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She stared down at her tea, wondering how to explain to her friends everything that had happened, from her awkward request that he get on with his husbandly duties to the passion and pleasure she’d experienced in bed to the crush of disappointment when he’d walked out on her.

And then there were those letters, brimming with love and pain. They were a secret part of himself he’d never even hinted at, and she couldn’t help feeling as though he’d betrayed their friendship by not telling her. As though he didn’t trust her.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Lana suggested.

She did, detailing everything from the strained silence at supper to the moment he’d growled that their night was not over.

Christine and Lana exchanged looks.

“Gavin seemed to have acquitted himself quite nicely,” said Lana.

“And enjoyed the task quite a bit for a man who supposedly only agreed to marry you because you were in danger of ruination,” said Christine with a significant look.

She frowned. “Why else would he marry me?”

“Have you never considered that Gavin Barrett might’ve one day wanted to be more than just your friend?” asked Lana.

Ina laughed at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. “Am I supposed to believe that Gavin, my friend of seven years, has been secretly pining for me this whole time?”

Christine shrugged. “Yes.”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Lana.

“He is rather attentive,” said Anne.

“Even if that was the case—and I’m not saying it is—he’s had ages to bring it up, and I’ve never even had a hint,” she said.

“You’re an heiress and he—”

“Has exactly one book to his name and a family everyone knows barely supports him,” Lana finished for Anne. “Every man has pride, and he’s the kind who’d never say anything until he could offer you a good life.”

“Without depending upon your marriage settlement,” said Christine.

“People always speculate about a man and a woman who are friends,” Ina said, brushing the argument aside. “Gavin didn’t even consider me marriageable until Mrs. Sullivan suggested it.”

“Are you sure?” Anne asked.

Yes . . . but for a moment last night perhaps not. She’d thought the passion between them when he’d hauled her to him and kissed her had been unmistakably real, but then as soon as he’d made sure of her own climax it was gone. It wasn’t as though he’d never felt that sort of hunger for a woman before. There was a stack of letters in his room proving he had—only not for Ina.

Ina shook her head. “He might’ve enjoyed what we shared in the moment, but it’s only because he was a man presented with a naked, willing woman.” She held up one hand when Lana looked as though she was about to protest. “And I know this because he dressed and left the house as soon as we were finished.”

“Oh,” said all three of her friends, united in their disappointment.

“But where did he go?” asked Christine.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He doesn’t have a club, and he gave up the keys to the rooms he used to live in two days ago.”

“Where did he stay on the eve of your wedding?” asked Anne.

“With his friend, Mr. Moray,” she said.

“He could be there,” Anne suggested.

“Is it possible,” Lana started slowly, “that Gavin might have a paramour elsewhere in the city?”

A sharp pang jabbed at her heart, and she couldn’t shake the memory of asking him whether there was anyone he loved.

My opportunity for love came and went a long time ago. It’s in the past.