The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(21)

And then he’d discovered the truth—that none of their courtship was real—and she’d changed. She’d quieted. She’d dimmed. She’d paled.

She’d become someone else, entirely. Because of him.

And now, here, with years’ distance between them, that simpering, quiet bride was gone, returned to the strong, bold woman she’d once been. Stronger. Bolder.

More beautiful.

Not because of him. In spite of him.

There, in the dark tavern, watching her sing, watching her drink, watching her stand up to him, the truth whispered through him. He might have spent three years attempting to find and save her, but she did not need saving.

“Why are you here?”

The answer was simple enough. “We’re not through.”

Her brows shot up, the surprise there in direct opposition to her calm words. “We are, as a matter of fact. We were through two years and seven months ago. Before that. Or do you not remember turning your back on me the moment our vows were spoken? Shall I remind you? Shall I remind you of the way you did it again, in front of an entire garden party? Of what you did after that? With another?”

Of course he remembered.

He remembered it every night, struggling to sleep, desperate to reverse time and stop himself. To tell her the truth instead of the lie his pride insisted upon. If he had, would everything have been different? If he had, would they be happy now?

“How did you know where to find me, Haven?”

“I didn’t,” he said.

“You’re surveying all the taverns in London? And simply happened along?”

“You cannot imagine the world simply ignored the spectacle you gave Parliament. You were seen leaving the House of Lords in a carriage belonging to an American.” He stood, affecting a calm he had not felt in three days, and approached, tossing a look to the man in question. “Caleb Calhoun of Boston. Known pub owner, gambler, and general scoundrel.”

Like an ass, the American bowed. “I like to think of myself as more a specific kind of scoundrel.”

Malcolm raised a brow. “And which kind would that be?”

“The one the ladies adore.”

Mal’s fists clenched, itching to find purchase once more upon the American’s face. “Careful, Calhoun, or you shall find something more than your nose broken.”

Recognition flared in the other man’s gaze, which flickered to Sera and back to him. And Haven saw the truth. Sera didn’t know he’d come for her. The American had never told her. If he had, would she have faced him? Would she have let him win her back?

He opened his mouth, prepared to tell her all. To win her here and now.

And then she said the American’s name.

“Caleb.” The name was soft, her voice filled with the worst kind of censure—the kind laced with love.

Regret and doubt shot through Mal. She couldn’t love this man. Not when she’d loved him once. She had loved him once, hadn’t she?

He pushed the thought from his head, hating it and the way it made him waver. Changed the topic. “Calhoun owns two properties in London. One is a residence. I went there first, only to be told the duchess was not at home.” He looked at the American, taking in his crossed arms and his smug smirk. “She’s through living with another man, by the way.”

The American’s brows rose, his gaze sliding to Sera, who sipped calmly at her drink. “I do enjoy the fact that you think either you or Caleb has a say in what I do.”

“The other is a new tavern, barely weeks old, already praised for the nightly entertainment—whatever that means. Spends his days here, with a woman. Tall, dark, beautiful.” He drew closer, hating himself for coming here. Wishing he could leave her. Wishing he could take her with him. “I hope you wear a mask.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll ruin your reputation?” She paused, then said, “Go home, Duke. There is no reason for you to be here.”

No reason but that he had not drawn a full breath for two years and seven months, and now, air had returned, fresh and welcome. And all he wanted was to breathe it in. “It’s only natural I be concerned.”

She narrowed her gaze on his. “You will of course understand why I don’t for one moment believe you were actually concerned.”

The American offered her a small grunt of encouragement, and Haven’s jaw set. Irritated with their audience, he drew even closer to her, nearly touching the narrow bar protecting them from each other. He repeated, softly, “We’re not through, Sera.”

She looked over his shoulder. “Caleb.”

He loathed the other man’s name on her tongue, loathed the trust in the breathy word. The faith. Faith she’d never given him.

Faith he’d never earned.

He turned to face the American, aware that men might be willing to kill for Sera. But the other man had not moved. He stood at a distance, hands on his hips, a soldier ready to strike.

“Leave us,” Seraphina finished.

For a moment, Haven thought she was speaking to him.

He should leave. It was best for both of them.

But, suddenly, he was ready to do battle.

There was no battle to be had, however, because she was looking at Calhoun, the calm, quiet American who seemed willing to give her everything for which she asked. Just as Malcolm once had.