lost the life you knew.”
“But we renovated this house together, and we found ourselves in the process. Now you’ll throw me away like you threw my bonnet into the street because I don’t suit you anymore? You said that you never leave a job unfinished. What about us? Don’t leave us unfinished.”
“I’ve done what I was contracted to do.”
She couldn’t believe he was saying these cold, heartless things. It was so sudden, almost like he was a different person. Not even a hint of that charming, smiling rogue. “I thought . . . I thought you cared. Why did you build me those bookshelves?”
“I built you the bookshelves because I want you to be happy. I think you should live here in London instead of retiring to Cornwall. Don’t deprive the world of your light.”
To go from such happiness, such bliss, to this nightmare.
She had knowingly walked into this trap, just like one of Daphne Villeneuve’s heroines.
She’d walked right in, drunk on newly discovered power. Intoxicated by his kisses and the tenderness she’d thought she’d seen in his eyes.
Now his eyes held only anguish. She had to know what had happened to transform him so completely.
Something had happened.
“During our waltz you said you loved me . . . well, you didn’t really say it but you agreed when I said it, and now it’s as though a wall of thorns sprang up to cover your face, your eyes.”
“I saw reality, Beatrice. I saw the disparity between our worlds. You would grow to resent me if I tore your family apart. Your mother would never accept me and to have that rift be my fault—you might think it’s worth the pain now, but I know from experience that my mother never healed completely.”
“Our situation is different. You’re not your father, Ford.”
No, he wasn’t his father. And that meant he wasn’t going to selfishly and blindly claim her love no matter the cost. Beatrice’s mother had made it very clear that she considered him to be totally unworthy of her precious daughter.
He refused to be the wedge driven into her family that split it apart, sundered mother from daughter.
He couldn’t allow history to repeat itself.
He hated himself even as he spoke the words, but he had to do this. He must be harsh. “These two weeks were only a fantasy, Beatrice. A fairy tale with no basis in reality. I don’t belong in your world and you don’t belong in mine. I have to leave.”
“You don’t. You don’t have to leave.”
“My mother arrives in London in a matter of hours. My ship departs in a matter of days.”
This was the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life. His whole body and mind screamed for him to stay. Sweep her into his arms.
He turned away from her stricken face and wounded eyes and shouldered his trunk. “Goodbye, Beatrice.”
He walked downstairs quickly. He had just opened the door when a tall shape shoved past him and entered the room.
Ford’s entire body stiffened. “A bit early for a call, isn’t it, Foxton?” He’d kick his grandfather out onto the street before he’d let him discover Beatrice in the house with him at this early hour.
He had to force him to leave before any hint of Beatrice’s presence in the house was revealed. He prayed that she stayed upstairs.
“I’ll own this property soon enough,” Foxton said.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
Coggins arrived finally, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Should I throw him out, Mr. Wright?”
“Go back to bed, Coggins. Mr. Foxton is leaving.”
Coggins glared at Foxton before shuffling back the way he’d come.
“Why so eager for me to leave?” Foxton asked. “Could it be because you have a certain highborn visitor who arrived on foot and climbed a ladder into your bedchamber?”
Damn. She’d been wearing a cloak. She could have been anyone. “I ordered a fancy lady from Covent Garden. I left that ladder there for her.”
“Distinctive color of hair, your ladybird.”
“You may have dug up another heir, but Lady Beatrice has powerful friends in high places to contest the claim.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“You’re leaving.” He grabbed his grandfather by the collar and bodily moved him toward the door. “I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you. We’ll do it at a place of my choosing.”
“Roughing up your own grandfather?”
That stopped Ford cold. “You knew?”
“You didn’t think I’d put it together? You have your father’s eyes . . . and his peasant hands.”
“Ford?” Beatrice’s soft voice. She stood in the doorway. There