He opened his mouth but made no response.
“At least they are legitimate children, their parents properly wed. What if Mrs. Englewood should conceive by you? What will happen to those children?” She took a deep breath. “If you want to spend the rest of your days with her, you must marry her.”
His face was obdurate. “I can’t marry her. I’m already married.”
“We’ll obtain an annulment.”
“Absolutely not. You might be with child.”
“I’m not.” The beginning of her menses, six days ago, had dithered and fudged, dragging out a thin, frayed hope, before snapping it altogether. “Are you going to sleep with me again?”
“I…”
“Then, I won’t be with child and we can safely proceed to the annulment. The Leo Marsdens did it: They put their marriage behind them. There is no reason we cannot.”
“I don’t care what the Marsdens did. We are not getting an annulment.”
“If you are concerned about the maintenance of Henley Park, I will gladly sign over half of the shares of Cresswell & Graves. The firm is four times the size it was when we married, so it’s still a good bargain for me.”
He stared at her as if he couldn’t even recognize her. “I will burn down Henley Park before I’ll let you think I’m keeping you for your money.”
“Then, why are you keeping me?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your fellow already has a wife. What purpose does an annulment serve for you, when you cannot marry him in any case?”
She dropped her hands from his person and took a step back—she was still afraid of the consequences of speaking the truth at last. But she would no longer delay it. “There is no one else. There never was.”
He looked disoriented. “But you said you were in love with him. You said you had to give up your chances with him when we married. You—”
“I know what I’ve said over the years. But the truth remains: There was never anyone else—never anyone other than you.” She stared down at her hands. “I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. When you were angriest at Fate, so was I, because it made me the last girl you’d ever love.”
A long, long moment of silence passed. He gripped her arms. “My God, Millie! Why did you never tell me?”
She raised her face and met his eyes. “I should have, shouldn’t I? I’m sorry I didn’t make my confession sooner, but now you know.”
If he loved her, this was the time to reciprocate her declaration. And he did love her, of course. It was only a matter of how much.
He gazed at her, his eyes like the dawn sky, full of the heat and promise of a new day. Her heart ached with this wordless communion of hope and desire. He didn’t need to say anything. A kiss would be enough.
But he didn’t. He left her and walked to the window, his fingers on his temples. “You should have told me,” he said. “Years ago.”
“Had Mother lived, perhaps she’d have advised me differently.” She bit her lip. “I’m sure you see now that it will be impossible for me to remain married to you after you set up your arrangement with Mrs. Englewood.”
He turned around. “Millie—”
There came a knock at the door. It was a footman, come to inform Millie that her carriage awaited.
After the door closed again behind the footman, she approached the window. “You’ve spoken much of fairness of late. I think it is only fair that if you choose Mrs. Englewood, you let me go so that I have a chance for a true marriage, and perhaps, someday, a family.”
“Millie—”
“I have said everything there is to say on the subject. Now I must catch my train.” She kissed him on his cheek. “You know where to find me.”
CHAPTER 19
Fitz couldn’t stop looking at the photographs.
It was night, only hours to go before he and Isabelle visited Doyle’s Grange, the house in the country that she wanted for the two of them. Millie had been gone for more than a day, and her absence was a sharp emptiness in his heart.
Except for her sojourn in America at the beginning of the year, as co-chaperone to Helena, they had not been apart in years. During her absence, he’d written almost daily, skipping a few days here and there not because he wanted to, but because it seemed embarrassing to be constantly pelting one’s wife with letters.
And now he was in her rooms, missing her, missing the part of himself that had left with her.