He closed their door with a quiet click, sucked in a steadying breath, and then walked back downstairs. He found Thea in the kitchen, writing something on her massive whiteboard.
She tensed when he came up behind her. “Are they asleep?”
He had to clear his throat to speak. “Yeah. They were tired.”
“So am I.”
He watched her re-cap her marker and replace it in the drawer. His eyes drifted to the corkboard and an embossed invitation stuck with a thumbtack. He had to blink twice to make sure he was reading it correctly.
“Your dad is getting married again?”
She slid away from him and walked to the kitchen sink. “Are you surprised?”
“What happened to Christy?”
“Crystal. He cheated on her with the new love of his life.” Thea filled a glass with water and used it to wash down the headache medicine she used whenever she felt a migraine coming on.
“When did all this happen?”
Thea shrugged and turned around. “Sometime last winter? I don’t remember.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “It didn’t seem important.”
“How’s your mom taking it?”
Thea pressed her fingers to her temple. “I really don’t want to talk about my parents right now.”
“Sorry. Right. Are you—” He gestured toward her forehead. “Are you OK?”
“Fine.” She swallowed and looked at the floor. “Gavin, we need to make some decisions.”
Her words were another slingshot that sent him back in time. Whether she realized it or not, she’d said the exact same thing the day she told him she was pregnant.
Thea let him kiss her but not for long. She planted her hands in the center of his chest and pushed him back. “What are you doing?”
Gavin pressed his hand to her abdomen, where his child—their child—grew beneath his fingers. “I’m happy, Thea.”
“That’s great,” she said with more acrimony than he would have expected. “But we need to make some decisions, Gavin.”
“What’s there to decide?” With his right hand still pressed to her stomach, he used his left to cup her jaw. “Marry me.”
An idea took hold. The words had worked back then, so maybe they would work again. It definitely seemed like something Lord What’s-His-Name would do, at any rate.
Gavin closed the distance between them. Thea lifted her gaze from the floor just in time for him to slide his left hand along her cheek. “What’s there to decide?” he said. “Marry me.”
Her head drew back from his touch, her face scrunched in confusion. “What?”
His heart thudded nervously. “It’s—that’s what I said wh-when—”
“I know, Gavin.” Her arms wrapped around her torso in a pose that managed to look both tough and vulnerable. “I just wish you wouldn’t ruin it by saying it now.”
Ruin it? His heart sputtered. “I am not ready to give up on us.”
“It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late,” he said, channeling Lord Always-Says-the-Right-Thing. “It’s never too late for love.”
Thea snorted. “Are you serious right now?”
Okay, maybe that was a bit much. Thanks a lot, Lord Asshat. Still, it was now or never.
And if this didn’t work, he was going to kill Mack and Del and throw Lord Claptrap into the fireplace. “What if . . . what if we could start over?”
Thea lifted her hands to ward off his words. “Gavin, stop.”
“Let me move home—”
“No.” Thea sidestepped him and was halfway across the living room before he could catch up in steps or words.
“Let me move home,” he repeated. “And if I can’t w-w-win you back, I’ll . . . I’ll let you go. I’ll agree to a divorce.”
Thea turned around, an incredulous squint to her eyes. “This is the twenty-first century. I can get a divorce whether you agree to it or not.”
Right. Of course. Shit. “I know. Wh-what I mean is, I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ll pay off the house for you and the girls, give you whatever amount of child support you need. Anything. We don’t even need lawyers.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Your agent would kill you if you got divorced without a lawyer.”
“Why? Are you planning on taking me to the cleaners?”
His attempt at humor was apparently not appreciated, because her lips formed a tight line. “No, but what if you get traded and have to move? Things could get really complicated with custody.”
Custody. The word made him want to puke. “Please, Thea. Just give me a chance.”
“To do what?” she blurted, throwing her hands wide in an exasperated gesture.
“To prove how much I love you.”
Her lips parted again. She stared at him for a moment that lasted forever. “Please stop saying that,” she finally whispered, her voice pained.
“Stop saying what? That I love you?”
Her silent nod hit him like an errant pitch. He stumbled back a step. “Why?”
“I don’t trust those words. Not anymore.”
Gavin fought for air. He’d suffered some tough losses in his life. Life-changing ones. And humiliations that burned to this day. But this . . . this was as close to total destruction as he’d ever known. If ever there was a time for Lord Benedict to tell him what to say, it was now. But the only voice he heard in his head was a woman’s.
Love isn’t enough.
When he’d read those words from Irena, Gavin had grumbled under his breath and nearly closed the book. What kind of romance novel declared love meaningless? Wasn’t the entire point of all romance novels to prove that love conquers all? He had a sinking sensation that he was about to find out in real life whether that was true. He just hoped Lord Lovelorn would have a better idea on how to prove his wife wrong than Gavin did for his.
“It’s late,” Thea said quietly, as if softening her tone could possibly soften the blow. “You should go home.”
“I am home. You and the girls are my home.”
Thea sucked in a tiny breath of air. It was barely perceptible but just enough to let on that his words—his pitiful honesty—had made a mark. It was time to come out swinging.
“You know what? I’m disappointed in you. Because the old you would have jumped all over a crazy proposition like this.”
He held his breath as she held his gaze. Her jaw jutted sideways, and her eyebrows pulled together. Not in anger. No. She was considering it. He could tell by the glint of daring in her eyes.
It was that glint, more than anything else, that made him risk everything with his next words. “Come on, Thea,” he challenged. “What do you have to lose?”
Thea responded by turning away and walking woodenly to the French doors to the backyard. She stared silently into the darkness outside, her arms once again wrapped tightly around her torso. He’d give anything to see inside her mind, to hear whatever argument she was having with herself. The click of the grandfather clock in the hallway by the stairs ticked off the seconds in excruciating slowness.
The suspense finally got the best of him. “Thea—”
She turned stiffly. “I have some conditions.”
Her words hung in the air for a long, stunned instant before they registered in Gavin’s brain. Did she mean—? Was she agreeing to—?
He spoke slowly, afraid that if he reacted too strongly, she’d say never mind. “Wh-what kind of conditions?”
“This”—she waved her hand in the air, searching for the right word—“proposition can’t last forever. We’ll need a deadline of some kind.”
“Spring training,” he said. It was perfect. If he failed, he’d at least have something to distract him after he left. He wasn’t going to fail, thoug
h. Spring training was nearly three months away. More than enough time.
Thea had other ideas, though. She shook her head. “Christmas.”
“That’s only a month!”
“It will be too hard on the girls if we drag it out longer than that.”
He couldn’t argue with that. “Fine,” he said.
“And you have to sleep in the guest room.”
Well, that was a kick in the balls. “How are we supposed to work on our issues if we’re not even in the same room?”
“That didn’t seem to bother you before.”
There was nothing he could say to that that wouldn’t sound either self-serving or whiny. “What else?”
“Liv stays.”
Ah, Christ. “For how long?”
“For as long as I need her.”
He nodded begrudgingly, because what choice did he have? “Fine. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now.”
“For now?”
The unintentional sharpness in his voice brought a tight line to her lips. “These are my conditions, Gavin. Take it or leave it.”
He was taking it. He’d take whatever he could get. Mouth suddenly dry, he swallowed hard. “When do you want me, I mean, when can I come home?”
“Wednesday night.”
The night before Thanksgiving. Two days away. “Okay.”
“You can be here when I get home with the girls from school.”
“Right. Yeah. I, uh, I can do that.”
“We’ll order pizza for dinner.”
Pizza. Sure. What the fuck? This had to be the most ridiculously ill-timed conversation of his life, yet the bizarre normalcy of it had an odd settling effect on his stomach. Somewhere in the middle of all this chaos and emotion, dinner still needed to be eaten.
“So I’ll see you Wednesday,” she said in what was clearly his dismissal.
His eyes roamed her face, and a chasm opened in his chest. She stood tall but looked small. There was a defeat in her rigid shoulders. He didn’t want it like this. Not with her acting like she’d just lost the most important fight of her life. “Thea, is this really w-w-what you want?”
“Do you want to move home or not?” she snapped, staring at a spot over his shoulder.
“I do. I just—”
“Just what? Make up your mind, Gavin.”
He let out a tight breath. “Fine. I’ll be here Wednesday.”
He thought about crossing the room and pulling her into his arms before leaving, more to reassure himself than anything else, but everything about her body language screamed TOUCH ME AND YOU LOSE A TESTICLE. So yeah. Things were off to a great start already.
Gavin settled for a small nod before trudging out to his car. He started the engine but sat in the driveway, watching as light after light went dark inside. Everything he loved most in the world was in that house, and driving away was going to be harder tonight than it had ever been. Because the next time he returned, he had just one month to earn the right to stay. Though her conditions made his task difficult, a batter didn’t get to choose his pitches. All he could do was study the field and come up with a game plan.
One month.
That’s all it had taken for them to fall in love the first time.
He could do it again.
“Okay, Lord Tight Pants,” Gavin said as he backed out of the driveway. “Tell me what to do next.”
Courting the Countess
It took two weeks, three days, and sixteen hours for Benedict to realize the fatal flaw in his starting-over plan.
His wife was not a willing participant in it.
He couldn’t very well court someone who had no desire to be courted.
Irena had not allowed him more than a few minutes of time alone with her since their wedding night, though she was clever enough to make it seem unintentional. Anytime he attempted to engage with her, she suddenly had a pressing matter to discuss with the cook or a task that needed to be finished elsewhere. Whenever he finished with the business of the estate, she suddenly became consumed with her own. And though the door separating their bedchambers remained unlocked every night, he could not bring himself to enter hers and quench his burning thirst to consummate the marriage. Not as long as she believed that allowing him into her bed was simply her duty. Not until her thirst was as strong as his.
But Benedict was not giving up. He was and would always be a risk-taker at heart—something he and Irena shared. It was, after all, how they met. When he learned that a lowly baron’s horse had beaten one of his prestigious thoroughbreds, he was shocked and smitten to discover the horse had been trained by none other than the lowly baron’s daughter herself.
Which made them both rebellious gamblers and absolutely perfect for each other in a way that Benedict had never before known was possible.
And now it was time to up the ante.
Benedict poured two fingers of brandy into a glass and positioned himself next to the fireplace in his office to wait for her. When her knock sounded on the heavy wooden door, he downed the amber liquid to calm his nerves and commanded her to enter.
She walked in wearing a day dress of pale blue and an annoyed expression. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. “You summoned me, my lord?”
He ignored her sharp sarcasm. Benedict gestured toward the sofa near the window. “Please sit.”
She hesitated, probably caught off guard by the formality of his tone, but then she obeyed. She sat in a stiff, ladylike pose—spine straight, hands primly folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles and draped elegantly to the side.
“I have another gift for you,” he said.
Her sigh could have powered a steam engine. “My lord—”
“Benedict.”
“—this has to stop.”
“You do not like the other gifts I’ve given you?” He’d given her seven so far. Earbobs and necklaces and bracelets in every shade of gemstone.
“They are unnecessary.”
“You are the only woman I have ever met who would describe earbobs and rings as unnecessary.”
“Then you must not know many women.”
“Touché.” Benedict pulled away from the mantel and crossed to his desk. From the drawer, he pulled out the unwrapped box. It took only a handful of steps to reach the sofa, but it felt longer under the weight of her gaze and the threat of his failure. “Perhaps this gift will be of more use to you.”
She accepted the box and wordlessly opened it. Her eyebrows pulled together as she withdrew the slim, silver instrument. “What is it?”
“That,” Benedict said, lowering himself to sit beside her, “is a fountain pen.”
“I see.”
“You dip this part here,” he said, pointing to the sharp nib at the end, “into the well, and it draws ink up into a thin capillary, which then holds the ink and deposits it onto the paper when you write. It allows one to write much longer without pausing for more ink.”
He watched as she fought a battle between stubbornness and fascination.
Stubbornness won. She replaced the pen in the box. “What use do I have for such a frivolity?”
“You write to your younger sister every day, Irena. I thought this would make the task much easier for you.”
The mask of indifference that had held her features in stony neutrality now slipped, revealing a hint of loneliness that tore at his conscience.
“I’m sorry that you miss her so much,” he stated.
“I worry about her,” she corrected flatly. “The scandal of our marriage has tainted her as well. My parents have become ruthless in seeking her a respectable marriage of her own before it’s too late, regardless of what she wants. There is nothing I can do to protect her now.”
Guilt threatened to suffocate him—n
ot only for what he’d done but for what he was about to do. He reached over and covered her hands with one of his. “Irena, I have come to a decision.”
Her eyes darted to his. “What kind of decision?”
“There will be no heir.”
Panic flashed through her eyes, widening the pupils and darkening her emerald irises. “What?” she breathed, swaying where she sat.
“You have refused to accept any of my overtures to prove that I love you.”
She shot to her feet, the pen clattering to the floor. “And this is how you are going to do it? By denying me a child?”
“I will deny you nothing.” He rose and grasped her hands in his. “If I cannot win your love again, I will get you with child in whatever cold, passionless manner you require. Then I shall purchase you an estate with an ample stable where you and the child can retire with your beloved horses, and I shall never bother you again. But not until you give me a chance to remind you how much more there can be between us.”
Her head shook back and forth in a frantic pattern. “How can you possibly think I would agree to engage in such a cruel bargain?”
“Because you have everything to gain if you win. I, on the other hand, have everything to lose.”
Disgust darkened her expression as she yanked her hands away. “Spoken like someone who has viewed the world for too long through the cloudy lens of the male gaze. No matter what happens between us, you maintain your status, your title, your money, your ownership of the entire world. You will remain welcome in every club and every ballroom. You will forever be the victim of a vicious, scheming woman, whereas I will forever be the Delilah who cut off your hair. You stand to lose nothing.”
Benedict gripped her shoulders. “I stand to lose you!” he exclaimed.
A quiet gasp escaped her lips.
Benedict shifted his hands to cradle the curve of her jaw. “If you think I care about any of it—the money, the title, any of it—you’re wrong. None of it matters if I lose you.”
She wanted to believe him. He could see it in her eyes. Yet she pulled from his touch, turned away, and walked to the line of decanters on the bar against the opposite wall. He watched with bittersweet bemusement as she poured a stiff serving of brandy and shot it back with practiced precision. His love, always full of surprises.
The Bromance Book Club Page 8
