No Longer Forbidden(44)

At the same time he was devastated by the familial connection it symbolized. That wasn’t him. He’d been rejected as a son. He’d never make a decent father. His lungs shrank and he began to grow cold.

With a critical eye Rowan scanned his appearance, her hands sweeping across his shoulders, smoothing his lapels, adjusting the kerchief poking out of his pocket.

“Don’t.” He couldn’t bear her touch when he felt so raw.

Her gaze came up. Her mouth still looked bruised, and now so did her eyes. Her vulnerability made his gut clench, sending a spike of regret through him. When he ran his tongue behind his lip he could still feel where her teeth had cut in, leaving a taste of rust. She’d been lost in rapture, but his behavior had still been incredibly crass.

Reckless.

She flinched under his scowl and turned away. “I know you think this is just one more selfish act by a spoiled socialite, but I’m doing it for them. Well, maybe a little for myself.” She dropped his original tiepin into her pocketbook. “I let Mum down so many times. I need to give her this at least.”

The defeat in her was so tangible, his throat ached as she crossed the room away from him.

“I’m not angry about the service,” he blurted.

“What, then?” She drew herself to the full extent of her slender height, seeming to brace herself. She knew. She could see the elephant in the room as well as he could. What they’d done this morning shouldn’t have happened.

Could she also see how much he hated himself for putting them in this position? That he wanted to lock his arms around her and beg her not to do anything rash? But he knew it would be better to send her away and let her make her own decision, because he could never be the kind of man capable of involving himself with a woman and their child.

Maybe there wasn’t even a baby to worry about. She’d said the timing was wrong.

Shades of regret rose in him, but his ingrained hesitation against emotions—experiencing them, labeling them, acting on them—prevented him from examining that.

The intercom buzzed, making them both jump.

“It’s just the car,” he managed through a dry throat.

Rowan nodded jerkily and shrugged into her coat before he realized what she was doing. He didn’t move forward in time to help her and his hand closed on empty air. It stayed locked in a fist that her sharp gaze detected on her way to the door.

“After this I’ll finish packing her things and get out. I promise.”

The words scooped into his chest, leaving a gaping space in him. Grief, he told himself. For the last year he’d taken refuge from it in work or the gym. His refusal to host a service had largely been an attempt to avoid revisiting the loss.

The choke of sorrow and missed chances had moved into the background of his psyche, though. All his tension and misgivings were rooted in Rowan’s behavior right now. She was on the run, and he didn’t blame her, but it filled him with anxiety.

The elevator floor dropped away from beneath his unfeeling legs and the blurred city passed before his eyes. He could only clench a hand on the nearest surface and try to hold on to his equanimity while trying to convince himself that facing the memorial service was eating him alive. Not something else.

After this I’ll finish packing her things and get out.

His cold fog grew worse when the car slowed outside a low building. Nic finally came out of himself long enough to see how gray her complexion had gone, leaving her makeup as slashes of garish color against her waxen face.

“Are you going to throw up?” He reached for the ice bucket.

“It’s stage fright.” Her shaking hand went to her middle. “I didn’t eat, so nothing to toss. It’ll go away as soon as I’m on.” She left the car like a ghost rising from a grave, her movements elegant as always, her collected expression niggling at him.

Was she really not the least bit worried? If timing was so reliable there wouldn’t be an overpopulation problem. Or had she already made a decision that a baby wouldn’t happen, no matter what?

He took Rowan’s elbow as they climbed the stairs, consciously easing a grip that wanted to tighten with urgency. His heart pounded. Don’t, Rowan. Please don’t.

People were already seated inside—hundreds of them. Once they sat, a man in robes invited them to bow their heads. It was surreal, given his state of mind, but cleansing. This was the right thing to do. He should have known, should have trusted that Rowan understood these things better than he did.

As she moved to the podium a few minutes later he noted that she had regained some color, but her eyes were still too big for her face. He watched her with a fatalistic rock in his chest. She was so much better than he was, rising above a difficult childhood like a phoenix, able to sing her mother’s praises, warm and beautiful, while he carried only the ashen darkness of his childhood with him, staining everything black.