Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [110]
She was waiting, accepting now that she could not dissuade him.
“I must acknowledge that my happiness lies with you.” He could feel the blood hot in his cheeks. “And ask you if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Almost before he had finished the denial was in her face, the misery in her eyes.
“It would be an honor, Micah. But you must know I cannot.”
“Why not?” He heard his voice and hated himself for his lack of dignity, his childishness, as if arguing could make a difference. Why was he vain enough to have imagined that her gratitude, her innate kindness was anything akin to love?
“You know the answer to that.” Her voice was low and full of pain. Her face had the baffled look of one who has been struck unexpectedly.
“You do not care for me.” He forced the words out, preferring to say them himself so he would not hear them on her lips.
She looked down at the floor.
“Yes, I do,” she said very quietly, less than a smile touching her mouth, merely a softness. “I care for you very much—far too much to allow you to marry a woman who is socially such an outcast that alliance with her would ruin you.”
He drew in his breath to argue.
She heard him, and looked up quickly.
“Yes, it would. The scandal surrounding Sholto will never be forgotten. I am inextricably tied to it, and I always will be. I was his wife. There will always be people who remember that.”
“I don’t—” he began.
“Hush, my dear,” she interrupted him. “It is very noble of you to say that you do not care about society, but you have to. How could you hold the position you do, commanding the investigation into delicate cases where political discretion is needed, and immense tact, scandals that involve our greatest families, if your own wife had been so closely tied to the very worst of them?” Her eyes were intense. “I know very little of the police, but I can see that much. I am sensible of your honor, that you would not withdraw an offer once made, no matter what your greater wisdom might tell you, but please—we have been friends. Let us at least keep honesty between us. It would ruin you, and I cannot let that happen.”
Again he wanted to speak, to argue, but he knew she was right. He could never continue in his position if he were married to Eleanor Byam. Some scandals were forgotten, but that one would not be—not in ten years, not in twenty. The absurdity was that if he were to keep her as his mistress there would be whispers, a little laughter, perhaps a good deal of envy. She was a beautiful woman, but their affair would be largely ignored. Whereas if he did what was immeasurably more honorable, and married her, he would be distrusted and eventually shunned.
“I know,” he said very quietly. He wanted to touch her. He wished to so intensely it was a physical effort not to, but he knew it would be wrong, clumsy, and somehow indelicate. “But I count your company a greater happiness than any social or professional position.”
She looked away quickly, for the first time her composure breaking. The tears filled her eyes. She stood up and walked over to the mantel shelf.
“You are very generous, and I admire you immensely for it. But it does not alter anything. I cannot let you do such a thing.” She turned around and forced herself to smile at him, the tears standing out in her eyes. “What kind of love would I have for you if I were to take my own well-being at such a price to you? It would be no happiness.”
He could think of no argument. What she said was perfectly true. Everything worldly he could offer her would be reduced by her very acceptance. And he would never have married her if by doing so he would have ruined her.
Very slowly he rose to his feet, a little stiffly, even though it had been only a short time.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice husky.
For a moment he thought of going to her and taking her in his arms. But it would