Page 13 of His Grace, the Duke
He closed his eyes and shook his head, taking a deep breath. “No.” He opened them, jaw set. This had to end. He had to make her understand. “Immaturity makes us do crazy things. Ignorance and jealousy, they make us crazy. For those have been the driving factors that have kept me tied to you all these years. Not love... not really.”
“You’re being cruel again,” she whimpered, wiping at her eyes.
“Mari, look at me.”
Her wet lashes fluttered up as she met his gaze.
He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words that would leave her in no doubt of his intentions. “I loved you once,” he admitted. “I loved you and would have married you...then. But eight years have now passed.”
A soft sob escaped her as she tried to turn away, but he grabbed her shoulder. These words had to be spoken forbothof them.
“I’ve traveled around the world and around again,” he went on. “I’ve seen and done so much in the last eight years. I’m not the same immature lad of sixteen, chasing after your skirts, desperate for a smile or a look. I’m not the jealous man of eighteen who wanted to kill Thackeray when he won you fair and square—”
“Oh, but Tom, I wanted you then too. I wanted you to come save me. I never loved Thackeray. How could I as long as you walked the earth?”
How desperate had he once been to hear these words from her lips? Now they rang hollow. Giving her the gentlest smile he could muster, he let the hammer fall. “I am not the man for you, Mari. I can never be that man. I could never make you happy in the way you deserve—”
“But what ofyourhappiness?” she cried. “You want to rank up, yes? You want to be captain? I can fund it for you, Tom. Together, we can make any life we want. I have Thackeray’s money. I have this house. We could be free—”
“Iamfree,” he countered.
The moment the words were spoken, a weight lifted off his chest and he took an unrestricted breath, his mouth curving into a relieved smile. He was already free. Free of Marianne’s pull, free of doubt, free of indecision. He leveled his gaze at her, shoulders set.
Marianne shrank away from him, reaching blindly behind her until she felt the back of a chair. She sank down, tears falling.
“Oh, Mari... I’m more sorry than I can say,” he offered, feeling the words wholly inadequate for the depth of his emotion.
Hewassorry, and not just for her benefit. He was sorry forhimself too. For the wasted years. For his anger, his long-suffering jealousy. What a fool he’d been. What an insufferable arse. In this moment, standing in Marianne Young’s entry hall, Tom resolved himself to being the master of his own happiness.
He dropped to one knee at her side. “You will recover from this in time.”
She gave a little sniff, not looking at him.
“Besides, why should you bother with getting remarried?” he added, determined to see her smile again. “You’re in a position so many women would envy.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, offering it to her.
She took it with a shaky hand.
“You are mistress of your own house, with control of your accounts. You are well-loved in society, with friends aplenty and a busy social calendar. What need have you to bring a man into your life who would only upend your comfort?”
She dabbed at her eyes. “You wish me to remain alone forever?”
“No, of course not,” he said quickly, rising back to his feet. “But don’t marry to please a man. Don’t marry someone like me, a wastrel of a second son who you would have to support financially.”
“You’re not a wastrel, Tom,” she said through her sniffling.
He gave her a crooked grin. “You haven’t known me for a long time, Mari. For all you know, I am King of the Wastrels on three continents.”
This earned him a little hiccupping laugh as she dabbed at her eyes again.
“If it is truly your wish to marry again, find a good man,” he went on. “A man who will not be intimidated by your independence. A gentleman who is independent himself and notin need of a wife he can use as his personal bank. Marry a man who is mad about you and you about him. Someone who makes your heart race and your passions flare white-hot, even as your soul settles, rested in comfort entwined with theirs. If you find that in another person, marry them without delay. Until you find that... well... be your own mistress. Live your life on your terms. I wish you well, Marianne. I always will.”
He turned to leave at last, grabbing his hat off the side table.
“And what of you?” she called, rising to her feet, his handkerchief still clutched in her hand.
He glanced over his shoulder as he donned his hat, slicking his curls back behind his ears. “What of me?”
Her watery eyes were wide, her cheeks blotchy and her nose red from crying. She looked at him with such open longing. It made his heart twist in his chest. He hated hurting her, but he couldn’t make his heart beat for her again. Never again.
