The eventual trip from Chicago to London, London to Newcastle was torturous. I’d never been so impatient in my life to get anywhere. The drive north from Newcastle was even more so. Jet-lagged, smelling of plane, and pale cheeked, I directed the cab to Roane’s estate.
His true estate.
Alnster House.
I needed to see it. It was part of a deceit that had become twisted into something that shouldn’t have been as destructive as it was. What I wanted from the house, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps to alleviate my concerns. To remind me it was just bricks and mortar and it didn’t change who Roane was.
The cab pulled up to the huge sandstone mansion, and my bravery faltered a little. It didn’t do much to reassure me that Roane was an ordinary, down-to-earth farmer.
The house was set back miles from the main road, surrounded by fields. The lawns around the mansion were well kept and rolled for acres before turning into wheat and barley fields.
A dirt road turned into a gravel drive with a fountain in the middle.
An exterior imperial staircase led up to the front door of the grand home.
It was like a smaller version of Mr. Darcy’s house.
“Holy fuck.”
“Is this it?” the driver asked, staring up at the house in awe.
Just as I was about to step out, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was a woman dressed in a conservative pencil skirt and blouse. I waited as she elegantly walked down one side of the stone staircase, the gravel crunching underfoot as she approached the cab.
The driver rolled down the window.
The woman, who appeared to be in her midfifties, asked, “May I help you?”
“We’re looking for the Alnster estate,” the driver said.
“This is it.” She looked at me. “I’m Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper. May I help you?”
I licked my dry lips.
Roane had a housekeeper.
Of course he did.
“I’m . . . I’m looking for Roane.”
Her brows pinched together a little, as if she was trying to place me. “Mr. Robson does not reside here.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Perhaps you would favor me with a name first?”
Wow, Mrs. Smith was old-school posh. I wasn’t sure I wanted to give her my name. I was afraid she’d know who I was and have us led off the grounds at gunpoint.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you.” I tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
We left the housekeeper staring after us, and I gave the driver the directions to the farmhouse.
Roane had been telling the truth. He really did live there and had a separate life from his parents.
Although my pride was still pricked, my trust still wounded, guilt niggled at me.
I should have stayed.
I should have listened.
Butterflies raged in my belly as the car meandered down the dirt road through the fields of sheep surrounding Roane’s coastal estate.
When the farmhouse and the agricultural buildings surrounding it came into view, my breath caught.
Then I saw him.
He and Bobby were unlatching the ramp from the truck to transport the sheep.
My heart began to pound in my chest, and despite the breezy day outside, my palms and underarms began to sweat. Even the backs of my knees sweat.
“This it?” the driver asked as he pulled to a stop at the house.
When I didn’t answer, he repeated the question.
I was too busy staring at Roane, who had frozen in place, staring back in astonishment.
“Yes . . . but can you wait? I’ll pay you to wait.”
“Sure, pet, but the meter’s running,” he warned.
I didn’t care about the meter.
My legs were like jelly as I stepped out of the cab, my hands shaking as I rounded the hood of the car.
Roane moved away from the truck and took a few wary strides toward me.
We stared at each other.
For what seemed like forever.
I felt like I hadn’t seen his handsome face in months. Those chestnut eyes . . . kind eyes. Roane might have lied about his age and the true extent of his fortune, but he’d never lied about who he was.
He’d doubted me when he struggled to tell me the truth, for fear I’d walk away.
But I’d made his doubts about me warranted by running away.
I shrugged helplessly, quite sure there wasn’t a blameless soul between us. “I’m so sorry.”
Roane blinked, momentarily surprised.
Then he was walking—no, racing—toward me.
His arms closed around me, and I found myself hauled against him as he slammed his mouth over mine in a hard, desperate kiss. It was bruising, ravaging, no finesse.