would leave her this time.
Not finding anything on the top of her desk, he opened a drawer and ruffled through for some stationery.
His gaze arrested on one piece of paper, his name leaping out at him. Well, rather his old name: the Duke of Penning. He lifted it from the drawer, scanning the words.
His hand started to shake.
The paper dropped, fluttering through the air and landing on her writing desk with a whisper. Strange. That slight whisper sounded as loud as a horn in his ears.
His own letter-writing task forever forgotten, he turned, staring at her where she slept, her brown hair soft all around her on the pillow.
He could still feel her. Her hair wasn’t the only soft thing about her. Her skin. Her breasts. The pillow of her lips.
Perry blinked once hard, as though attempting to shake the very real memory of those sweet things from his mind. A moment ago he had thought to never lose those things. He had thought to keep them forever. Now he felt the desperate need to forget. To put those things so far from his mind that he never wanted them again. Never wanted her again.
He’d lost everything. Because of her.
And then he’d decided to give everything up—for her.
The irony was bitter and terrible and he felt a little like he was dying inside.
He’d cast out any hope or desire for an heiress. He’d given up the notion of reclaiming a semblance of his old life. A life of comfort and affluence. He’d decided to happily settle for whatever life he fashioned for himself as long as he could spend it with Imogen Bates.
All this time he could have been playing the doting suitor on any number of prospective ladies, but he had forgone that, immersing himself in Imogen Bates.
Clearly a waste of time and energy.
What a daft fool he’d been.
He released a soft bark of laughter. She must have enjoyed tying him up in knots—seeing him brought so low and then watching him pant after her all the while knowing she was the reason for his downfall.
She stirred in the bed. “Perry?” She moved beneath the coverlet, her legs kicking it free.
He crossed his arms over his chest as though to trap them, as though he needed to be certain he would not reach for her.
She lifted her head, pushing that honey-brown hair back from her face as she scanned the chamber, her gaze searching and landing on him. “Ah. There you are.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come back to me.”
He didn’t move. He could not even summon the will to speak.
She glanced to the window as though assessing the time and pouted prettily. “I suppose you must go.” She sat up, holding the coverlet over her chest. Still modest. Even after everything. She looked shy for a moment, tucking her hair behind her ear as she murmured, “I will miss you.”
He didn’t have to harden his heart to resist her sweet charms. It was already hard. It felt like a stone in his chest. A dead thing. Cold and bloodless as a rock.
She must have finally sensed something was not right with him.
“Perry?” The pretty pout disappeared. “What is it? Is something amiss?”
He turned back to her desk and lifted the letter he had dropped as though it scalded him. He carried it over to her, not getting too close. He couldn’t get close to her. He dropped it in her lap and took several steps back. Distance was good. Necessary even.
She glanced from the paper to him curiously. Settling her gaze back on the paper, she picked it up, canting her head as she examined it.
It didn’t take long.
Recognition lit her eyes. The color drained from her face.
She lifted that big brown gaze of hers to his and slowly shook her head. “Please, Perry. I can explain—”
“Can you? That would be a neat trick.” He stabbed a finger at the damning parchment. “Can you explain that letter from some curate, confirming my birth date was in fact in January and not the month of May.”
“Perry . . .”
“You were the one. You! You outed me. You snooped and discovered the truth of my birth.”
“Not on purpose. When I took over my father’s book and ledger keeping, I uncovered a few inconsistencies and merely sought to update and organize his records. The previous vicar had handled all the records abysmally. I knew your birth date. I was at most of those celebrations.” She began stammering. “I—I simply