The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(81)

He nodded. “I know.”

She returned her gaze to his, clear and honest. “I told myself then that I did it for my sisters. That’s how I kept myself sane. But I did it for myself, as well. I did it for myself, full stop. Because I loved you and I was afraid I would never be enough for you.”

“You were,” he said, reaching for her again, running his hands down her arms, taking her hands in his. “You were more than I could ever dream. I had spent so much of my life believing that love was impossible that when I had it in hand—I wanted every bit of it for myself, alone. And that greed was my downfall.” He shook his head. “I loved you. I never stopped loving you.”

She looked away, at the summer breeze rustling the meadow beyond. “Then it seems that love is not enough.”

He loathed the words, because he could see where she was headed. A runaway carriage that would not stop. “It is.”

Sera gave a little huff of humorless laughter and looked to the manor house in the distance, rising on the horizon like a lie. “It’s not, though. You still do not know me well enough to see the truth, Mal. You still see the same girl from a thousand years ago. The one who thought she loved you enough to win you. Who thought she could convince you to forgive her.”

“I did forgive you,” he said.

“No, you punished me,” she said. “You punished me for trapping you—and never once believed that I trapped you for you, dammit, and never the title, the fucking title that hangs like a damn yoke about my neck.” The curse shattered him with its proof of the life she’d had without him. Of the years she’d had free. “You refused to free me, even when I came to you, offering you freedom, as well. Offering you a future. Even when I offered to get down on my knees and beg you for it.”

Of all the things he’d ever done to her, that one was still the most shameful.

“And all that before you meted out the worst of your punishments.”

He would never forgive himself for that moment—for taking another woman to exact revenge upon his wife. “I cannot take it back. I can only tell you that I—”

“I know.” She cut him off. “You were angry.”

“I was more than angry.” He reached for her, trying to explain himself. She stepped backward toward the trees, and he stilled. If she did not wish his touch, he would not give it. “I was destroyed. You didn’t tell me—Christ, Sera. I was to be a father.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t want her.”

The words stole his breath. “I never said that.”

“You did!” The accusation came on a flood of anguish. “You said you didn’t want a life with me. You didn’t want a family. You didn’t want children.”

“I was wrong. I was angry and I was wrong,” He rushed to right it. “I wanted that life. I wanted that child.”

Christ, how they had ruined each other.

He pressed on. “I wanted that child, and I wanted you. But I was too angry, too cowardly, too rash to see it. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as much as I did that day. I thought it was a lie—everything between us.”

She nodded. “It wasn’t.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“She wasn’t a lie, either.”

“No. She wasn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, the only thing he could do to keep himself from touching her. “Sera, if I could take it all back . . .”

She shook her head. “Don’t. You can’t take it back, and even if you could . . . If we’d stayed together, something else would have driven us apart. Don’t you see?”

No. He didn’t see, dammit.

“That’s the point,” she continued. “I’ve never not wanted to kiss you, Mal. I’ve never not been willing to beg for your touch. And it’s never been enough.”

He would never know why he chose that moment to tell her everything. “I came to Boston.”

The words were so unexpected that they moved her physically backward, toward the trees. “What?”

“I came after you,” he said.

She shook her head. “When?”

“Immediately,” he said, the words coming fast and clipped, as though he was ashamed of them. “The day you left. But you left without a trace.”

She did not agree, but he knew it was truth, nonetheless. She hadn’t returned to London. Hadn’t even said good-bye to her sisters. “I went to Bristol.”

He nodded. “And then to America.”

Disbelief and uncertainty threaded through her reply. “If you knew—if you came to Boston—why did not you not find me?”

“I did, dammit.” He looked away, his throat moving with frustration and anger and years of regret. “I found you. It took me a year to get there. I started in Europe. Spent months chasing mad suggestions—many of which came from your harridan sisters—that you were in half a dozen places. I went all the way to Constantinople before turning around and coming back. And when I landed in London, steeped in filth and exhaustion, I heard the story of a beautiful Englishwoman in Boston. A singer. The Dove.”

Her lips opened and he saw her surprise—the final confirmation that the American had kept his arrival from her.