The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(93)

“Indeed,” Robert said gruffly, and swung his legs back onto the bed. “You should be resting.” And I should be with Helena.

“Bah,” his father said, stretching his legs out and hooking them at the ankles. “I’ll have all of eternity to rest but only a short while to reason with my son.”

Though his mother had died far too young, Robert recalled the love his parents had. “Nothing could have kept you away from Mother,” he pointed out.

Where all mention of the late duchess raised sadness in the duke’s eyes, a smile pulled at his lips. “And soon I shall not have to.” For all the agony that came with Robert confronting the eventual death of his father, the peace in his father’s smile, and the happiness etched in his face, spoke of a man who’d been parted too long from his wife.

How had his father lived all these years without her? If Helena were gone from his life, what purpose would there be? What reason to smile? Or laugh? And yet, the duke had.

“I had you and your sister,” his father said quietly, unerringly following the direction Robert’s thoughts had wandered. “And though there was always a void in losing her, there was always a reason to find joy.” He held his eyes. “I was blessed with two of them.” His father reached inside his pocket and wordlessly turned a folded missive over.

Robert stared at it a moment, and furrowing his brow, accepted the ivory vellum.

With shaky fingers Robert unfolded the note.



Dearest Robert . . .

We could not have been born to more different worlds. I allowed myself to believe I could live in yours . . . but the truth is, I cannot.



He hurried his gaze over the page, his panic mounting.



With your convalescing, I’ve had ample time to think beyond the whirlwind week we knew together. In wedding you, I would be giving up all of who I am, just as you would be giving up who you are as a future duke. I am a bookkeeper. My life brings me peace, and though you brought me several very happy days, that can never be enough. Just as I can never be enough for you.

I pray for your quick recovery, and ask when you think of me, you do so with some fondness.

Ever Yours,

Helena



The crumpling of parchment filled the quiet, punctuated by Robert’s rapidly drawn breaths. Surely he’d been mistaken. He unfolded the page and reread the words there. And reread them again. Yet, no matter how many times he worked his gaze over that bloody page, they remained the same. A practical, cool parting devoid of any true emotion. A vise squeezed about his heart and he shook his head, his raspy breath filling his ears. No.

“She left?” Stunned disbelief ripped those words from his chest.

His father hesitated. “The day after you were shot.”

With another empty, black laugh, Robert scrubbed a hand over his face. Is it really a surprise? Hadn’t he found her in the streets of St Giles and Lambeth twice in just the short time he’d known her? The sting of an all-too-familiar betrayal slashed across his muddied thoughts and he fed his slow-budding disgust for her for being fickle, and for himself for loving her, and for wanting her now, regardless.

She’d chosen a life without him, preferring her existence as it had been, where she saw to the bookkeeping at her brother’s club. But you never considered what she wished for . . . In your silence you expected her to give up her world—for you . . .

An empty numbness seeped in and spread like a slow-moving poison, blotting out all warmth. He wrinkled the sheet in his hands, and collapsed against his pillows. Cold, empty mirth spilled past his lips.

“What is it?” his father asked quietly.

“At the bloody irony of it all.” Closing his eyes, he shook his head back and forth. “I had one woman who would have sold her soul to be duchess, and another who,” I cannot live without. “Who wants no part of it.” And with that, wanted no part of him.

“She loves you, Robert.”

A sound of bitter disgust spilled past his lips. Ever the optimist, even in the face of absolute darkness. “Just not enough,” he spat. It had never been enough. Lucy had wanted a title. And Helena, she’d wanted her bloody books.

Had she asked, he would have promised her the role of bookkeeper of every goddamn hell in London if she’d wished. He would have simultaneously dragged down the sun and the moon, and handed them over to her had she but asked.

She shouldn’t have had to ask . . . You should have known that love she had and honored it . . .

His face contorted in a spasm of grief and he wanted to toss his head back and rail.

A woman who’d long had more control than most any lady of the peerage, and who chafed at her brother’s influence in her life, Helena would have never been one to simply toss aside that self-control. Even for his love.

“You love her,” his father said simply.

It wasn’t a question, and yet Robert nodded jerkily anyway. With all he was. Yet knowing the strength of her spirit, and her desire for more than a life as a leading societal matron, what had he offered her? What can I offer her?

“Go to her.” The duke coughed into his handkerchief. “Just when you are able,” he said weakly, and shoved slowly to his feet. A twinkle lit his pained eyes. “Something tells me you will need every strength to bring that lady to heel.”

Only, Robert didn’t want to bring her to heel. He wanted her to always be the strong, courageous, fearless woman who spat in the face of Society’s strictures and took on the Diggorys and Whitbys of the world—he just wanted her to be that person, at his side.