Much Ado About You

I’d vaguely been aware of Caro calling Roane, sticking a cup of tea in front of me, and packing up her stuff. She left a few moments before with the promise that Roane would be there to explain everything.

Explain everything.

How could he explain this?

When I heard feet pounding up the stairs followed by the familiar clack of dog nails on hardwood, the wall and fireplace unmerged as my vision came back into focus.

I looked toward the doorway as Roane entered the apartment, Shadow skipping across the floor toward me. Numb with shock I could only stare at the dog as he put his face close to mine.

“Hey, boy,” I whispered hoarsely.

“Shadow.” Roane gestured to the dog to move as he replaced him, lowering to his haunches in front of me. His eyes glittered with fear. “Evie.”

“Tell me it isn’t true,” I begged, desperately needing him to have a reasonable explanation now that he was in front of me, reminding me just how much I goddamn loved him.

Guilt etched its way into every one of his features, and suddenly I understood why they called it a broken heart.

It felt like mine had shattered inside my chest, the pain so great it was hard to breathe past the piercing, broken shards.

No.

Tears stung my eyes, flowing over and slipping down my cheeks as Roane cursed under his breath and tried to reach for me. I jerked away. “No,” I bit out, swiping at my tears. “Explain.”

He straightened but only to take the seat beside me.

To my horror, I had to quash the urge to throw myself into his arms. Roane’s arms, after all, were the first and only place I wanted to be when . . . well . . . ever. Biting my lip to hold back more tears, I placed the mug on the floor and curled my arms around my waist to keep the sobs inside.

“When . . . all those months ago . . . you told the entire pub that you wouldn’t date a younger man or a man who had money.”

I flinched, remembering that drunken night. Or at least some of it.

“I never meant to lie to you, Evie . . .” His tone was pleading. “I just . . . I wanted you to give me a chance without my age or money clouding your judgment. I never lied . . . I just omitted things.”

Oh my God.

It was true.

It was really true.

Nausea rolled through my stomach.

“And the entire village was in on this? Lying to me . . . making me the village fool?”

“No.” He gripped my arm.

“Don’t touch me!” I yanked it out of his hold and jerked up off the couch. “Don’t touch me.”

“Fuck, Evie.” Roane’s voice shook. “Please . . . it wasn’t like that. I tried to tell you so many times over the last month but—”

“The last month!” I spun around to face him, my rage and hurt and disappointment building into something I didn’t know if I could control. It was breaking me. “You should have told me from the start!”

“I know.” He stood, holding his hands up defensively. “I know. It’s just . . . I loved you from the start, and I was afraid you wouldn’t give me a chance.”

I didn’t want to hear his excuses. “How old are you?”

Roane exhaled slowly. “I’m just about to turn twenty-seven.”

“You’re twenty-six?” Oh my God, he was almost seven years younger than me.

“Aye.”

Seven years. How could I not have realized that? When I was forty, he would just be turning the age I was now.

“Oh my God.”

“But age doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.”

“But lying does.” I cut him a dark look. “Sir Roane Robson.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, pained. When he opened them, remorse filled them. “Not yet. My father is the baronet . . .” He took a step toward me and stopped when I glared. “The twelfth baronet. It’s not like it sounds. I don’t know how much you know about British aristocracy, but that’s not what a baronetcy is. We’re not peerage. It comes somewhere between a baron and a knighthood. It’s—”

“Is it a title? Is it a historical rank? Does everyone in Northumberland know who you are? Do you come from money?”

“Evie . . .”

“Well?”

He nodded slowly. “Aye. But my mum doesn’t come from money, Evie. She grew up here in Alnster, the daughter of a fisherman. I didn’t want to go to Harrow, so my mum convinced Dad not to send me, and when I started talking like Mum instead of Dad, he never corrected it. My parents wanted me to be who I am, not shape me into something else because of some legacy I would inherit. And I love the farm. I work hard, not because I have to, but because I want to, and they don’t expect or want anything from me. What you’ve seen of me is the truth. This is my life. Nothing about me or what you know about me has changed.”