His Mistress with Two Secrets(39)

In typical Henri fashion, he had dodged the question with a faintly bored “If you’re looking for a proposal—”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to marry me,” she had interrupted sharply, hiding that his attitude stung like a scald. “I asked if you loved me.”

“And the reason you’re asking is because you want to change things between us.” He hadn’t even looked up from whatever he was reading on his tablet, like this was a tiresome conversation. “I told you I’d never marry you.”

She had sat there with her sip of orange juice eating a hole in her stomach.

Her pregnancy had already been weighing on her conscience for two weeks, earning her a few queries from him about why she was so withdrawn and distracted. He’d even set a hand on her forehead at one point, looking concerned when he asked if she was coming down sick again.

She had been heartsick, aware that he would not be happy about the pregnancy, while deep in her soul, she was so happy. There was no man whose baby she would want more.

But not like this. Not so he would feel manipulated and forced into marrying her. Not when she might be a little in love while he clearly didn’t have any deep feelings on his side.

So, yes, she had set him up to disappoint her. Maybe if she had said “I love you” first, he might have found some tender words of his own. Perhaps they could have progressed amicably toward an arrangement from there.

She hadn’t. She had locked her own heart down tight, preparing herself for rejection and yes, even engineering it so she could walk away wounded yet righteous.

“I’ve always wanted children,” she had reminded him, nearly trembling she was holding herself so tightly together as she gave the greatest shake of dice in her life. “You said when I was ready to start a family, you would let me go. Are you going to keep your word?”

“Of course.”

Two words. Bam, bam.

Why couldn’t he have at least said he was fond of her in that moment? Why hadn’t he said he would miss her? Or acted in some small way like he didn’t want her to go? He had spent all the time they’d been together making her think he felt something, even if it was just affection. He was terribly protective of her and often expressed admiration at how hard she worked and what she accomplished. Maybe he didn’t laugh outright at all her jokes, sometimes he even gave her a look that scolded her for crossing a line, but he invariably smirked. He appreciated her snark, whether it was witty or facetious.

Why else would she feel so much for him if he didn’t at least appear to care for her, too? She wasn’t a self-destructive idiot.

Was she?

Did he really feel nothing? From the moment he had walked in here, he hadn’t betrayed one iota of pleasure in seeing her again. Just anger and resentment.

You want to change things, he had accused her that day.

She hadn’t, she really hadn’t. Things had changed all by themselves. Cells had split.

Then she and Henri had.

Her eyes welled as she recognized that nothing had changed between then and now. Absence hadn’t made his heart grow fonder. He still felt nothing.

Despair accosted her afresh.

Don’t be stupid, she told herself as the pressure built behind her eyes and in her throat. She only cried late in the night, when she lay awake in the dark, missing him, curled around their babies, freezing to death because his side of the bed was empty.

During the day, she was pragmatic and confident.

Which had been easy when she’d been convinced she would hold her position and stay right here in this room.

How would she protect her heart if she was living with him again, seeing him every day?

The pressure behind her eyes built as she contemplated how hard this was going to be. Her breaths were already coming in shaky jags of panic.

She told herself to quit being so silly, but her hand pulled a tissue from the box, then kept grabbing a string of them as she felt her world crumbling around her. The agony of not having his love rose, too much for one or two measly tissues. It was a freight train bearing down on her, filling her throat with a wail of agony that she held her breath against releasing.

She didn’t want to love him. It was too big, too hard. It hurt too much.

She buried her face in the cloud of tissues, but this swell of emotion wouldn’t be stemmed. Her whole body became wracked by anguish. She had tried to keep everything together and was falling apart. Everything was splitting and rending. She gasped for a breath and it was a ragged sob.

“Cinnia.”

His voice, so gentle, so tender, was the last straw. How did he do that? How did he sound like he cared when he didn’t?

Her heart broke open and she started to buckle forward, knees giving way under a keening moan.