Page 86 of Bookshop Cinderella

She stiffened, everything in her rebelling against the implication that she had no choice. “What does it matter what people in the gutter press say about me?”

“It isn’t those scandalmongers that concern me. But the people I know are a different matter. Perhaps you don’t care if my acquaintances smear you and call you a strumpet, but funnily enough, I do. And,” he added before she could reply, “do you think I am absolved from blame because of my sex or my position? Do you really want the world to think I am such a cad that I would not do right by you? Because they will, Evie. You are not the only one who will be condemned.”

She bit her lip, for she hadn’t thought of the consequences to him. “I am happy to tell any journalist who’ll listen that you did the honorable thing and I refused you.”

“And you think that discharges my obligation?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“To the world, perhaps, but not to you. Would you have me spend my life knowing I ruined you, living with that on my conscience?”

Inside, she began to shake, and she feared if he stayed much longer, she would break into tears. “I accepted the clothes, the hotel room. I willingly came to your house and danced alone with you. I came to your room last night. You owe me nothing.”

“Evie, Evie,” he said, his voice soft, chiding; so tender, she almost splintered apart. “You surely don’t believe that.”

He lifted his hands as if to pull her to him, and she jerked free, taking another step back. She couldn’t let him hold her. If she did, she’d be lost.

She swallowed hard, striving for the words that would drive him away. “I don’t deny that I feel a passion for you, but passion is not love. And despite your declaration, I have no reason to believe what either of us feels is anything more than transient desire that will fade with time. I don’t see it deepening into love when we have so little in common.” She shook her head. “I will not make a lifetime commitment—one that cannot be undone—because of what scandal sheets say about me, or out of a sense of obligation, or even to assuage your conscience. No, Max. My answer is no.”

He muttered an oath, raking his hands through his hair. “You know my position demands that I marry. I must have an heir, and if you refuse me, I will eventually have to find someone else to wed.”

“I hope you do!” she cried, anguished. “I want all the best in life for you. I want you to be happy, with a wife who comes from your world, who suits your life. We both know, have known from the start, that’s not me.”

Her voice was shaking, and she knew she could not tolerate much more of this. Another minute, and she would break into tears. Or worse, she would soften, relent, agree to marry him to be safe, craving his touch, hoping love would last, dying inside as it all fell apart.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he tilted his head back, giving a laugh that sounded in no way amused. “We are back where we started, it seems,” he muttered.

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You, Evie.” He lowered his chin and met her gaze. “You, playing safe and being afraid to aspire to more than you have. You, settling for less than you deserve and telling yourself it’s enough. You, always believing you’re not worthy of anything more.”

Having the same words he’d said to her two months ago flung at her again now made her feel as if she’d just been slapped. “You have my answer,” she said. “Now, I would like you to leave.”

He didn’t move.

“Go, Max,” she cried, her voice cracking on the word. “Please, just go. Go, find someone else to love, and be happy.”

He looked at her steadily, still unmoving, and only by sheer force of will was she able to hold his gaze.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, he bent and picked up his hat. “This isn’t over, Evie,” he said as he put it on. “Not by a long chalk.”

With that, he turned and departed, and though she’d driven him off with deliberate intent, she couldn’t help running to the window after the door had closed behind him, hungry for one last glimpse of him before he vanished from view.

She’d done the right thing, she knew, but as she watched him walk away down the pavement, his elegant clothes such a contrast to dingy little Wellington Street, she couldn’t help thinking of what lay ahead of her, of the interminable days and lonely nights of her bookshop spinster’s life, with nothing but memories of a fleeting romance to sustain her and not even her good name to protect her. She pressed a hand over her mouth, catching back a sob.

He turned the corner, and as he disappeared from view without a backward glance, the shell of brisk efficiency and practical good sense that had been enveloping Evie all day finally cracked into pieces and fell apart. Now that he was truly gone for good, the pain she’d been holding back since she’d left his room at dawn could no longer be suppressed. A tear spilled over, and then another, and she leaned forward, pressing her wet cheek against the glass, staring, anguished, at the corner where he’d vanished from her life. The words she had refused to say to him, words she had refused to admit even to herself, suddenly came spilling out of her.

“I love you,” she cried. “Oh, Max, I love you so.”

Her confession echoed through the shop, meaningless and hollow, because no matter how much lovers wanted to believe otherwise, love was not enough, especially for a duke of the realm and a girl from Wellington Street.

20

The five days that followed were some of the hardest Evie had ever endured.

She felt no regrets for the choices that had brought her to this point, though whenever she remembered the beautiful moments she’d spent with Max, she felt a bittersweet pain that only deepened with each day that passed.

She was sure she’d done the right thing in refusing him, but during the five nights afterward, alone in bed, remembering the extraordinary way he’d made love to her, the rightness of her position didn’t help her fall asleep.

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