Page 111 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Perhaps his tone had suddenly gone uncomfortably serious, or something like it, because she pushed off him and bounded to her feet, brushing down her skirts. “We should get back.”

He sighed. “We should talk.”

“We can talk on the way back to the parlor. Come now. Do up your pants before someone finds us and is scandalized.”

“Isobel—”

“Edward Nicholas Wyeth. Do hush. I doona want to discuss this again.”

He put out a lip. He knew he was being childish, but he felt petulant. He loved her. He loved being with her. He wanted her as his wife. But she resisted him at every turn.

He did up the placket of his pants.

Well, perhaps not at every turn, but the ones that mattered, certainly.

He never thought he would be faced with such a problem. A woman who only wanted his body, and not his soul. Not his title. Not a future with him.

The very concept was unthinkable in his worldview and he did not know what to do. Obviously, speaking in a brogue and wearing the occasional kilt was nowhere near enough.

He needed to do something more.

But what?

He didn’t have a clue.

And to make matters worse, the Season was coming to an end, the banns had been read, and the wedding date was approaching.

Would it be naive of him to hope she would simply stay? Forget all this nonsense about leaving him and make him the happiest man on the earth?

She took his hand and led him to the door. “Do you suppose you will ever visit me?” she asked.

His mood took a downward turn, and it was a bitter one. In point of fact, his mood had become darker and darker as time passed, as his moments with her slipped through his fingers.

Which probably explained why he said truculently, “I doubt it.”

She whipped around and stared at him. He was stunned by the wounded expression in her eyes. “No? Not ever?”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “I doona think I could bear it.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I doona think I could bear seeing the woman who dinna love me enough to marry me, Isobel. Not when I loved her so dearly.”

“Oh, balderdash.” She forced a laugh. “You canna love me.”

For some reason, fury flashed through him. “Can I no’?” Because he did. He fucking did. With all he was.

“Nick. We’ve only known each other a few months.”

Right. And he’d known back in Newcastle. Or at least a part of him had.

“So you feel nothing for me?” He regretted the words as soon as they escaped. For one thing, they were born of pain, and for another, he dreaded the answer.

“Of course not.”

His heart squeezed. She must have noticed his agony, because she touched his cheek.

“I doona feel nothing. I adore you, Nick,” she said softly, and he saw it there, in her eyes. It warmed the cold pit in his belly, but only some.