She squared her shoulders. “Alex.” He lifted his hand as if to touch her cheek. “Are you the reason they jilted me?”
His hand paused, a hair’s breadth from her face.
He did not need to answer. The muscle in his jaw replied for him. He was clenching his teeth to bite something back. So much for fearlessness in the face of unpleasant truths.
So much for impassivity, too. At least she had that much satisfaction.
She turned on her heel. He caught her elbow and pulled her back. “Not Pennington,” he said. “I have no idea what happened with Pennington. There was nothing in his history, nothing in his relationships that would account for it—”
“In his history?” She gaped at him. “Alex, did you—did you set spies on my fiancés? As if . . . as if they were your business competitors?”
His hand fell away. “I made a promise to your brother,” he said flatly. “I did what I could to honor it.”
Disbelieving laughter scraped out of her throat. “Oh yes, so I see. You spied on these men—”
“I did nothing,” he said tersely. “I hired private investigators. Pennington turned out to be unobjectionable. Seemed to be, at any rate. Trent did not. So I intervened.”
“Intervened.” She shook her head slowly. “Intervened. You mean that rather than coming to me, sharing with me this mysterious knowledge of his . . . his objectionable nature—objectionable in your view, at least—”
“Syphilis,” he said curtly. “If your view differs, you are standing in a very peculiar place.”
“I don’t care what it was!” Although, God above, that did explain his sickly appearance, and perhaps his indiscretion, too. She would spare a prayer for him tonight. “You did not come to me. You did not tell me!”
“I couldn’t—” He cursed. “I couldn’t be sure that you would . . .”
“Would believe you? Would show good sense? Would value myself enough to avoid sacrificing my health for a title?” She scoffed. “God above, you must think me the stupidest woman on the planet.”
“No.” His voice was flat now. “But could you blame me if I did?” So unapologetically he spoke. “Your choices in men do not recommend your intellect.”
Temper whipped through her. “Yes, so I see. How very stupid I must be. How else have I ended up engaged to marry you? A manipulative bully who sabotaged my wedding so you—so you could . . . what? How did you stand to gain from this? Or is it so obvious? I say, Alex—have you been having financial difficulties?” She heard the ugliness creeping into her voice, but she had no interest in dispelling it. Dear God—only minutes ago, she had been begging him to take her. To have her. This man who thought her too stupid to decide for herself what and whom she wanted! “You needn’t make the greatest sacrifice,” she said. “I am glad to offer my brother’s dear friend a loan. Marriage is not required.”
He looked now as cold and disinterested as though he were disputing with a stranger. “I assure you, Gwen, I do not require your aid. Unlike some, I plan very carefully before I enter rash ventures.”
“Yes, so you do,” she agreed. “And tell me, what does your careful planning entail? Threats? Blackmail? What did you use to drive Trent off?”
“He did not wish certain news to be made public,” he said evenly. “So I did him the favor of keeping it private.”
“Blackmail,” she whispered. She put her hand to her mouth to trap a laugh, but it came out anyway—wild, a little unbalanced. “Do you know what I felt—what I thought—how I doubted myself afterward! And none of it had anything to do with me! All that time . . . and then, when it happened again—I was so sure with Pennington—”
“Gwen.” He seized her by the shoulders, and for a shocked moment she thought he would shake her. But his fingers merely pressed her upper arms, each finger asserting itself distinctly, as if he was trying to imprint the pattern in her flesh. “Gwen,” he said, leaning in, perhaps so his quieter tone would carry amidst the revelry around them, “I swear on everything I hold dear—my sisters, my nieces, Richard, you—that I had nothing to do with the viscount.”
She stared at him, wondering desperately if she could trust his word.
How amazing. Only minutes ago, she’d been wondering if he could love her.
How sad that she found him easier to credit on the matter of the viscount.
“I believe you,” she said slowly. She tried to pull free, but his hands tightened once more. His expression was beginning to frighten her. He looked—grim, his mouth tense, his eyes hooded. As though he was folding in on himself, shuttering, shutting himself away.