True to his nature, Evan watched the girl depart, then shut the door to stand, cross his arms before him, and wait.
Inès had not thought much of this through. She knew only that she had to be firm and brave. She would destroy him, but chose her words ever so carefully. By them would he remember her—and forget her.
“You married me,” he said in his low, ravaged voice, “to live with me.”
“I did.” She could not look him in the eye, but stared at the buttons on his waistcoat.
“What reason do you have to remove yourself up here?”
She lifted her face to gaze at him. He deserved that she tell him with her eyes on his, firm and resolute. “I am”—not myself;another whom you do not know—“ill.”
His face paled. “How so?”
She shrugged. “Not well.”
“Are you with child?”
She had not considered that. She might be, and she would count the weeks since her last flux later. But even if she were, she could not stay for him or the child or herself. “No.”
“You had your last monthly beginning the day before Christmas.”
He was right. He had kept track. Being with child was possible.But she said nothing.
He let out a strangled breath. “It is cold up here.”
She remained mute.
“You don’t like the cold.”
She shuddered.
He came to his knees before her. As he had the night she told him of her actions in Boulogne, he caressed her cheeks. “My darling, this is torture. Why have you left me?”
“I must. You must not ask me more.”
“Why not?” He brushed a tear from her cheek.
She took a huge breath. “I love you and I will not ruin you.”
“Oh, my darling, the only way you can ruin me is if I live without you.”
She shook her head.
“Come back to me.”
“No.”
“Do you plan to remain up here indefinitely?”
“No.”
“You will leave?” He narrowed his gaze.
She nodded.
He grabbed a breath. “When?”
“Soon.”As soon as I can devise a plan that works.
