Chapter 22 #3
Devlin strode in. He swept his damp cloak behind his back and bowed briefly. “I am sorry you feel that way, madam,” he said, his eyes flashing.
Her heart seemed to stop. In shock, she stared, and sensing danger, she backed up.
His face was so hard. The only emotion evident was anger. He now nodded at Tyrell. “I have had my men searching the streets of London for her. I should have guessed she would come to you. Thank you, Ty, for sending me word.”
“You have many broken fences to mend,” he said. “She is very angry with you, as she should be.”
“I can see that,” Devlin said, looking at Virginia again.
Virginia realized that while she had been bathing and changing clothes, Tyrell had sent word to Devlin. “You have betrayed me,” she cried, shaking with anger now. “I thought you were my friend. I trusted you!”
“I am your friend,” he said, his expression one of regret. “I sincerely think only of your best interest, and I think—I hope—in time that you will be thankful for what I did.”
“You are not my friend,” she whispered, still stunned by his treachery.
He bowed and left.
Devlin walked after him, but only to close the door and then face Virginia again. “What madness is this? Do you think to commit suicide?”
“No,” she gritted, “I only think to avoid marriage to you!”
“By catching pneumonia and dying?” he demanded.
“You do not want this, either! Send me home, Devlin, and we will both be free!”
“I am afraid I have agreed to this union.”
She swatted at her tears. “I can hardly comprehend why.”
His face was taut, indicating some tension, but he did not hesitate. “They are right.”
“They are right? The earl and countess are right? You now accept blame—and guilt—for your actions?”
“I do.”
“You lie!” She advanced. “You have no guilt, no regrets!”
He was motionless. It was a long moment before he spoke and when he did, it was slowly, with the utmost care.
“Actually, you are very wrong, Virginia. I do have guilt, and I have had so for some time. The other night at Lord Carew’s made it impossible for me to deny it. I regret using you as I have.”
She could no longer breathe. Was this the truth?
“I am sorry I brought you into this,” he added grimly. “And now I will pay the price of having used you so callously. It is what an honorable man would do.”
She was afraid to believe him—and she reminded herself that this change of heart had nothing to do with love. But it was a change of heart. It was evidence of a conscience, of a soul.
“I see I have dumbfounded you,” he said with some self-derision. He walked past her toward the liquor bottles placed on a nearby table. “I am rather dumbfounded myself. A brandy should warm you far better than a cup of tea.”
“The tea is laced with whiskey.” She stared at him as he poured.
She was stunned and she did not know what to think or what to feel.
He was sorry. He was genuinely sorry. But what did it change?
He had hurt her too many times. She knew if she married him, he would hurt her again and again.
A conscience was not love. Behaving honorably was only that.
He faced her, a snifter in hand. “My mother is planning a wedding for the twelfth of December—two days before I set sail.”
Her pulse began a heavy, rapid beat. “I saw your orders,” she said stiffly.
He stared, his expression a mask devoid of emotion.
“You go to war against my country, my countrymen. What kind of marriage is that?”
“Yes, I do, and we shall make the best of it. We will hardly be the only couple with divided loyalties in this conflict.”
She trembled, cold all over again. She knew she was losing—she had lost every single battle she had ever waged against this man. “I cannot marry you, Devlin. Not now, not ever.”
He straightened.
“I mean it,” she said nervously.
A terrible silence ensued. He looked at her for a long time with such a severe mask in place that it was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling—if, indeed, he felt anything.
He set his glass carefully down. “But my regret is sincere. I am sorry for everything and I wish to make amends. I wish to save your reputation.”
She felt like weeping. “Your regret comes too late!”
He looked at her, his gaze searching. “You did not always hate me.”
She stiffened. “This is not about hatred. My letter was sincere. I do not hate you, Devlin, in spite of all that you have done.”
“Then accept this marriage, for Tyrell is right—it is in your best interest.”
“I want to go home,” she heard herself say, almost pathetically.
He started.
How she wanted to weep. Her tone quavering, she took a deep breath and said, “I admit what we both now know—once I loved you, and I wanted you to love me in return. But you cannot offer me love, can you?”
His nostrils flared, and he shook his head. “No.”
“No,” she echoed, and it was impossible not to be bitter. “You offer me marriage now. I simply cannot accept. You see, you have hurt me for the last time,” she said tersely. “If you wish to appease this new conscience of yours, then send me home, a free woman, at long last.”
“I cannot.”
“Of course you can. You are the most powerful and independent man I have ever met. Of course you can.” She realized that she was crying.
He suddenly approached.
Virginia stiffened as he paused before her, his expression very severe.
“I will not sell Sweet Briar.”
She froze. “What?” Had he just said what she thought he had?
“I will not sell Sweet Briar.”
She felt faint. She must have reeled because he caught her. “You won’t sell Sweet Briar? But…I do not understand.”
“Sit down,” he commanded, guiding her to a chair.
She was too stunned to refuse.
“I have purchased the plantation,” he said. “I bought it to give to you in an effort to make amends for what I have done.”
Virginia felt faint. She could hardly comprehend his words. He now owned her home?
“It will be your wedding present,” he said softly. “A gift from me to you.”