She stepped back from him, her pale pink skirt swirling in a gentle manner around her feet. An unidentifiable emotion swept through him. She did not comprehend how much he had influenced the pain she and her family now suffered. She also knew nothing about him. He had built his fortune on the sins of others’. Not only did they owe him a great deal of money, but Lucan had made it his business to know about others weaknesses. He never did anything with the knowledge, only alerting the unsuspecting fool when he needed him for something. As he had done with Lord Orwell. If she knew the depth of Lucan’s crimes against her, she would not be so open to marrying him. He opened his mouth to inform her, but everything inside of him shut down for seconds. He could not bear for the look in her eyes to turn to contempt and hatred.
His heart lurched at the thought of her discovering his secrets. He had known loathing and bitterness, but fear no longer had the power to touch him, or so he had thought. For he felt fear now that she would see all of him and be repulsed. “You do not know the manner of man I am, Constance. To want to wed me is a naive, foolish desire after how I planned to compromise you. I am incapable of giving you the kind of marriage—the kind of love—you seem to desire.”
Her chin titled, and damn if she wasn’t staring him down despite her head barely reaching his chest.
“And what kind of marriage do I need, Your Grace?”
He hesitated then spoke frankly. “One with love and laughter, picnics and balls, children and merriment…and family solidarity.”
“And why is it you cannot give me that?”
“Because all I have left inside since I lost Marissa is darkness.”
She shifted closer to him. “That has an easy solution. I cannot bring back your sister, and the ache of her loss will be with you for years to come, but I will take some of your darkness and give you my light. I will always comfort you when you feel pain.”
He looked at her in bemusement. Take his darkness? The last thing he wanted was for her to understand the depth of his demons. “I want you nowhere near my wickedness.”
Constance flushed. “I know you are not as dissolute as you would have me believe, Lucan.”
“Is that so?”
She gave him a rather wistful smile, and he wanted to give her the things she dreamed of. “I know about the Edinburgh Review articles that you write, championing humanitarian views of ending the practice of farming babies. I am aware of the motions you take to parliament. I know about your many charities. I know you did not ruin me when everything in you clamored to; instead you tried to protect me. So you see, I know of the good in you.”
The silence was deafening.
“You may well be wondering how I know this, but I do read,” she said in a teasing manner. “My brothers firmly believed in my education, and while I tend to indulge in penny dreadfuls and romantic novels, I also edify my mind with sensible reading. I have read all the arguments you have put forth. I admire them, and I believe they tell me a lot of your character, Lucan. And I see much to be admired.”
Much to be admired? Unable to face her hopefulness anymore, he turned away and closed his eyes.
He did not deserve her. Fear gripped his heart in the most unwelcomed manner. He wanted to reach out so badly and claim what she offered. A life with her. But he could never allow himself to become enmeshed with her, for the moment she found out the depth of his actions against her family, against her, she would despise him. And then he would know true pain.
For he was already in love with her.
Then why are you thinking of walking away you fool, his conscience screamed. You love her.
“Lucan?” her voice was soft as she touched his back with a feather light caress.
He groaned stifling the impulse to draw her into his arms and crush her lips to his. Though he fought hard against it, he’d had a startling realization during the early morning train ride to London—he needed Constance in his life. He’d missed her fiercely in the few days apart.
He felt as if it would take months, perhaps even years before the ache of Calydon’s involvement in his sister’s death diminished. But he had to consider, more so than ever before, that the man should not be held as deeply in contempt as Marissa’s husband who abused her so cruelly. The night Constance had visited Decadence, Lucan had reread all fifty-six of Marissa’s letters. And then he had burned them one by one. All her hopes and fears, her pain and desperation had been infused in those words, and he refused to remember her that way anymore. He’d acknowledged what he had fought against for so long. Marissa had been as flawed as everyone else. She had taken a lover after marriage. A thing he had not thought his sweet sister capable of. He did not judge her for it, he only saw how much he had failed her.