Page 31 of How to Wed a Courtesan

But then, her heart could not bear this either—having him before her, but not having him with her. Seeing him and not being able to go to him.

He spun her emotions about until she didn’t know which side was which, and all she could remember in the end was a tangle of love and hurt and loss.

‘Did you get my letters?’ Evander asked.

‘I did.’ There had been one a week while he’d been in the country. As he’d promised.

‘Did you read them?’ He jostled his leg, bouncing his knee momentarily before he caught himself.

She had. Every one. Multiple times.

She knew of his mother’s slow recovery, and how she was well enough now for him to return to London. He’d told her of the garden he strode through, and how it reminded him so much of the walks they’d taken in Binsey all those years ago. And she knew how much he regretted what he had done to her.

The door to the drawing room opened and Sarah brought in a tea tray.

‘Would you like some tea, Lord Westix?’ Lottie asked, hoping he would decline.

‘Please.’

She went about steeping the tea and pouring it into his cup, the stream wavering as her fingers shook with the nerves that never ceased to tremble in his presence. His focus went to her hands. He knew his effect on her.

‘If you have read my letters, then you know why I am set this year on making you my wife.’ He accepted the teacup from her and promptly took a sip.

She winced, hating it that his mother had been so very near her end. She knew it had frightened him—not only with the realisation that his time with her was not unlimited, but that all time was not so. It was a reminder to him of what he had lost with Lottie, and had sharpened his need to have it back.

‘You know why I cannot,’ she replied softly.

‘I’m the wealthiest man in London.’ He set his teacup down hard. ‘That was by design. So I could bloody well do what I want without caring about anyone else’s opinions.’

He had fallen back on the easier excuse rather than confront the real issue—the one that prodded at a deeper wound.

Trust.

Or rather its absence.

‘You’re well aware the ton doesn’t work that way.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘I don’t understand why you continue to persist with this.’

There was no need to elaborate on what she meant by ‘this’. It was his ardent pursuit of her, his insistence that they be together.

He edged forward in his seat, closer to her, bringing with him that achingly familiar sandalwood scent.

‘Because I love you.’

That man loves you the way every woman wishes she could be loved.

But that wasn’t the case.

She shook her head. ‘You love the memory of the woman I was six years ago. There’s nothing left of her in me any more.’ Grief tugged at her, and the loss of who she had been. ‘You can’t love me when you don’t even know me.’

He tilted his head and several strands of silver at his temples caught the light. ‘Give me a chance. Allow me the opportunity to get to know who you are now.’

He reached out with his large hands and folded them over hers. His palms were warm, his fingers strong.

She longed to close her eyes and bask in the familiarity of his touch. Even after all these years, he felt like the closest thing to home that was left.

‘You hurt me,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I don’t know that I can allow my heart to open to you as it did once before.’

His face collapsed, and she knew he was well aware of what she spoke of. The true issue that lay before them. The impenetrable wall that had formed the toughest callus around her heart. One she was not yet ready to slough off—not when it would leave her too pink and tender, raw enough to flinch at even the slightest of touches.