The Lady Always Wins(17)

Angry? It wasn’t anger that made his hands shake. He was just beginning to be able to think, to understand what this all meant. Ridgeway hadn’t wrested control of his company from him. She’d bought enough shares to prevent his ever obtaining a majority. Simon wasn’t ruined.

And that made no sense. “Those shares were purchased before I went to Chester-on-Woolsey. How—why—”

“It was really quite simple.” She looked away from him. “I told you I was still a Barrett—given to mad, foolish financial gestures. I’ve been following your company quite closely. I knew what Mr. Ridgeway was doing. I have a horror of poverty.” She raised her eyes, dark and liquid, to his. “How, then, could I see you in it?”

It took him a moment to comprehend what she had said. Without hope of return, she had sold everything she had to keep him safe. He found himself blinking furiously. Dust. There was too much dust in this damned office.

He crossed the room, ignoring her solicitor and his secretary, and knelt before her.

“You ridiculous creature,” he said. “You—you—”

Her hand ruffled his hair. “The word you are looking for is ‘darling,’” she supplied.

“Yes, that.” He took her hands in his and clasped them hard. He was almost afraid to look up, scared that if he did, he would discover it all to be a lie. He pressed his lips to her palm. “And this one,” he whispered into her fingers. “Sweetest.”

He was dimly aware of her solicitor, gathering everyone up and herding them outside. The door closed and they were alone.

“I’m not certain you deserve it,” Ginny said.

“I’m certain I don’t.”

She smiled at that, but he hadn’t intended it as a jest. He finally understood the truth of it. He’d wanted her—desperately—but his had been a selfish love. He’d wanted her more than he’d wanted to make her happy. All these years, he’d foolishly imagined that he’d loved her better simply because he’d loved her louder.

She’d been right. It wasn’t a thing to fix. There was nothing he could do to make it better. It was a question of who he had to become. Obtaining right-of-ways and the approval of Parliament seemed easy next to this.

He raised his head. “I never wanted to spend all those years yearning for you. But every time I tried to fit some other woman in my heart, I failed. There was no room for anyone else. You were already there.”

Her hands compressed around his, and her eyes shone. “Idiot,” she said with a little sniffle. “You’re going to make me cry. I wasn’t supposed to cry in your corporate office. I had planned to savor my victory.”

“Savor as much as you like. I’m on my knees.” He set his hand against her cheek and rubbed away a tear.

A woman didn’t save a man’s fortune and then lean into his touch without feeling a certain amount of affection. If he wanted, he could have her now for the price of an abject apology. A mere twelve hours ago, he would have grabbed at the chance and not let go. He would have pulled out his special license—somehow, it was still stowed safely in his coat pocket—and suggested they head for the nearest bed, diverting only long enough to get the vicar’s approval.

But he didn’t want her to marry the person who would do that to her.

He couldn’t bear it if Ginny married a man who took her love for granted, who saw her sacrifice as nothing more than proof that he could grab an advantage. That person would hurt her, and hurt her again.

He’d left her crying once. He wasn’t going to let it happen a second time.

“Ginny,” he said. “I want to ask you a question. A very important question.”

She nodded and straightened expectantly.

He adjusted her hands in his, and looked up into her face. “Ginny,” he repeated, “will you do me the very great honor of…”

She had begun to smile. “Of?”

He let out a deep breath. “Of letting me prove that I’m worthy of you.”

Chapter Seven

Another small town, five weeks later

TODAY WAS THE FIRST DAY that Simon had seen Ginny in colors.

She stood almost fifteen feet in the air on a scaffold erected for the occasion, the full yellow skirts of her day gown rippling behind her in the breeze. One of the white ribbons that ringed her fitted sleeve had come untied; it flapped merrily in the wind, in cheery counterpoint to the murmur of the crowd.

Even from twenty feet away, she drew his eye. And it wasn’t just Simon who looked at her. The crowd was massed in the hundreds, and not a one of them was gawking at the steam engine that she was about to christen. They were all watching her.

And no wonder. The sun glinted off her dark hair, framed by her straw bonnet. The rays twinkled against the bottle of champagne that she held over her head. She smiled, and the entire throng seemed to hold its breath alongside Simon.

She was beautiful, lovely, charming, and the wealthy partial owner of the newest direct line to London.

And that was only what one could glean from the surface.

“I hereby declare this line open,” she said. She didn’t speak loudly, but her voice carried over the waiting masses. She smashed the bottle atop the train, and cheers washed over them. Behind them, the engineer gave a long blast of the whistle.

“God,” Andrew Fortas said beside Simon, with a shake of his head. “That woman.”