Page 65 of The Dove
She took his hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Robert … surely, you must know I care so deeply for you. But I cannot marry you.”
He nodded. “I know. It is all right.”
She tried to smile, but found it difficult when guilt assailed her over having to break his heart yet again. “I wish I could be different. I wish I could be … the sort of woman who could love a man like you instead of a man like him.”
With a sarcastic snort, he shook his head. “No, you don’t … and do not lie to yourself or trick yourself into thinking you are. A woman like you was never made for a man like me, and I always knew that. You were made for fire and passion and … well, whatever it is that makes up a man like Hartmoor.”
Of course she was … she’d known that all along. Knowing that someone else could see it made her feel a little less mad for her feelings, her love for a man who had done nothing to deserve it. Except love her back.
“Well?” he prodded when she did not reply. “Shall we go after him? My carriage is just outside, and I do believe he is still at his hotel in Mayfair. We could be there in a quarter of an hour.”
A wide smile split her face, and she laughed, taking up her skirts in her hands and dashing for the door. Robert followed, lingering in the opening.
“Where are you going?” he bellowed as she rushed to the stairs.
“To change clothes,” she declared, pausing to glance him over her shoulder. “I’ll only be a moment, and then I would be so grateful if you’d take me to him.”
Robert gave her a puzzled look, but nodded, disappearing back into the drawing room. It seemed silly, wanting to change clothes at a time like this. But she refused to go to Adam in mourning attire … not when she had nothing to mourn, and everything to celebrate. Love. New beginnings. Hope.
Black bombazine did not go with such aspirations.
Adam slouched in the seat of his coach and closed his eyes, hoping the gentle bounce and sway of the vehicle would put him to sleep. As it was, it took everything he had not to pound the roof of the vehicle and command the driver to take him back to London.
Gripping the edge of the seat, he shook his head, reminding himself that he could not give in to that urge. He’d done an admirable job these past six weeks, staying away from Daphne even while occupying the same city as her. He’d left Fairchild House as soon as he’d known she would be all right, sending Niall back to Dunnottar ahead of him with Olivia and Serena. Then, he’d closeted himself away in a hotel suite, emerging only to read the papers for pieces of news concerning Bertram’s trial and set a few of his affairs in order.
He’d attended the execution that morning, the final thing he’d needed before he could quit London. He’d sat in his coach and watched through the curtains as Bertram had been brought to the gallows, unable to take his gaze away from the sight of his sister’s rapist jerking and choking at the end of a noose. At least, until it had ended, and he’d spotted Daphne in the crowd. His resolve had almost crumbled, and he’d nearly leapt down from the coach and pursued her, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her away. She’d never get away from him again; she would be his once more.
Except, he had let her go for a reason. Because it had been the right thing to do after she’d so selflessly placed herself between him and a loaded gun … after she’d proved with both words and deeds that she loved him.
The foolish girl. She had no notion of what loving a man like him meant, as even he had no notion. So, he’d forced himself to do what needed to be done, even when it enraged him to think of her with that weakling Robert. It would be good for her, and someday, she would forget about him.
And he … well, he would live in the same place of torment he’d wallowed in for most of his life. He had grown used to it by now, had learned to revel in the darkness, to endure the pain. What was one more loss when he’d never been able to cling to the people he loved?
Releasing an annoyed growl, he pounded the seat. He needed to stop thinking about her, or he might do something foolish like—
“Adam!”
He drew his eyebrows together at the muffled sound of his name being called, the voice just barely reaching him over the pounding of horses’ hooves and clatter of carriage wheels. Sitting up straight, he inclined his head and listened, certain he must be hearing things.
“Adam!”
It came again, unmistakable this time. A woman’s voice calling his name from outside.
He snatched open the curtains, squinting against the bright light of the afternoon. When his vision adjusted, he spotted an open-air barouche speeding alongside his coach, two people seated on the perch as a duo of matched black bays pulled it along. His eyes widened at the sight of Daphne, her redingote hanging open over her carriage dress, her loose hair billowing in the wind. His fingers twisted in the curtains, his gut churning as she grinned at him and waved.
His scowl deepened, his anger boiling to the surface as he raised his fist to pound on the carriage roof. What the devil was wrong with this woman? Had she not understood that he’d been determined to leave her … that he’d done it all for her own good? The idiot didn’t know what was good for her, and by God, he was going to make her pay for this … for forcing him to confront her when all he’d wanted to do was retreat to Dunnottar to lick his wounds in peace.
“Goddamn stubborn woman,” he grumbled as the carriage rumbled to a stop, the sound of the barouche slowing coming at him as he threw open the carriage door.
He jumped down and stomped toward the barouche, which had halted several yards ahead of him. His chest heaved when she came down out of the small conveyance and began running toward him, her coat fluttering behind her, her gown fisted and held up to reveal her stockinged legs and slippers. He couldn’t breathe through his rage, his hands clenching into fists as he imagined wrapping one around her neck and throwing her to the ground.
One more time,he told himself.
He’d throw her skirts up and fuck her in front of the person who’d driven her here, in front of his coachman and footman … he did not give a bloody damn. He’d fuck her and be done with her once and for all … he would show her. He would show her that he would not be swayed.
But then, she came closer, and he saw it … the purple bit of ribbon tied around her slender throat, the saucy bow resting just over her collarbone. His gut clenched, and air filled his lungs, and he could do nothing more than stand there and open his arms when she hurled herself at him with a laugh.
She was kissing him all over his face—his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, his jaw, his lips. And he was destroyed, torn apart and vulnerable, unable to resist clinging to her and dragging her tighter against him, her feet dangling off the ground. Then, she was leaning back to look at him, smiling and laughing and acting as if her brother had not just been hanged that morning.
