Page 47

Phineas’ fingers twitched from restraining the urge to crumple the letter and toss it into the smoldering grate. Instead, he released it, watched it flutter into his open valise, half-packed on the rumpled bedclothes.

How quickly he’d forgotten his reason for coming to Ashveil Manor, bewitched as he was by its proprietress.

But she wasn’t a sorceress, only a lonely, charming, wickedly smart woman who revived his spirit after four years of mourning.

His gaze drifted to the journal she’d left on his nightstand, and he thumbed through the pages, pausing occasionally on a sketch of some mechanical device or the ingredients for a tea said to help clear the mind before a summoning.

He had no indisputable evidence of fraud taking place within these walls, nothing beyond her admission. Unless she would admit to her trickery before the House of Lords—impossible, even in his wildest imagination—it wouldn’t be enough to warrant serious consideration.

The idea of exposing her made his stomach flip unpleasantly. His obligation to Parliament and his former mother-in-law seemed insignificant compared to the burgeoning emotions he felt for Bridget. He couldn’t picture the cold, empty hallways of his home in Yorkshire without envisioning her running down the corridors, laughing and teasing as she went. He wanted her beyond sharing his bed. She’d given him a second chance at life, and he wanted her by his side, antagonizing him every step of the way.

Years ago, he might have worried about the looks he’d receive from his colleagues in Parliament, his contemporaries in society. But he’d happily weather any gossip about his unconventional countess, would welcome the scandal with open arms.

Assuming, of course, he could convince her to give him a chance.

He was still pondering a way to manage such a feat when footsteps hurried down the corridor, and Bridget burst into his room. He dropped the journal in surprise as he rushed to greet her.

She froze when she saw him, and her eyes darted to the bed. His open valise.

His chest tightened. Her eyes were wild, as though a predator had cornered her and she was about to do something rash and dangerous for the chance of survival.

“Bridget,” he breathed, reaching for her.

But she backed away. His heart stopped. “Are you taking my journal?”

He glanced at the bed behind him; the journal had fallen beside the letter atop his clothing. He forced a smile. “I enjoy seeing your thoughts. You’re brilliant.”

“You need to leave.”

“We both do.” He’d stay with her forever if he could. “This place isn’t safe⁠—”

“I’m not leaving, damn it!”

He blinked and raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “You won’t be alone. I’ll be with you.”

He’d been so certain until that moment that she wanted him, she wanted them. But she shook her head, and his heart crumbled at the edges, careening off the cliff like the manor itself.

Her nostrils flared as she spoke. “Everyone seems to believe I can walk away, but I can’t. Ashveil Manor is my responsibility, and I won’t give it up.”

“My marriage to Christina was my responsibility, too, as was mourning her, but I carried it for too long.” He stepped forward, and she didn’t retreat. “It stopped me from finding the joy I needed to live.” He sucked in a shuddering breath. “You are that joy for me, Bridget⁠—”

“Don’t say that.” Tears pooled on her lower lashes, and it took every ounce of his self-control to resist brushing them away, kissing them away. “This is different.”

“How?” He wouldn’t back down from her challenge. “You’ve been a servant to this place for so long, shouldn’t you have some joy of your own? With me?”

She wrapped her arms around herself, and a tear fell free, spilling down her cheek in a shimmering trail. “You’re not thinking straight. You don’t want me.”

“I do. Sometimes people have irrational reactions in stressful situations—didn’t you say that?”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t argue either, so he pressed on. He’d argued before Parliament before, but he’d never felt the need to convince someone so urgently, so desperately, as though he might curl up and die himself if he didn’t win.

“I could love you—I think I already do. And that terrifies me.” He threw his hands out wide with a broken laugh. “How can this be real? How could I have spent ten years in marriage without falling in love, and it happened with you in three days?”

“It’s not real,” she whispered. “You don’t love me.”

“Now who’s the skeptic?” When she didn’t smile, he held out his hand, palm facing her. “You said my great, passionate love was yet to come. It’s you.” She buried her face in her hands, but he couldn’t stop, not until she understood. “You’re the great love I was waiting for⁠—”

“I was lying!” She clenched her fists and dropped them to her sides. Her cheeks were crimson, streaked with angry tears. “I was lying, Valebrook. I made it all up.”