To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(89)
“Love?” he asked again incredulously, feeling as though he were scrambling after her as fast as he could but was always, always at least twenty feet behind. “But I—but you—” He had the vague impression that this response was not going to gain him any admiration from her; his suspicion was confirmed a moment later.
“Don’t be too flattered,” she snapped. “I assure you, if I had any control over the matter, this would not have happened!” She sighed heavily, as though this was all a frightful burden. “In light of this… unexpected development, I wanted to discuss your own sentiments, and the prospect of prolonging things between us, and then seeing where that led…” She shook her head in disgust. “Don’t worry,” she added with haughty froideur. “I see now that I must have taken temporary leave of my senses, and I shall no doubt be back in my right mind again almost immediately. I find there is nothing quite like the object of one’s affections discussing marriage to another woman to make one reconsider one’s preferences.”
“But you said you never wanted to remarry!” he protested weakly.
“I’m not saying I wish to now!” she said. “But I’ve experienced something of a deepening of my feelings, and I—foolishly, apparently—thought that you might be feeling the same way. I thought that you might have changed your mind and seen a different path forward for us.” She was so close to him that when she huffed an indignant breath, he could feel it on his cheek. “Clearly, I was wrong—and I can assure you, I won’t make this mistake again.”
He inhaled a deep breath, feeling rather as though he’d been punched in the stomach repeatedly. If this was what came of feeling genuine concern for a woman, then he had clearly been wise to avoid any such emotional entanglements in the past. He suspected, however, that it would be rather more restful to fall in love with—well, with just about anyone other than Diana.
Unfortunately for his sanity, however, restfulness didn’t seem to be what he was after.
“Diana,” he said in what he felt was an admirably calm tone of voice, “we had an arrangement, which I have done my best to adhere to. I have found myself, of late, devoting rather more mental energy to you than I am accustomed to giving other people, and it occurred to me that I was unwilling to allow our liaison to end anytime soon. Considering the parameters you set out at the beginning of our arrangement, I was given to understand that you had a strong aversion to marriage—an aversion that, until quite recently, I entirely shared.
“When I discovered that my emotions had become inconveniently engaged, I set out to determine a way to extend our arrangement without causing you undue distress. I thought I had landed upon just such a method. Clearly, I was wrong. I apologize for any offense I may have given, and will take this opportunity to humbly withdraw.” He finished speaking at last, vaguely aware that he sounded like he had a stick shoved up his arse but unable to care overly much. He hadn’t known any other way to speak in the moment—the situation was too dangerous, his emotions riding too close to the surface. He had spent the past six years doing his utmost to ensure that his emotions—toward the brother who had died, leaving him with a whole heap of unwanted responsibility; toward himself, and the disgust he felt at his inability to live up to his brother’s memory; and certainly toward anyone else—were kept tightly reined, never allowed to govern his actions. He wasn’t going to falter now.
“That’s not what I’m asking you to do!” she burst out in frustration. “I’m just asking you not to be a complete ass, for once in your life, by perhaps not proposing to one woman whilst you claim to have feelings for another?”
“I’m trying to give you what you want!” he burst out, resisting the temptation to clutch at his own hair with some difficulty. He felt as though they were talking in circles, and yet each time he opened his mouth, he thought that this time, somehow, he would make her see reason.
“I want you,” she snapped back. “The real you. I don’t want to be your damned lover whilst you’re married to another lady—I don’t want to be someone who has no expectations of you.”
“If it’s expectations you have, I’d recommend revising them,” he said with a hollow laugh. “What haven’t you seen over the past week? I’m a degenerate marquess who’s trying his best to fill the shoes of the man who was meant for the role. I don’t have anything to offer anyone. I’ve grown far too attached to you for my own good or yours, and I’m trying to arrange things so that we can continue seeing each other without it ending in disappointment.”
She stepped forward, lifted a hand, and laid it gently on his cheek—truth be told, he would have been less shocked if she’d slapped him, given the way the conversation had gone thus far. “No, you’re not,” she said, her voice suddenly quiet. “You’re a man who’s still in pain, and grieving, and who thinks too little of himself. You’re a man who is angry at his brother but doesn’t want to admit it.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she said simply. “I’ve been trying to tell you every time we’ve discussed him all week.”
“I suppose we got too sidetracked discussing my shortcomings in the bedroom to focus on this other, larger defect in my personality,” he said bitterly.