lest a servant get too suspicious.
