“Clementine,” he snapped. “Were you going to tell me of this?”
She blinked at his harsh tones. “I...I had yet to decide.”
He pressed a breath through his teeth. How had this happened? One moment he was planning his proposal to her, the next he was questioning if he should ever have taken her in his arms in the first place. Was he blinded to her true nature by his desire? Had he just proved his own idiocy once and for all? If she was willing to hide the letter from him, what else had she kept hidden?
“You know the importance of this.” He shook his head. “Hell, my stepcousin nearly killed us both over this.”
“You should not blaspheme,” she said quietly, wrapping her arms about herself.
Roman swallowed hard. With her hair wild about her, her dress still loose and unbound, he’d never wanted to draw her into his hold more. How easy it would be to simply kiss her, forget the letter ever existed, and go back to a world where he felt like nothing more than a man loving a woman. No Society rules, no crushing responsibilities, no worries if he was clever enough to get through the next day as a marquis. With Clementine in his arms, everything was perfection.
But she had lied to him. They couldn’t go back.
“You told Jones you did not have the letter.”
“Well, I was hardly going to give it to him, was I?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “I knew how important it was to you and I knew he would do you damage.”
“So you knew how important it was, but you did not wish to tell me about it?”
“I thought maybe...maybe I’d keep it somewhere safe.” She shrugged. “I had yet to decide.”
“It was not your damned decision.”
“Roman, it is a wonderful letter.” She unfurled her arms and motioned to it. “Read it. Properly. Read it without the echoes of your father in your ears.”
He shook his head. The last thing he was going to do was plod through each difficult to read word. “It doesn’t matter what it says.”
“Read it,” she insisted.
“I do not wish to, Clementine.”
“Just read it!”
“No, damn it.” he barked, and she shrank back a step. He eased out a breath. “I do not care what its content is. All that matters is it is never seen again.” Tears shimmered in her gaze and Roman’s heart gave a painful thump. “You cannot understand,” he said softly. “It took the Rochdales too long to get where we are. I cannot risk it all because of a letter.”
She gave a wobbly smile. “I cannot understand because I am a Musgrave.”
“Precisely.”
“A scandalous Musgrave,” she murmured.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did not need to.” She met his gaze. “I know you do not approve of me or my family. I know you think the same as everyone else.”
“I do not—”
“You do, Roman.”
She glanced about the room, retrieved her slippers then sat on the edge of the bed to put her foot into each one. Roman watched her movements, his muscles frozen.Stop,he longed to say.Stay there. Do not leave.
He couldn’t make himself. Nothing had changed. If anything, the letter had only revealed to them what they both knew—they were too different. If they could not agree on something so small, how could they possibly create a life together?
Palms flat upon the bed, she looked up at him. “What are you going to do with the letter?”
“Burn it most likely.”
She shook her head. “A letter you will not even read? Roman, do you not care one jot what your ancestor went through for love? He was willing to throw away everything for one woman.”