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“He shall not worry,” Thomas continued, as if she’d not spoken. “I have left all of the affairs in perfect order. Every contract has been reviewed and every last number in every last column has been tallied. If he runs the estate into the ground, it shall be on his own head.”

“Thomas, stop,” she said, because she could not bear it. For either of them. “Don’t talk this way. We don’t know that he is the duke.”

“Don’t we?” His lip curled as he looked down at her. “Come now, Grace, we both know what we will find in Ireland.”

“We don’t,” she insisted, and her voice sounded hollow. She felt hollow, as if she had to hold herself perfectly still just to keep from cracking.

He stared at her. For far longer than was comfortable. And then: “Do you love him?”

Grace felt the blood drain from her face.

“Do you love him?” he repeated, stridently this time. “Audley.”

“I know who you’re talking about,” she said before she could think the better of it.

“I imagine you do.”

She stood still, forcing herself to unclench her fists. She’d probably ruined the writing paper; she’d heard it crumple in her hand. He’d gone from apologetic to hateful in the space of a second, and she knew he was hurting inside, but so was she, damn it.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

She drew back, her head turning slightly to the side. He was looking at her so strangely. “At Belgrave?” she said hesitantly. “Five years.”

“And in all that time I haven’t…” He shook his head. “I wonder why.”

Without even thinking, she tried to step back, but the desk blocked her way. What was wrong with him? “Thomas,” she said, wary now, “what are you talking about?”

He seemed to find that funny. “Damned if I know.”

And then, while she was trying to think of a suitable reply, he let out a bitter laugh and said, “What’s to become of us, Grace? We’re doomed, you know. Both of us.”

She knew it was true, but it was terrible to hear it confirmed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Oh, come now, Grace, you’re far too intelligent for that.”

“I should go.”

But he was blocking her way.

“Thomas, I—”

And then—dear heavens—he was kissing her. His mouth was on hers, and her stomach flipped in horror, not because his kiss was repulsive, because it wasn’t. It was the shock of it. Five years she’d been here, and he’d never even hinted at—

“Stop!” She wrenched herself away. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a helpless shrug. “I’m here, you’re here…”

“I’m leaving.” But one of his hands was still on her arm. She needed him to release her. She could have pulled away; he was not holding her tightly. But she needed it to be his decision.

He needed it to be his decision.

“Ah, Grace,” he said, looking almost defeated. “I am not Wyndham any longer. We both know it.” He paused, shrugged, held out his hand in surrender.

“Thomas?” she whispered.

And then he said, “Why don’t you marry me when this is all over?”