Page 107 of Rogue of My Heart

Marie stopped short a few feet from him, blinking in surprise. “So you knew that I sent them? They weren’t returned by a servant or…or someone else.”

“I returned them,” he confessed. Even though he met her gaze firmly, there was something distant and hollow in his eyes, like he wasn’t truly there. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, as though he hadn’t slept well since the accident. His face was pale and wan, and a layer of dark stubble covered his chin, as though he hadn’t had either the time or the will to shave for days. Worst of all, the spark had gone out of his countenance.

“Oh, Christian.” Marie surged toward him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him for all she was worth. “I’m so sorry.”

He let her hug him, but that was the best that Marie could say. His body was rigid, and even though she couldn’t see how it would have been possible in so few days, he felt thinner, diminished somehow. It broke her heart to feel his sadness. No, it went beyond sadness, beyond grief, even. Poor Christian was tortured.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, swaying back but keeping her hands on his arms.

“It was absolutely my fault,” he whispered, his voice cracking with guilt and shame. “How could it not be?”

“I swear to you, Christian. I was there with you when you played the prank. You didn’t loosen enough bolts or tamper with the carriage enough for it to fly apart the way it did,” Marie insisted.

“And how would you know?” He wrenched away from her, his agony turning to anger, another emotion he didn’t wear well at all. “What do you know about carriages?”

“Nothing,” Marie confessed, letting her arms fall uselessly to her sides. “But I know everything about you, and you aren’t capable of murder.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Marie.” The look he sent her was probably meant to be withering, but it missed its mark. She had the innate sense that he was trying to put her off, either to discourage her or punish himself. “We’ve barely met. We hardly know each other.”

“I know more than enough about you to know you could never willfully hurt anyone,” Marie said firmly. She wasn’t about to let him chase her off.

Apparently, he had yet to catch on to her stubbornness. “You don’t know half of the wicked things I’ve done,” he said, taking a step closer to her that was meant to be intimidating. “You don’t know the things I did at university or the trouble I got into in Europe with my mates.”

It was the wrong time to laugh, but Marie broke into a pitying smile all the same. “Name a single man who doesn’t get up to some sort of wickedness while at university,” she said. “Or a young man who doesn’t cause more trouble than is good for him while swanning about Europe with his friends.” He glanced away, jaw tight, so she went on with, “I doubt a single bit of the mischief you’ve gotten into in your past is anything other than jolly good fun.”

Christian’s shoulders slumped a bit more, and he shook his head. “My time for fun is over,” he said, bitterness mingling with grief in his voice and expression. “I’m an earl now, or haven’t you heard?” He glanced back to her with a look so piteous that it squeezed Marie’s heart to the point of pain. “I have an estate to sort out that comes complete with a property dispute. My mother is still in grave danger and hasn’t awakened since the accident. And I’ve a marriage to prepare for.” He looked away from her with his last statement, face pinching with despair.

Marie’s heart dropped to her feet. “Christian. You cannot tell me that after everything that has passed between the two of us, you intend to go through with your marriage to Lady Aoife.” Desperation pulsed through her, making her dizzy.

Christian shrugged. “It was my father’s last wish for me,” he said in a voice so quiet and melancholy Marie almost couldn’t make out his words. “I was such a disappointment to him. The least I can do is obey his last command.”

“No, that is not the least you can do,” Marie nearly shouted. Christian flinched and glanced toward her. “Marrying a woman you do not love when one who you do love is standing right in front of you is not the proper way to honor your father’s memory. Punishing yourself for the rest of your life because you feel responsible for his death is madness, Christian. And besides,” her panic subsided a bit as she remembered what she’d seen on the way to the manor, “I believe Lady Aoife is in love with someone else.”

Christian frowned at her. “If you’re saying that as a way to convince me to change my mind?—”

“I’m not. It’s true,” Marie insisted. “I saw her down at the springhouse with Lord Garvagh just now.”

Christian’s brow knit together in thought. “What is Ned doing talking to Lady Aoife at the springhouse?”

“Having a secret lovers’ rendezvous, no doubt,” Marie said, crossing her arms and glaring at him. She was surprised by the amount of sarcasm in her voice and the seemingly poor timing of that sarcasm, but if Christian thought he could just forget what they’d done, he had another think coming. “Lovers’ rendezvous? Remember those?” she added for good measure.

Christian turned his head to her, his eyes focusing on hers. For a moment, the flash and the desire were back in his expression. Marie even thought she spotted the corner of his mouth twitching up in a fond grin. The split-second reaction faded as quickly as it appeared, though, and Christian shook his head.

“I cannot indulge in childish games and frivolous fantasies anymore,” he said. “Father was right. Life is far more serious than that.”

“Firstly, I am going to ignore the fact that you just referred to our love as a frivolous fantasy, because I understand you are grieving.” Christian glanced away, looking guiltier than ever. “Beyond that, life is only as serious as you make it,” Marie argued. “And you, Christian Darrow, were not born to be the sort of man your father was.”

“Except that it would seem I am,” Christian replied with a helpless shrug. “I wasn’t supposed to inherit his title, his land, or his responsibility, but here I am.” He held out his arms as if to gesture to everything around them.

“My lord.” The call came from a footman who strode purposefully across the garden toward them.

“See?” Christian gestured to the young man, his whole body seeming to sag under the weight of the title.

“My lord, you have a visitor,” the footman said.

“I thought I told the staff that I was not at home to visitors today,” Christian sighed, walking toward the footman. Marie could do nothing but stand by and watch.

“It’s Lord Garvagh,” the footman said. “He would like to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. Considering the dispute he had with your father, I thought?—”