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They’ve gone, love. Stay a moment more. There’s nothing to be gained by haste at this point, and we need to sort this out before we face your family.” Love? Now he called her love? “Let me go. I can’t breathe…” She tried to wrestle free, but he had his hand on the back of her head, his arm around her back. Out in the hallway, the front door didn’t close; it banged shut with the impact of a rifle shot ricocheting through the house… and through the rest of Eve’s blighted, miserable life. “Mama slammed that door, Lucas Denning. Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, slammed a door, because of me, because of my stupid, selfish, useless, greedy, stupid, asinine…” There were not words to describe the depth of the betrayal she’d just handed her family. She collapsed against Deene’s chest, misery a dry, scraping ache in her throat. “Eve, many couples anticipate their vows, even a few couples closely associated with the Duchess of Moreland.” The reason in his voice had her hands balling to fists. “I will not marry you.” She could not, not him of all men. That signal fact gave her scattering wits a rallying point. Deene did not argue. When an argument was imperative, he did not argue. His hand stroked slowly over her hair, and as the fighting instinct coursing through Eve’s body struggled to stand against a swamping despair, some part of Eve’s brain made a curious observation: Deene was breathing in a slow, unhurried rhythm, and as a function of the intimacy of their posture, Eve was breathing in counterpoint to him. The same easy, almost restful tempo, but her exhale matched his inhale. “We cannot marry, Deene. I won’t have it. A white marriage was as far as I was willing to go, and then only to the right sort of man, a man who would never seek to… impose conjugal duties on me.” His arms fell away, when Eve would very much have liked them to stay around her. Better he not see her face, better she not have to see his lovely blue eyes going chill and distant. “We need to set you to rights.” His hands on her shirt were deft and impersonal, his fingers barely touching her skin. The detachment in his touch was probably meant to be a kindness, but it… hurt. “Lucas, I cannot think.” “We’ll think this through together. I can guarantee you not a soul will be coming through that door until we decide to pass through it ourselves.” “I hate that you can be so calm.” And—worst
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