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‘I believed the stories I was told—not once but twice. I believed the worst when I should have believed the best. I came here to ruin your wedding.’
‘But that wasn’t actually your fault. If Adnan hadn’t come back with Ciara and my father, that scene in your bedroom would never have happened,’ Imogen hastened to assure him, but the words had exactly the opposite effect.
‘Not the way it happened,’ Raoul forced himself to admit. ‘But it would have happened. I would have made it happen. I was wrong.’
It was only when he felt Imogen’s hand reach up again, one finger outstretched to touch against the corner of his eye and come away with a drop of water resting on its tip, that he knew he had not been able to hide his reactions. But he didn’t care. It was what he owed Imogen for the way he’d betrayed her, what he owed the memory of their child that had never had a chance to live. And had almost taken Imogen’s life with it.
‘But if I can forgive you?’ Her voice was soft and so were her eyes, her hand still resting against his cheek, delicate and gentle.
If only she knew what it cost him not to turn his head, to press his lips against her hand. She was warm and soft in his arms, pure temptation, the scent of her skin coiling round him, making his head spin in desire. But that had led him astray before. He could not go down that path again. Not if he wanted to try to appease his conscience and give back to this woman everything he owed her.
‘Forgive? Oh, ma belle…’
Reluctantly he eased himself into a more comfortable position, pushing his arms underneath her, between their bodies, lifting her from his lap. He felt the cold rush of air like a loss as he moved away from her, taking her upwards, adjusting his stance until he was fully upright, holding her above the bed. He hesitated a long moment, fighting the urge to let his grip tighten round her and draw her close up against his yearning body.
Then at last, unwillingly, he lowered her to the surface of the bed, depositing her softly on the rumpled covers. For a moment, she lay down, her arms still holding him, coming dangerously close to drawing him down alongside her, but he could not let that happen. Putting all the determination he possessed into resisting the demand of his hungry senses, he pulled back and away from her. But he couldn’t fight the impulse to drop one last lingering kiss on her upturned face.
‘You might be able to forgive, but I cannot. I can never forgive myself for this. For the damage I have done.’
‘But, Raoul!’
Imogen couldn’t bear the way that the atmosphere had changed. The moments of empathy, the tears they had shared over the loss of their baby, were evaporating all around them. He was moving further and further away from her with every breath she took and the glaze of sorrow in his eyes was like a warning not to try to bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
‘Non, chérie,’ he told her, holding up his hands like a barrier between them as each step backwards took him further away. But the real desperation was what she could read in his face, and that was what kept her frozen in her place, unable to move or to speak. ‘I betrayed you.’
‘You…’
She wanted to say it but no sound would come. And even if it had she knew he wouldn’t listen. So she tried a shake of her head, and saw his slow, dejected smile.
‘Oh, yes—not so much here, perhaps.’
One long-fingered hand touched his brow, pressing just for a moment as if he could wipe away a memory.
‘But here.’
That hand flattened hard against his chest, where his heart was. It was the way the pressure of the gesture turned his knuckles white that told her she had lost. She could fight so many things, but not the way Raoul’s own conscience was turned against her.
‘Let me do this, Imogen,’ he said, almost at the door. ‘Your future is secure—I promise you that. Whatever you would have gained from our marriage of convenience, it is yours. No strings, no conditions—my gift to you. But let me go. Let me set you free.’
‘I…’
Once more she tried to speak, closing her eyes as she forced the words from her numb and unresponsive lips.
‘I don’t want my freedom—not from you!’
