Her hands and legs trembled with hurt and mortification. “Over the past two months, you and I have been in dozens of increasingly compromising positions. You’ve considered marriage at none of them, because you’ve managed to keep your dirty secret. No one knows, so you needn’t treat me like arespectablelady.”
He desired her but wished he didn’t. He was only biding his time until he found a debutante with duchess potential and a large dowry. He expected Chloe to understand.
Now she did.
She gave a mirthless laugh. “To you, Wynchesters are like writing plumes. We’re to be used and discarded.”
He shifted his weight. “I wasn’t going to discard you.”
“You were going to keep using me.” She fought the prickling in the back of her throat. “No, thank you, Your Grace. I’m not interested in discreet arrangements.”
Chloe had wanted so much more. She had wanted the fairy tale. Her stomach roiled at her own naïveté. There would be no magical moment. Her love was not enough.
She did have money, although perhaps not as much as Philippa could offer. Bean’s trust was meant to provide forChloe’sfuture, not to be handed over to a duke and spent all at once. Yet the sum might be enough to tempt him. But was it worth the cost to her pride?
“Chloe…”
Her lungs struggled. She wanted him to chooseher, not her inheritance. She didn’t want to be exchangeable for any other convenient heiress. She wanted to be loved for who she was. She wanted a husband who would beproudof her, not ashamed to be seen in her presence.
“What if I had money?” she asked in a small voice.
He winced. There it was. The expression he wore when he was about to explain some maddeningly basic concept he believed she failed to properly comprehend.
“It’s not just money,” he admitted. “I’ve spent years restoring my reputation and cannot throw that away on—”
Throw away.
He looked at her and thoughtthrow away.
Just like her parents had done.
“Go to hell.” The words were shards of glass, ripping her apart from the inside.
She feared he would argue. He was as skilled at debate as she was. For a passionate statesman like Lawrence, important causes were worth fighting for. If he said the right thing, fell at her feet with confessions of love, her resolve might crumble.
Instead, he inclined his head and said, “I’m sorry, Chloe.”
Then turned and walked away.
That was it. She was not important enough to argue with. Not important enough to fight for. Not important enough to want her to stay.
She was a blank spot in a pretty dress, destined to be crumpled up and tossed away.
34
When dawn came, Chloe covered her aching eyes with her pillow. She wouldnotcry over Lawrence. Shewould not. If he didn’t want her, she didn’t wanthim.
She’d repeated the mantra to herself all night in the hopes that she would believe it by morning. So far, it hadn’t worked. Her throat still burned and the backs of her eyes pricked with unshed tears.
But she was strong. She’d lived through far worse than a broken heart. She would survive this, too.
If she ever convinced herself to rise from bed and face the day.
By noon a rumble in her stomach reminded her that her siblings would soon wonder what was happening. She hadn’t gone down to breakfast. Hadn’t emerged from the solitude of her bedchamber at all. If she wanted them to treat her like nothing was wrong, she was going to have to show her face.
She shoved on the first bland, shapeless gown her fingers touched and ran a listless hand over her hair. Good enough.
With trembling fingers, she forced herself to wrench open the door handle and step out into the corridor. A murmur of voices came to an abrupt stop.
