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“It’s the least I could do,” his mother sniffed. “And I don’t understand what you’re upset about. What did I say that wasn’t true? Belinda left you after you bought some burdensome property and thus gave much-needed financial assistance to the Wentworths.”
“I’m not sure Belinda would characterize matters in quite that way.”
The marchioness raised her eyebrows. “Precisely my point.”
In the two days since Belinda had left Halstead Hall, he’d had time to reflect and, frankly, brood. It had been hell and he’d been unable to work.
He’d started to think that Belinda had a point. He’d been so fixated on the bottom line that he’d somehow failed to appreciate how much Belinda cared about other things. Of course, family, history and sentiment were important to her. She was, after all, a lover of impressionist art, the epitome of nineteenth-century romance.
His mother sat up straighter. “We need to move quickly and gain the upper hand so that the press and public opinion are on our side. I’m only thinking of your repu
tation.”
“My reputation doesn’t need saving.”
He needed saving. He needed Belinda to save his cerebral and mercenary gambler’s soul.
Because he loved her.
The realization hit like a sledgehammer. He was flummoxed, right before exploding joy and worry hit.
It was a hell of a moment to have an epiphany, considering his mother was in the room. But there was no other explanation for the way he’d been feeling since Belinda had departed.
His mother looked at him consideringly. “Colin, you could have your pick of brides.”
“Yes, and how could I forget that the story you planted in the press also listed the names of one or two women.”
His mother’s eyes gleamed. “Suitable ones. As I said, you could have your pick.”
“But I want just one,” he replied. “I can’t believe you’d turn your back on Belinda so easily. The rest of the family has warmed to her.”
“She’s still a Wentworth.”
“It’s past time to bury the hatchet. The hostilities have lasted longer than the War of the Roses.”
“Of course, the hostilities are over,” his mother replied, frowning. “You have won. The Wentworths are in your debt.”
“Have I won?” he asked softly.
His mother closed her eyes.
“Accustom yourself to the idea, Mother. Belinda is the Marchioness of Easterbridge, and if she’ll have me, she’ll remain so.”
He knew with a sudden clear insight that, without Belinda, his seeming victory over the Wentworths would be hollow.
As Belinda opened the apartment door, her mouth dropped. “How did you find me?”
Colin’s mouth lifted sardonically. “A little birdie told me.”
“Sawyer,” she guessed.
Colin inclined his head. “It is his flat, after all.”
“I detest the way you blue bloods band together.”
“And right now,” he guessed, “you especially detest me.”
She let her silence speak for itself. Of course, she was furious and hurt. Why shouldn’t she be? She’d been falling for him while he’d been toying with her.
