But I never forgot you there, either.”
Stop. She took a breath. They’d danced around the same fight ever since he had returned, two players in a game no one else could see and not even they knew the score of.
But she didn’t want a game.
She took the bottle from his hand. “Stop. What I’m about to say — you don’t have to respond tonight. But we can’t keep doing this. Not for another hour, let alone four months. Either we try — really try — to be real for each other, not ghosts. Or we let each other go. But this…this is self-torture, not revenge. For both of us.”
It was disjointed, discombobulated, perhaps not even what she wanted to say at all. There were voices beneath it that she suppressed, like hope scrabbling at the inside of Pandora’s box. But it was the best she could do.
After an age, he nodded. “Go to bed. We will talk tomorrow.”
She left, taking the bottle with her. Neither of them said anything else as she slipped through the door and closed it between them.
She didn’t lock it, though. She leaned her head against it instead. With his scent and shirt enveloping her, she could pretend she still leaned against his chest.
She didn’t want a game. But could she listen to her heart long enough to know what was real?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
She had taken his bottle of arrack. It was the first thing he thought when she left. The cheap, rum-like liquor that he had drunk in India was no match for the smooth Scottish whisky he preferred, but it was better than nothing. He didn’t really want to taste it ever again. But wanting a drink was better than considering her parting shot.
Nick shoved a hand through his hair as he stared at the door she had closed between them. Did she stand on the other side, staring at the door as he did?
Ellie was right. This was self-torture. He left, unable to stand the torment of wondering what she was doing in the chamber that mirrored his. He met no one in the passage; it was nearly one in the morning, still early for people accustomed to London life, but late for those who preferred country hours. He strode down the hall, and the carpet running down the center dampened his steps even though he didn’t care who heard him.
Perhaps he should have cared. As he passed a bedchamber near the stairs, someone opened it from the inside. “I thought it must be you,” Marcus said in a low voice. “How does your revenge progress?”
Nick stopped, scowling before he turned around. “It progresses. Were you waiting to waylay me?”
“No. I’ve already waylaid the person I intended to waylay. But the intelligence from that interview made it impossible for me to sleep.”
“First Ferguson, now you. Is everyone in this house spying on me?”
Marcus shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Nick looked down the hall. No one stirred — but that didn’t mean no one was listening. “If you wish to say something, come to the study. No one will disturb us there.”
Marcus nodded and shrugged into his jacket before accompanying Nick down the stairs. There were no servants about, but a handful of guests still chattered in the drawing room. Nick turned toward his study silently, avoiding any interactions that would prolong the night. Even Marcus was an imposition he resented. If he couldn’t be with Ellie, after the way his aching need for her had been denied, he didn’t want to play the host.
The study was dark and the embers were banked. They spent a few moments lighting lamps and stoking the fire before Nick took his seat behind the desk. Marcus sighed as he eyed one of the hassocks. “You should redecorate sooner rather than later if you intend to stay. You would have liked how Ellie initially decorated this room for you. I think the furniture is still in the attics someplace if you care to drag it out.”
“I’m not here to talk about Ellie,” Nick said flatly. “Who did you stop before you saw me in the hall?”
Marcus walked over to the decanter, almost as though he hadn’t heard the question. He offered Nick a glass, but Nick refused — Ellie’s condemnation of his drinking still rang in his ears, and he was stubborn enough to pretend that she was wrong. Pouring his own glass, Marcus leaned against the fireplace mantel rather than sitting on one of the hassocks. Finally, he broke