the footmen loading the carriage that would take them back to Haldon Hall.
He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it, simply could not grasp that Kate was leaving. He turned his eyes from the drive and stared at her profile. Neither had spoken when he’d come outside. He’d been unable to find the right words. He’d been unable to do most anything beyond stare and wonder at the sudden ache in his chest.
The ache grew, spurring him to say something. “Don’t do this, Kate.”
“It’s for the best,” she replied softly, keeping her gaze straight ahead.
“Running away is never for the best.”
“I’m not running away. I’m going home. To Haldon.” She fiddled with something on the front hem of her gray spencer. He couldn’t see what, because she wouldn’t turn to face him. “You’ll be welcome there, should you decide that is what you want.”
He hadn’t a response. He wasn’t sure what, if anything, the offer meant. So he changed the subject, and his tactic.
“The other guests will talk. They’ll speculate Miss Willory scared you off and—”
“Let them.”
Kate’s mother called up as Lord Brentworth took her hand to assist her into the carriage after Lizzy. “When you are ready, dear, the carriage is prepared.”
Kate nodded in acknowledgment. She barely turned her head to speak to him. “Good-bye, Hunter.”
She stepped forward and suddenly the ache gave way and a panic unlike any he’d ever known raced through his veins. Chasing close behind was fury. His arm shot out to grab her elbow. “I’ll not come for you,” he growled. “I’ll not bloody beg.”
She looked at his hand a moment, and then for the first time, looked at him.
“Would it change anything,” she whispered, “if I did?”
It would change everything.
I’ll beg.
I love you.
Say the words. Even if they’re lies, say them.
He dropped his arm.
She nodded, turned, and walked away.
Twenty-five
Hunter had a new strategy. He was going to win Kate back with flowers, presents, charm, and an adventure or two. He was going to convince her by using every means at his disposal that she couldn’t live without him. It was, he could admit, a rather uninspired strategy, but it was a strategy.
He reminded himself of this as he sat in his room at Pallton House, staring into a glass of brandy he hadn’t a clear memory of pouring. At a guess—a highly inebriated guess—he had reminded himself of his strategy every half hour for the last eighteen hours, which also happened to be the frequency at which he envisioned getting on his horse, riding to Haldon, and begging Kate not to leave him. It was humiliating how strong the temptation was to chase after her. But he wasn’t going to give in, he told himself and took a long swallow of his drink. He wasn’t going to make a terrific ass of himself—women weren’t charmed by asses, terrific or otherwise—just because he couldn’t stop thinking of her. Or because he missed her smile, and her laugh, and the damn dimple at the end of her nose.
He wasn’t going to make an ass of himself just because he hurt.
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest. Shouldn’t not loving the woman hurt less? Hadn’t that been the point of not falling in love—to not hurt?
He glowered at his drink. Hadn’t not hurting also been the point of getting foxed?
“Waste of perfectly good brandy,” he grumbled and set the glass aside.
He glanced up at a knock on his door, and the sound of Whit’s voice coming from the other side. “You decent, Hunter?”
“Haven’t you heard?” he asked, letting his head fall back against the chair. “I’m better than decent. I’m bloody good.”
Whit opened the door. “What?”
“Nothing.” He waved a hand impatiently. “Come in, then.”
Whit frowned at him a moment before crossing the room to toss a letter in Hunter’s lap. “Mission’s over. William wants you in London.”
“Can’t ride. Drunk.”
Whit stepped closer and bent forward to sniff. “You do smell flammable. Hell, man, it’s eight in the morning.”
Hunter glanced at his window. He hadn’t noticed the sun had come up. “What of it?” he groused. “I’ll go to London when I’m sober. Anything else?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Whit took a seat across from him. “I wish to discuss Kate.”
“Why? Mission’s over, as you said.”
“This doesn’t pertain to the mission,” Whit replied. “Do you know the excuse she gave for leaving the house party early?”
“No.”
“She said she was homesick. Said she couldn’t compose properly in an unfamiliar room.” Whit snorted and leaned back