The words, an echo of those Callie had spoken only moments earlier, sent her tears spilling over, coursing down her cheeks in long, silent tracks.

Instantly, Juliana moved to perch next to Callie on the chair, pulling her into a strong, powerful embrace.

And, as Juliana held her, Callie whispered the words she could no longer deny.

“But what if I am not enough?”

Twenty-two

Ralston exited the ball immediately. Leaving the carriage for his siblings, he departed on foot, heading in the direction of Ralston House, no more than a quarter of a mile away.

For his entire life, he’d been avoiding precisely this moment: He had eschewed relationships with women with whom he had too much in common; he had avoided matchmaking mamas at all costs, out of fear that he might actually like the women they attempted to foist upon him. He’d grown up in a household destroyed by a woman, marred by an unrequited love that had eaten away at his father, who had eventually died of the affliction—too heartbroken for too long to fight the fever to which he had ultimately succumbed.

And now, he was faced with Callie, fresh-faced, open-hearted, charming, intelligent Callie, who seemed to be everything that his mother had not been, and yet, was equally as dangerous as the former marchioness. For, when she’d looked at him with those stunning brown eyes and professed her love, Ralston had lost his ability to think.

And when she had begged him to leave, he had known precisely what his father had felt when his mother had left—the sense of complete and utter helplessness, as though he were watching a part of himself being stolen away but could do nothing at all to stop it.

It was a terrifying feeling. And if it was love, he wanted none of it.

It was raining, a fine London mist that seemed to come from all directions, casting a shining, wet glow over the darkened city and rendering umbrellas useless. Ralston was blind to the wet, his thoughts clouded by a vision of Callie, tears streaming down her face, devastated—and all because of him.

If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he’d been destined to make a mess of the situation since the moment she’d arrived on the threshold of his bedchamber—all big, brown eyes and full, tempting lips—asking him to kiss her. If he’d paid closer attention, he would have realized then that she was going to wreak marvelous havoc on his perfectly satisfactory life.

Tonight she had given him an opportunity to walk away—to return to that life. To spend his days at his men’s club, and his sporting club, and his taverns and to forget that he’d ever found himself entangled with an adventurous wallflower who appeared to be entirely unaware of society’s boundaries.

He should have leapt at the chance to be rid of the vexing woman.

But now there were memories of her in all of those places. And now, when Ralston considered his life prior to the night she’d barged into his bedchamber, it didn’t seem satisfactory at all. It seemed sorely lacking in laughter and in conversation and in entirely inappropriate visits to taverns and clubs with adventuresome females. It was lacking in wide smiles and lush curves and insane lists. It was lacking in Callie.

And the prospect of returning to a life without her was dismal, indeed.

He had been walking for several hours, having passed Ralston House multiple times as he roamed the darkened city, mind racing. His greatcoat was soaked through when he finally looked up, only to find himself outside Allendale House. The house was dark, save for a light in a lower-level room facing the side gardens, and Ralston stood for a long moment considering that golden glow.

The decision was made.

He knocked on the door and, when the aging butler, whom he’d terrorized previously, opened the door, eyes wide with recognition, Ralston had one thing to say. “I am here to see your master.”

The butler seemed to sense the importance of the matter because he did not argue the lateness of the hour or speculate that, perhaps, the Earl of Allendale might not be in. Instead, he indicated that Ralston should wait and shuffled off to announce the visitor.

In less than a minute, he was back, taking Ralston’s sopping coat and hat and indicating that he should see his way into the earl’s study. Ralston entered the large, well-lit room and closed the door behind him to find Benedick leaning on the edge of a large oak desk, eyeglasses on the tip of his nose, reading from a sheaf of papers. He looked up when the latch clicked. “Ralston,” he acknowledged.

Ralston dipped his head. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Benedick cocked a smile, setting the papers down on his desk. “I was having a rather boring evening, frankly. You are a welcome distraction.”

“I’m not sure you’ll think so after you hear what I’ve come to say.”

One of the earl’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, then, I think you should out with it, then, don’t you?”

“I’ve compromised your sister.”

At first, there was no indication that Benedick heard Ralston’s confession. He did not move, or take his gaze from his visitor. And then he came to his full height and slowly removed his glasses, setting them on top of the papers he’d discarded before walking toward Ralston.

Standing in front of Ralston, Benedick said, “I assume we are talking about Callie?”

Ralston’s gaze did not waver. “Yes.”

“I don’t suppose that you are overstating the situation?”

“No. I’ve compromised her. Quite thoroughly.”

Benedick nodded thoughtfully, then punched him.

Ralston didn’t see the blow coming; he reeled backward, pain exploding in his cheek. When he straightened, Benedick was shaking off the residual sting in his hand calmly. He said, apologetically, “I had to do it.”