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He took her arm and guided her through a doorway decorated with ornate molding. Black marble gave way to floors that gleamed like honey. The paper on the walls was a rich burgundy-and-gold. And the gold wasn’t a mere yellow color; it shone with little flecks of gleaming metal. Traces of light seeped through drawn velvet curtains. Jenny turned around, her feet clopping noisily against the floor.
“It echoes,” Jenny said experimentally. Her voice reverberated back to her.
“It’s not furnished yet,” Gareth said. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do it yourself, or if I should hire someone for the task.”
His words echoed, too. Jenny swallowed, a forbidding pit growing in her stomach.
“Gareth,” she said quietly, “my furnishings would look rather ridiculous in here.”
“Pshaw. As if I’d let you keep that rickety old table. Here, you haven’t seen upstairs yet. You can see the back garden from the bedroom window.”
Jenny planted her feet and shook her hand as he tried to lead her away. “What is this?”
“It’s a house. A row house. I know it doesn’t look like much at the moment, but imagine it furnished. Paintings on the wall. A fire in the fireplace and a staff.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “I know what a house is, Gareth. And I have a perfectly functional imagination. I don’t know why you’re showing it to me.”
“My solicitor’s drawing up the deed. I’m giving it to you.”
The world stood still. “What?”
“I’m. Giving. It. To. You. Oh, stop standing there with your mouth open. If you want to thank me, I can think of several ways for you to do so.”
Suggestive words, but he delivered them so stiffly.
Her heart constricted. She’d told him not to send furniture or bring her jewels, so he gave her a house? Had he understood a word she’d told him?
“Well?” He reached for her hand. “Come along.”
“It’s a nice house. A very nice house. It’s a little…” Formal. Big. None of that really seemed to match the shrieking horror inside her. “It’s a little outside my means to maintain properly,” she finally managed.
“Don’t be obtuse, Jenny. It’s a perfectly legitimate bargain. I have money. You don’t. You have you. And in a matter of days, I won’t. Well, trade and trade alike. I’m keeping you.”
“I don’t want to be kept.”
His brows scrunched together in puzzlement.
“I don’t want to feel obliged to you. And I certainly don’t want you to pay me to do something I’d prefer to give freely.”
Gareth switched the glove he carried to his other hand and slapped it rhythmically against his thigh. “Explain.”
“I mean, that what you are proposing—it feels like a coffin to me.”
The glove slapped once more and then stilled as black leather scrunched in his hand. “You, of all people, know I can never say things the right way. What I mean is—I can’t let you leave me. I need you.”
She wanted to take his hand and smooth out the tension in the muscles. She wanted to kiss his forehead and watch those furrowed lines sink back into comfort.
But.
There was always a but. And this one sank sharp needles deep in Jenny’s chest.
“And what,” she said slowly, “will I do with the other twenty-two hours of the day?”
“Pardon?”
“I assume you’ll devote no more time to Jenny Keeble than Gareth receives. Gareth gets his two hours of scientific work in the morning. What do I get at night?”
“Jenny. You know I can’t give more. It’s my responsibility, and I cannot give it up—”
Jenny shut her eyes. Deep down inside her, that strong stillness she’d found waited. And no matter how much her heart cried out to go to him, that quiet center of strength did not recede.
“I want,” she said, “my integrity. I don’t want to be bought.”
She stepped back. This marble tomb was just another form of abandonment—another way that a man could put her off in perpetuity. It reduced her longing for family and independence to a stark figure. The number of pounds it took to purchase a house in town. The number of minutes Gareth gave her. She would be nothing more than another column in his account books.
Account books could be closed, and entire columns could be set aside.
His mouth parted. He reached for her.
Jenny shut her eyes against stinging tears. “I don’t want you to buy me. I want you to live. I don’t want to be another one of your responsibilities. I want to be your—”
Your family.
She couldn’t say the word. But he took her meaning instantly. “I can’t,” he breathed.
Beneath wet lashes, she saw him turn away and grip the door frame.
“You want me to call you Gareth,” Jenny said. “But Lord Blakely will always be between us. His responsibility. His estate. And now you’re trying to make me his mistress. Do you really think—after all you’ve known of me—that you can buy me with money?”
“It’s all I have to give.”
Jenny opened her eyes fully. He was facing away from her, the muscles of his back taut.
“No.” Her words sounded thin and metallic in her ears. As if she stood at a great distance from herself. “It is all you are willing to give. You hide behind money and responsibility.”
He whipped around, his eyes flashing angrily. “I’m not hiding.”
“You are. And you want to hide me, too. Well, I’m not having it. You can’t purchase me with numbers or persuade me with logic.”
He inhaled fiercely, his nostrils flaring. “Ask for anything else. And don’t you tell me about hiding. You’re the one who cringes when I talk of adoration and need. You won’t even let yourself depend on me for this one little thing.”
“No. If you want me,” Jenny said desperately, “trade yourself.”
“Damn you, Jenny,” he snapped. “It’s not a fair trade.”
Jenny’s world turn
ed to crystal, all cold sharp edges. Brittle, and teetering on the brink of some high precipice. He needed her. He wouldn’t give up his responsibility. But responsibility—that benevolent word encoded a malign sentiment.
Hire an estate manager, she’d suggested. He’d responded with, Who would I trust? I was born to this. He’d been taught all his life he was better than everyone else. That careless assumption of superiority left him unable to relinquish either duty or dominance.
“Not a fair trade.” The words cut her lips as she repeated them.
He was angry. He felt betrayed. And he did never manage to say the right things. But only half of that could be attributed to underlying awkwardness. This time, he’d meant what he said.
“If I’m not a fair trade,” she forced herself to say, “it’s because you don’t think I am worth as much as you.”
And why would he? He’d been taught all his life she wasn’t.
“Really, Jenny,” he drawled. All emotion had washed from his voice—a sure sign, Jenny knew, that he was too caught up in hurt to dissemble. “Be rational. Who would think you my equal?”
“I can think of one person.” Jenny squared her shoulders. Her throat ached. She met his eyes, dead-on, without flinching. “Me.”
His eyes widened and he reached for her wrist, but he moved as if through honey. Jenny stepped back, evading his hand. His glove fell as he stretched for her. It hit the floor with a hollow thump.
“Don’t go.” His words resounded in the cavernous room. “I didn’t—”
He caught himself, and Jenny knew that same implacable honor prevented him from finishing that lie. Because he really had meant it. And without once saying goodbye, he’d managed to abandon her in every way that mattered.
Jenny backed away. When she judged there to be enough distance between them, she turned and walked swiftly to the door. Her footsteps echoed all the way out the foyer, but his did not sound in pursuit.
