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He shook his head. "There are hundreds of noble-women of limited means. None of them take up gambling as a form of support."
"Yes, it seems I am the only one with the correct combination of skill and gall. I'm quite proud."
"And this was your plan?" Oh, his sweeping gesture held a world of scorn. This. This pitiful cottage. This small life.
"Yes, this. This is what I want."
"I don't understand. You worked for weeks, collected hundreds of pounds, a small fortune." His eyes swept once more around the room, one last dismissive glance. He didn't notice the walnut sideboard she'd found in town and bought with her own coin. Didn't see the fine tapestry she'd hung on the wall to brighten the room with blues and greens the exact shade of the ocean. It was all nothing to him, just a life less than his own.
"Yes, Hart," she whispered. "Yes, this is what I was working for. Just this. So please have mercy on my small life. Don't call on the magistrate or expose me to my neighbors. Don't ruin me. Just leave me be. I promise I'll never return to London."
He stood. She thought he was leaving and felt a small twinge of regret. But he only paced over to her front window and stared out at the smudge of blue that was the sea.
"You love the ocean."
She stared at his back.
"Are you happy here?" His shoulders were nearly wide enough to block all the light. He turned to her. "Emma? Are you happy?"
Her lungs were so weak, her word just a whisper. "Yes."
"Because I am not happy. You had to know how I would feel. You left a scandal in your wake and I am the undying focus of it. Me. The idiot duke once again."
"I'm sorry." She was sorry, but she could hardly force the words out. Emma cleared her throat and gathered up her courage, false as it was. "I'm sorry, Hart. I never meant that. Never."
"I hated you. Despised you. If I'd found you in those first few days I would've seen you thrown in Newgate with no regret."
"I'm sorry."
His strong shoulders rose in a shrug. "It seems it has all gone away. Perhaps because I am not in the city, but . . . I do not care about that. I only care that you are well, Emma. And out of danger. And somehow . . ."
Emma shook her head, not quite knowing what she denied. But Hart provided the answer.
"I feel responsible for you. And we have passion. There is one way to fix this. Fix the scandal as well as your future."
"No."
"Marry me." He looked confused by his own words, almost as confused as Emma was.
"No."
"There would still be talk, of course, but it would end. We are comfortable with each other, alike in more ways than not."
"That is not true." She did not want it to be true. She wanted it all to be lies. His offer, his logic, and most of all the sincerity in his eyes.
Emma's heart was twisting back to life, trying to free itself from the stone she'd built around it. It wanted the freedom to swell with hope or beat harder in despair. It wanted to feel something, but Emma held tight to it, squeezed it until it stilled. She needed him gone. Now, before she broke into a million pieces.
"No," she said again.
"I understand that this is sudden."
"Yes, it is sudden, not to mention completely unwelcome."
"Emma—"
"I am not suffering. I need nothing. Hard as it is to believe, this is exactly the life I want. I am not interested in the disgusting cruelty of the ton. I will not return to London with my tail between my legs, hoping that one day they will accept me. I do not need a vast, echoing castle and heavy, uncomfortable gowns. And I certainly do not need you as a husband."
"I've shocked you. I apologize. But whatever you think of London and the ton, I hope you will consider my proposal. Because I think it is possible . . . Emma, I think I could love you."
