He should loathe her. He should be furious that she’d helped Lowe escape. That she’d sent him running into the night instead of turning him over. The man had tried to kill him.
And yet, as he watched her, cold and alone in the Leighton gardens, he couldn’t loathe her. Because somehow, in all of this madness, he understood her.
He could see it in the way she held herself, stiff and unmoving, lost in her thoughts and the past. In the way she owned every one of her actions. In the way that she had never once cowed from him since that dark night that had changed both their lives.
She thought she deserved the sadness. The loneliness. She thought she’d brought it upon herself.
Just as he had.
Christ. He didn’t simply understand her.
He loved her. The words came like a blow, surprising and strong, and true. He loved her.
All of her, somehow—the girl who had ruined him and somehow, at the same time, set him free, and the woman who stood before him now, strong as steel and everything he’d ever wanted.
All those years, he’d imagined the life he might have had. The wife. The children. The legacy. All those years, he’d imagined being a part of the aristocracy, powerful and entitled and unquestioned.
And he’d never guessed that it would all pale in comparison to this woman and the life he might have had with her.
He would have saved her from his father. Would have loved her better. Harder. With more passion. He would have protected her. And he would have waited for her.
He knew it was wrong. And scandalous. But he would have waited until the day his father died, and then taken her for his own. And shown her the kind of life she deserved.
The one they both deserved.
She sighed in the darkness, and he heard the sorrow in the sound. The deep, enduring regret.
Was she sorry she hadn’t left with her brother? That she hadn’t taken the chance to run without ruin?
Ruin. Somehow, that goal had been lost in the darkness.
He’d waited too long. Come to know her. To understand her. To see her.
And now, all he wanted to do was to take her home and make love to her until they’d both forgotten the past. Until all they could think of was the future. Until she trusted him to share her thoughts and her smiles and her world.
Until she was his.
It was time to begin again.
He came out of the darkness. Into her light. “You must be frozen.”
She gasped, her chin snapping up, her eyes finding his in the small clearing. She shot to her feet. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.”
To see you betray me.
And, somehow, to realize I love you.
She nodded, her arms wrapped tightly about her. She was cold. He shrugged out of his coat, holding it out to her. She shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
“Take it. I am tired of standing by as you shiver in the cold.”
She shook her head.
He tossed it to the bench. “Then neither of us will use it.”
For a long moment, he thought she might not take it. But she was cold, and not an idiot. She pulled it on, and he took the movement as an excuse to come closer, wrapping the enormous coat around her, loving the way she curled into the heat of it. The heat of him.
He wanted to wrap her in his heat forever.
They stood in silence for a long moment, the scent of lemons curling around him, all temptation.
“I wish you would get on with it,” she said, breaking the quiet with anger and frustration.
He tilted his head. “With what?”
“With my unmasking. It is why I am here, is it not?”
It had been, of course. But now— “It is not yet midnight.”
She gave a little laugh. “Surely you needn’t stand on ceremony. If you unmask me early, then I can leave, and you can resume your position of valued duke. You’ve been waiting long enough for it.”
“Twelve years,” he said, watching her carefully, seeing the desperation in her eyes. “Another hour is nothing.”
“And if I told you it was something to me?”
His eyes tracked her face. “I would ask why you are suddenly so eager to be revealed.”
“I am tired of waiting. Tired of standing on tenterhooks, until you decide my fate. I am tired of being controlled.”
He wanted to laugh at that. The idea of his having any control over her was utter madness. Indeed, it was she who consumed his thoughts. Who threatened his quiet, logical life. Who threw it into disarray. “Have I controlled you?”
“Of course you have. You’ve watched me. Purchased my clothes. Inserted yourself into my life. Into the life of my charges. And you’ve made me . . .” She trailed off.
“Made you . . .” he prompted.
For a moment, he thought she might say she loved him. And he found that he desperately wanted the words.
She stayed quiet. Of course. Because she didn’t love him. He was a means to her end. As she was to him. Or, rather, as she had been in the beginning.
Anger flared. Frustration. How had he let this happen? How had he come to care for her even as she fought him? How had he forgotten the truth of their time together? What she’d done?