The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,127
only one person: Con.
It would have been easier if Finn were a true enemy. Elizabeth was slowly dying of heartache, according to Con’s mother, while Finn was tottering after his boy with a smile on his face. The lack of a villain made it all the more complicated.
Con’s conscience nagged at him. Certainly, people had been hurt. People had been wronged. Was there a victim in this war, besides himself?
Without pausing to think, he walked up behind Finn. Finn’s wife turned in time to see Con’s approach. She reached a hand toward her husband, causing Con to remember how naturally he’d once reached for her Elizabeth. But he didn’t have time for those thoughts now.
“Finn,” he said, then waited for the man to turn. “There’s something I owe you.”
He felt the tiniest bit of satisfaction when Finn flinched, as if expecting a blow. But that wasn’t what Con had in mind.
He continued, “My apologies. I wanted what was best for Elizabeth. Really, I shouldn’t have involved myself at all.”
Finn’s brows rose in surprise. “Thank you for saying that.”
Con nodded once. No need to drag this out. “Well, then. I’ll be off.”
Mrs. Finn turned as he started to walk away. “My lord, wait! How is she?”
She was a miserable, disconsolate wreck, according to his mother. She hardly left her house. She barely ate. Why haven’t you seen her yet? his mother had asked. Elizabeth loves you. You need to go to your wife.
He couldn’t. He wanted to. Had thought of nothing else during the long weeks of hauling rocks on the bank of the river. He’d wanted to blame her for his fate, but he couldn’t. Yes, she’d withheld information from him. But would it have changed anything?
After the trial, he’d said yes. After weeks of considering the question, he wasn’t so sure. It was he who’d elected to keep his shiftless brother from being sent to prison. He was the one who’d made a wicked bargain with an infamous courtesan, then promptly broken the terms of their agreement by adopting Oliver as his own. He was the one who’d stood at the bar of the Central Criminal Court and entered a plea of not guilty, perjuring himself for her. It was he who’d married her…and more importantly, fallen in love with her.
If he were offered the chance to do it all again, would he make different choices? Perhaps. But he’d still make the one that kept his brother out of gaol. He’d still do everything in his power to reunite a mother and her child. He’d give his utmost to be a model husband…for her.
Had she been there at his release, he’d have clutched her to him and never let go. But she hadn’t been there. It threw everything into question. Why hadn’t she cared enough to come?
Both Finn and his wife were regarding Con with pity. “She’s as well as can be expected,” Con replied stiffly. “I fear she will never completely recover.” Nor would he.
Mrs. Finn’s expression grew troubled. “How can she?”
It was his deepest fear echoed back, the taunting question that had haunted him that interminable month on the river. She’d betrayed him, but that was on her head. He’d failed her. He’d given his word that he’d keep Oliver safe and he hadn’t. Even if he could forgive her, he couldn’t forgive himself.
He clutched his fist, wishing it all had stayed as simple as he’d first thought it would be the night she’d whispered in his ear, “Lord Constantine, how do you feel about becoming the father of my child?”
“Well, then,” he said again, pointlessly, and turned away on one leg. With a last, longing look at Oliver, who’d sat on his bottom and was now shrieking gaily at clumps of grass raining from his little fists, Con left.
A yawning ache opened in his chest as he walked away. He could never bring Oliver back. He couldn’t forgive himself for that. But perhaps there could still be children in their future.
If only he could find the courage to go to her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THERE WAS A TIME not so long ago when the sound of the knocker would have caused Elizabeth to look expectantly at her door. She cuddled deeper into one corner of the sofa and rested her cheek against a cushion. For weeks, she’d come to be skeptical of the sound of the knocker. In the last few days, she’d come to despise it. Each clink against the metal plate teased her hope that her husband