Spencer shook his head, envisioning Evie in his mind. “Why?”

At that moment, he realized he should have let Evie answer that question. He should have listened to her that day at The Harbour when she’d tried to explain. Instead, he had been intent only on hurting her . . . on fleeing.

“Because she loved her sister. One glimpse at Nicholas, and she loved him, too.” For a long moment, Henry Cosgrove stared intently into Spencer’s face. “She’s that kind of person. Kind, good. The very best of souls.” He laughed weakly, without humor. “You know, she’s never said a cross word to me, and God knows I deserve it. Perhaps my coming here will remedy some of my mistakes.”

“You are not remedying anything,” Spencer growled, hardening his heart. He would not relent, not release his anger.

Cosgrove moved to the door. “You’re a fool to let her go. Evie will make you a loyal wife. She knows how to love with her whole heart. How many can say that? You could have done much worse.” He sighed heartily. “Believe me on that account.” Setting his hat on his head, he moved to the threshold. “I’ll show myself to the door.”

Fingers tapping on the edge of the desk, Spencer studied the empty door through which Cosgrove had departed. Several moments passed. The eye Cosgrove had struck throbbed, the vision a bit blurred. Despite the utter silence of the room, blood rushed loudly in Spencer’s ears, his thoughts racing.

His fingers tightened around a crystal paperweight, its heavy hardness cutting into his palm. He tossed it once. Twice. A third time.

Evie’s face flashed through his mind. He recalled his last sight of her at the end, after he had taken her so savagely against the tree. The dead look in her eyes.

He had done that. Killed whatever she’d felt for him.

Without deliberation, his hand moved, flew, launching the crystal across the room, crashing it through the glass of the French door.

The ruptured silence, the shatter of glass satisfied him for an instant. Then the moment faded, and he was left in silence again.

Alone. Only the dizzying rush of his thoughts for company.

“Evie. I think you should come see this.”

The sound of Mrs. Murdoch’s anxious voice sent a bolt of alarm through Evie. She lowered her quill, heedless of the large ink blot forming on the parchment. “It’s not Nicholas?”

“No, no, come.” The housekeeper fluttered her hand and hastened back out the parlor’s doors.

Somewhat mollified to know her son had not broken a limb, Evie rose from her writing desk where she labored over a letter to Fallon. Marguerite’s letter sat to the side, already written and ready for posting.

She’d delayed writing them, her heart too heavy to take quill in hand and explain everything. It was no small feat to impart the details of her hasty marriage and subsequent abandonment. News like that, she discovered, read terribly on paper. As terrible as it felt upon her heart.

It had taken her this long to collect herself and pen the missives. Sighing, Evie rubbed at her ink-stained fingertips as she departed the room.

Given the hasty notes she’d dispatched before leaving with Spencer for Ashton Grange, her friends were aware of her marriage and no doubt on tenterhooks for the particulars. Since Penwich, the three of them knew everything about each other. The years had not changed that. Evie needed to tell them. Besides, they would see with their own eyes soon enough that her husband had abandoned her.

A shudder passed over her as she realized she had become that very popular tonnish lady Fallon had told her about—the kind who did not even reside in the same house as her husband. Years could pass without speaking or seeing one another.

Evie inhaled deeply as she descended the stairs. So she was married to a man who could not stand the sight of her. Who thought her the worst sort of female. She exhaled through her nose. She was working hard to believe that whatever happened was for the best, but she found her current reality difficult to stomach. She had vowed to reclaim her old life, but it was quickly apparent she did not want her old life. She wanted a new one. With Spencer—the man she had fallen in love with. Who curled her toes into her slippers with a look and filled her lonely nights with kisses and tender whispers.

Was that gone? Never to be had again?

Fallon had survived the debacles in her life to find love. Despite the tumultuous beginning to their relationship, she and Dominic were happily wed. Absurdly happy. And while Evie did not expect such joy for herself, for a few days at Ashton Grange, she had thought she’d found something special in Spencer’s arms, that she and he might have a future together with some measure of happiness and affection.

Nicholas’s happy shrieks could be heard from some far-off location. At least Nicholas would benefit from their marriage. There was still that.

With another sigh, she smoothed her palms over her skirt, determined to no longer mourn a man whose heart she had never truly possessed. No sense in that. And she had always prided herself on being sensible.

Once in the small foyer, she spied Mrs. Murdoch at the front door.

Evie inched closer, peering around the housekeeper. “Mrs. Murdoch, what—”

The rest of her words died on her lips.

Mr. Murdoch and several footmen marched up the steps, unwieldy luggage in tow. Beyond them, Fallon and Marguerite stood, framed before two carriages bearing the Duke of Damon’s family crest. Fallon’s daughter ran in wild little circles, chased by a harried-looking nanny.

“Jillian,” Fallon commanded, “stop at once or you can forget about the treat you were promised.”

With an impish grin, the toddler stopped and dutifully trotted to her mother’s side. The girl’s long hair, gathered in velvet ribbons at the sides of her head, gleamed blue-black in the sun. She was a gorgeous girl, bearing a striking resemblance to her father.

Sighing, Fallon looked away from her daughter and faced the house. “Evie!”

Tugging her daughter behind her, she hastened forward in her confident gait, elegant and beautiful in a crimson traveling gown. Most redheads couldn’t accomplish such an ensemble, but she managed it with success.

Marguerite moved at a sedate pace, tiny and lovely in her brown wool gown that should have made her appear a drab little mouse—the perfect nurse to the ailing dames of London. Nothing, however, could detract from her unusual beauty. Her catlike eyes glowed a golden topaz, a striking contrast to her ebony hair.

Marguerite and Fallon. They were here. And Evie felt like that Penwich girl all over again . . . sad and trapped, dreaming of a different life. A lump formed in her throat.

She met them halfway down the steps. Their faces, so full of joy at the sight of her, broke something loose inside her. Perhaps because she knew she could keep nothing from them. Perhaps she hadn’t realized how much she hurt inside until this moment.

Fallon folded her into her arms, her hug tight and strong, comforting. Like she could save Evie from all pain.

Evie burst into tears.

“Oh, love! What did he do to you?”

Marguerite’s hand smoothed soft circles over Evie’s back. “What happened, Evie?”

Evie lifted her face from Fallon’s shoulder to stare at the blurry images of her friends—and spoke the words that destroyed her heart bit by slow agonizing bit, no matter how she tried to pretend otherwise. “He didn’t love me enough.”

Chapter 28

They tucked Evie into bed that night like she was a child in need of cosseting. Then they crowded around her on the bed, knees tucked beneath their nightrails, faces scrubbed and glowing. It reminded Evie of nights at Penwich. Whenever one of them suffered a bad day, either at the hands of Master Brocklehurst or bullying pupils, the other two would crowd on her cot and whisper encouraging words and silly stories late into the night. Anything to distract. Sometimes they fell asleep like that—the three of them curled on a cot that could scarcely hold one, hands clasped together.

“Here now, hold still.” Marguerite worked to tie off another scrap of linen in Evie’s damp hair so that she might have something resembling curls in the morning. Evie didn’t bother reminding them that her hair couldn’t hold a curl.

“You know.” Fallon rose from the bed and dropped down on the chaise. “You could be wrong. He might simply need time to adjust to the notion that you’re not your sister.”

Evie shook her head, which earned her a growl from Marguerite. “Hold still.”

“You did not see his face.” Or hear how he spoke to me.

“I’ve been there, Evie,” Fallon murmured. “Sometimes men are slow to realize—”

“Men,” Marguerite snorted. “Who needs one blundering about your life? They all seem a bit useless to me.” She darted Fallon a glance. “No offense. Yours seems the exception, Fallon.”

Fallon grinned, her amber eyes dancing with light. “Not all are useless.” She leaned back, stroking a hand over her nightrail, brushing her belly. “Some are quite good . . . at certain things, at least.”

Marguerite’s delicate cheeks colored. “Tart,” she accused without any real heat. “You’re shameless.”

Evie couldn’t stop a small laugh from escaping.

Fallon sat up higher, stabbing a finger in the air. “I’ll remind you of this conversation after you’ve met a man who twists your stomach into knots.”

Marguerite shook her head in firm denial, then returned her attention to Evie. “Truly, if your husband possessed an ounce of sense, he’d see that he landed himself something far better than an imaginary female,” Marguerite interjected. “Just look at the sacrifices you’ve made all in the name of love! He would find no more loyal a wife.”

“Spencer doesn’t see it that way.” Evie plucked at the hem of her nightrail. “I can’t really blame him, I suppose. I had plenty of opportunities to reveal the truth, only I . . .”

“What?” Marguerite prompted.

Evie inhaled. “I was convinced he was in love with Linnie. Daft, I know. And selfish. I couldn’t hide the truth forever.” Evie shook her head. “I was too enamored with the notion of him being in love with me . . . even if it wasn’t me he loved.”

“It’s his loss,” Marguerite uttered, her topaz eyes gleaming.

“He sounds like an idiot,” Fallon interjected with her usual candor. Color rode high in her cheeks. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I should pay him a call.”

“All men can’t be as perfect as your husband,” Marguerite inserted pertly, tying off another ribbon in Evie’s hair.

“True.” Fallon nodded before her amber eyes turned serious. “But Dominic wasn’t in the beginning. There were moments when he behaved the perfect ass.” She angled her head and considered Evie. “Perhaps your Spencer will come around, too.”

Evie shook her head. “I don’t think so . . . and he did say some terrible things.”

“And you can never forgive him those things?” Marguerite surmised.

“I can forgive,” Evie replied even as the ache in her chest still burned deeply, ceaseless. “I just can never forget.”

And that was the heart of the matter. Even if Spencer softened toward her, they could never go back to the tenderness they’d shared before. Not after that day in the woods. Not after everything that occurred.

He would never look at her the same way.

“But what if he forgave you? And asked for your forgiveness in turn?” Marguerite prodded. “Would that not make it right?”

“Asked? He should beg,” Fallon inserted.

“I don’t know.” Evie shook her head. “I don’t think it could happen.”

Because she would forever remember this hurt. She would remember the look in his eyes when he’d turned from her, the dread he’d placed in her heart when he’d intimated that he would take her son from her.