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He winced.

Good Lord, he was terrible at this.

Angel…

Better. Brow furrowed, he wrote until his hand cramped. Blotting the ink, he took one last look at it and folded it up small enough so that he could easily pass it to her without his aunt taking notice. He was certain his aunt would approve of their affection, but he could do without any comments from her. It was not everyday a man sacrificed himself on the altar of dignity.

The letter still tucked into his palm, he lingered in the hallway while the last of his belongings were strapped to the carriage. His aunt joined him just as they finished.

“Where is Angel?”

Lord, he hated the desperation in his tone.

“She said she had a headache and went to lie down.” His aunt grimaced. “I am sorry, Roo Roo.”

And she must have escaped upstairs via the servant’s stairs—just to avoid him. There was no hiding his disappointment. He would not even be able to pass her the letter. Perhaps he would save it and post it instead. Or something.

“Give her time.” Aunt Jean patted his arm. “I shall speak with her.”

“I have little idea quite what I have done to offend her, Aunt.”

“If women were easy to understand, men would not enjoy the challenge of winning us.” Aunt Jean smiled. “She shall come around, I am certain. Give her a little time, and she shall miss you terribly.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “After all, it will not be long before we see you again, will it?”

He shook his head. No. He wouldn’t give up on Angel—on this. He’d never felt a thing like it, and he was certain she felt the same. Whatever it was causing her to avoid him, he would conquer it in time.

“There’s my boy,” murmured Aunt Jean.

He leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Be good. Do not get her into too much trouble.”

His aunt affected a shocked look then chuckled. “I will try.”

As he climbed into the carriage, he peered up at her bedroom window. His throat tightened when he spotted her there, looking out into the distance. He could not look away for all the world. Did she have to be so damn beautiful? So bloody confusing? So excruciatingly enchanting? Being apart from her was going to kill him, especially knowing she hated him for some reason.

“Look down,” he urged her quietly.

She glanced his way. Then turned abruptly, moving away from the window so he could no longer see her. His heart gave a painful clench. This wasn’t over. It couldn’t be.

Dear Lord, he hoped it was not.

Chapter Thirteen

Clutching the letter tight, Angel tiptoed to Mrs. Stone’s room and peeked through the gap. Thank goodness she was sleeping well at present. She had been worried since Reuben—no Mr. Hunter—had left that she might be unsettled.

She glanced down at the letter in her hand. This was the answer to one of her problems. Once Mr. Cartwright was sent away, Angel no longer had to worry about him swindling any money out of Mrs. Stone. As for Mr. Hunter…well, she had no clever ideas yet. How did one convince an aunt that her most-beloved nephew only wanted her for her money?

Goodness, she was having a tough time convincing herself of it. Were it not for her mission to get rid of the horrible Mr. Cartwright, she might well have curled up in bed and wept for the past week. It had been so tempting to give him an audience, to tell him all she knew, to unleash every ounce of fury and heartbreak on him. But he deserved none of it. What a fine actor he was, pretending to care for her.

And what a fool she was to fall for it.

At least the bloody duke had been obvious in his intentions. He wanted rank, beauty, and someone who could hold their own in society. Had she still been in London, it might well have been her announcing her engagement to him, but she could nothelp feel it would only have led to misery. A marriage to a duke seemed such a silly goal in life now.

She curled her lip. Marriage to a Mr. Hunter would not have been any better.Ifhe had even gone so far as to carry on this charade that long. The chances were, as soon as he had his hands on his aunt’s money, he would have dropped her like a hat one season out of fashion.

Angel hastened downstairs and retrieved her pelisse. She shoved the letter into her reticule and slipped out of the front door. A chilly wind, scattered with light rain, greeted her, sticking to her face and the curls around it. She would go on foot as she did not want anyone telling Mrs. Stone what she had done, but apparently this gambling hell was only a mile and a half down the road.

She only hoped she found Mr. Cartwright there or else it would be a huge waste of time.

But one of the serving girls had sworn that Mr. Cartwright spent almost every night there.