Not that her life with Camden had been hard; she’d never lacked for material wealth. Yet she had been so alone. Her marriage had been an empty shell, just like the house in Half Moon Street. That was why she continually put off returning to it—because no matter how beautiful it was, how crammed with expensive objects, there was simply nothing there.
Nothing of importance. Nothing on which to build a life.
She barely noticed Fenella bobbing a curtsy; she dismissed the maid with an absentminded wave.
She didn’t yet know if she could believe and go forward. If the love—and yes, she thought it was love—that had grown between her and Michael would endure, would live and grow and be strong enough to be the cornerstone of her future, rather than dissipating like mist within a month, as with Camden.
And this time, the risk was far greater. The young girl’s infatuation she’d felt for Camden, while it might have grown to more with time, was nothing, a mere cipher against what now, at twenty-eight, she felt for Michael. The comparison was laughable.
If she let the tide take her this time, and the vessel of their love foundered, the wreck would devastate her. Would scar her far more deeply than Camden’s turning from her within days of their marriage had done.
The latch of her door clicked. Turning, through the shadows she watched Michael enter and shut the door. Watched him stroll easily, confidently, toward her.
There was only one thing to do.
She straightened her spine, lifted her head. Fixed her gaze on his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”
Michael slowed. A single candle burned by the bed, too far away to illuminate her eyes, yet her stance warned him; she didn’t expect him to like what she wished to say. Halting before her, he searched her face—could read nothing beyond implacable resolve. He arched a brow. “About what?”
“Us.” Her gaze on his eyes, she drew a deep breath—hesitated. Then spoke, her tone ruthlessly even. “When we first became close, you told me that whether or not we married was entirely my decision. I accept you meant that sincerely. I knew you’d been urged to marry to enable your appointment to the ministry—I assumed that meant, as it usually would, an announcement of an engagement by October or so.”
Drawing a tight breath, wrapping her arms about her, she looked down. “Tonight, I heard that Canning’s resignation is imminent, making his replacement urgent.” She looked up at him. “You now need to marry by mid-September at the latest.”
He held her gaze for a finite moment, then replied, “I didn’t know that until tonight, either.”
To his relief, she inclined her head. “Yes, well…regardless, we now have a problem.” Before he could ask what, she drew in a huge breath, turned to the window, and said, “I don’t know if I can.”
He didn’t need to ask what she meant. An iron hand clutched his gut…yet it seemed she hadn’t ruled out an engagement by October…. The cold tension dissolved; hope flared, but…he wasn’t sure what was going on.
Shifting, he leaned against the window frame so he could better see her face limned by the faint moonlight flowing through the window. She was tense, yes, but not overwrought. A frown tangled her brows, her lips were compressed; she seemed to be wrestling with some insurmountable problem. The insight gave him pause. Evenly, unaggressively, he asked, “Why not?”
She glanced briefly at him, then looked forward. After a moment, she said, “I told you Camden”—she gestured—“swept me off my feet. Yet even then, I wasn’t a complete ninny—I did have reservations. I wanted more time to be certain of my feelings and his, but he had to marry in less than two months and return to his post. I allowed myself to be persuaded—I allowed myself to be swept away.
“And now here I am, eleven years later, considering marrying another politician—and again due to the pressure of political events having to simply accept that all is as perfect, as right as it seems.” She drew in another breath; this time, it shook. “I care for you—a lot. You know I do. But not even for you—not even for what might be—will I commit the same folly again.”
He saw the problem; she confirmed it.
“I won’t allow my decision to be made by default. This time, I have to make it—I have to be sure.”
“What did Harriet say to you?”
She glanced at him. “Only that Canning was retiring—the timing.” She frowned, following his thoughts. “She didn’t pressure me—not her, or anyone else.” Looking out at the garden, she sighed. “It’s not people who’ve been persuading me this time—it’s everything else. All the tangible and not-so-tangible things—the position, the role, the possibilities. I can see that everything fits…but it seemed to fit the last time, too.”
He was feeling his way. Glancing at her face, he judged her calm enough to ask, “You’re not imagining—not about to suggest—I look elsewhere for a wife?”
Her lips set. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, then said, “I should.”
“But you won’t?”
She blew out a breath. Still not looking at him, she quietly stated, “I don’t want you to marry anyone else.”
Relief washed through him. So far, so good—
“But that’s not the point!” Abruptly, she speared her hands through her hair, then whirled from the window. “You have to marry within a few weeks, so I have to make up my mind—and I can’t! Not like this!”
He caught her hand before she could dash away across the room. The instant he touched her, he realized she was more tense than she appeared—her nerves far more taut. “What you mean is not yet.”
Her eyes, limpid silver, locked with his. “What I mean is I can’t promise that within a few weeks I’ll happily agree to be your bride!” She held his gaze, no veil, no shield, nothing to screen the turmoil, close to anguish, in her mind. “I can’t say yes”—she shook her head, almost whispered—“and I don’t want to say no.”