Marissa stood quietly before him, garbed in a grey, modestly cut evening dress — a perfect example of an aristocratic widow, so untouchable she might as well have been on the moon. But touch her Anthony would, and soon. In fact, it would be a miracle if he didn’t pull her down on to the carpeted floor of his study and shred every article of expensive clothing from her body.

Even if it made him feel like the most callous brute in England.

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” he said. “Please have a seat.”

She frowned and remained where she was, likely because his suggestion came out sounding like a command.

He sighed. “Marissa, I would rather you not stand there like a disobedient child waiting for a scold.”

She made a small, scoffing noise but took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the sofa. Her trembling fingers betrayed her nervousness. He thought he should be deriving some satisfaction from that, but he wasn’t.

Ever since she left his offices that afternoon, he had been struggling with a growing sense of remorse. He didn’t like it. But her outburst had forced him to consider that Marissa probably had been a target of her father’s retribution, just as she claimed. He was a fool for not realizing that sooner, but the wounded boy of thirteen years ago had lacked the understanding that came with being a man.

Not that Anthony was ready to forgive her — at least not yet. The possibility still existed that she was trying to manipulate him with her tale of woe. Better to wait and hear what she had to say.

And he hoped to God she said yes. He had been in a painful state of arousal all afternoon, all because of one damn little kiss that hadn’t lasted much more than a minute.

“Something to drink? A sherry, perhaps,” he offered. Whatever she had to say, alcohol would make it easier for both of them.

She took her seat, perching on the edge of the sofa, ready to bolt. Clearly, it would take more than one drink to settle her nerves.

“I’ll have a brandy. And please make it a big one,” she said in a clipped voice.

He bit back a smile and poured out two glasses of the finest French brandy his ships could smuggle into England.

After handing her the glass, he settled into a chair opposite the sofa. As much as he wanted to crowd her, something held him back. That damned remorse, he supposed, or the strained look around her eyes and the slight quiver of her pink mouth. Marissa had always been pluck to the backbone, but tonight she seemed as fragile as a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

“Have you reached your decision?” His voice came out on a husky pitch.

“I have,” she said, her air both tragic and dignified. “I will agree to your terms if you will defer my brother’s debt to his satisfaction and provide appropriately for my daughter.”

His heart stopped, then started again, thumping out a painful tattoo. His intellect had told him she would agree — she had no real choice — but his bone-deep sense of her had expected more resistance.

“I’m gratified by your decision,” he said, struggling to keep the sound of relief from his voice. The last thing he wanted was for her to realize the power she still wielded over him.

He came to his feet and moved to sit next to her. She stiffened, but didn’t shy away.

“I’m curious, though,” he continued. “Why did you decide to agree?” He was more than curious. Suddenly, it seemed imperative he know the reasons why — as if his future depended upon it.

“Not for Edmund’s sake, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said with a scowl. “You were right about him — he’s not worthy of the sacrifice. I do this to provide for my daughter.”

Her azure eyes briefly met his. She looked pathetically valiant, like a tragic queen in a melodrama. Or Joan of Arc consigning herself to the flames.

Frustration had him clenching his teeth as it dawned on him that he had no desire to take a martyr to his bed. Not even if that martyr was Marissa. Her noble self-sacrifice would freeze him more thoroughly than a winter storm in the North Atlantic.

“Is that the only reason?” he growled.

Her startled gaze flew to his. He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

She studied his face, probing for answers to unspoken questions. Then she blushed an enchanting shade of pink and dropped her gaze.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not the only reason.”

He waited impatiently. “Well?” he finally prompted.

She met his eyes, and he saw a hint of her old fire. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you.”

“So, you’re offering yourself up as a means of atonement, is that it?”

Her mouth kicked up in a wry smile. “Something like that.”

He took a gulp of brandy, feeling gloomier by the minute. This was not how he had envisioned the scene playing out. He should be feeling triumphant after all those years spent developing his schemes, step by careful step. Vengeance against the Joslins — against her — had given his life purpose. And now, when he had prevailed and Marissa was finally under his thrall, what did he truly feel?

Not triumph. Not even simple satisfaction. What he felt was … hollow. As if he’d lost something important he could never get back.

Anthony captured her elegant chin between his fingers. “Did you mean what you said today?” he asked harshly. “That you were desperate to find me?” She tried to pull away but he tightened his grip, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I want the truth, Marissa. No more lies or secrets. Not any more.”

Her pupils dilated as she drew in an unsteady breath. She seemed almost frightened.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, giving in to the compulsion to reassure her. “You can tell me.”

Her eyes grew soft and misty. “Yes. I would have given anything to find you. My heart was broken with the thought of never seeing you again. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said my father locked me in a room for a month. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape. And no one would help me.”

Her gaze filled with anguish, an anguish that became his. He brushed her cheek, wiping away a single fallen tear.

“Then what happened?”

“When I told Father I would never marry anyone but you, he lied to me. He said you had boarded a ship to America and were never coming back. He threatened that if I didn’t marry Richard, he would exile me to one of his smaller estates in the country — indefinitely.”

His heart ached with guilt and he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. All these years he had failed her, never knowing the truth but choosing to believe the worst.

She sniffed and tried to look brave. Anthony extracted a handkerchief and handed it to her.

“Father was determined I not break my engagement to Richard. I know I was weak, but I simply didn’t have the strength to fight him any more,” she said with an unhappy shrug. She scrubbed her cheeks with her handkerchief, finishing with a prosaic wipe of her nose. “What happens now?” she asked, looking wary.

He got up and crossed to the mantel, needing to put distance between them. “Nothing,” he said. His chest ached, as if someone had punched him in the ribs.

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re free to go. I’ll write to your brother tomorrow, setting out reasonable terms to pay back what he owes me. You have my word that no harm will come to your family.”

He forced himself to look at her. She seemed dazed, frozen into immobility. He should have derived some satisfaction from that, but it only confirmed she had expected the worst of him.

“I’ll ring for my carriage.” He felt like the lowest kind of villain. “You may return to Berkeley Square immediately.”

He crossed the room, reaching for the bell-pull. As his fingers wrapped around the cord, a slender hand touched his forearm.

“Anthony, don’t,” she murmured.

He pivoted. She gazed up at him, her cheeks flushed with colour and her eyes luminous with unshed tears. Never had she looked as beautiful as she did in that moment.

“Don’t send me away.” Her voice was throaty. “I couldn’t bear it. Please … I don’t want to lose you again.”

Anthony gazed down at her, looking stunned and at a loss for words.

“Are you sure?” he finally managed in a hoarse voice.

Marissa pressed a hand over her pounding heart. Taking a deep breath, she stepped off the cliff.

“I’m not sure about anything except my feelings for you. I want to be with you, Anthony, more than you could ever know.”

Shyly, she placed a hand on his chest. His heart pounded drumlike beneath her fingertips. With renewed courage, she stretched up and pressed a kiss on a jaw carved from stone.

As if her touch had unleashed a genie from a bottle, his powerful body roared to life. Arms lashed about her waist, pulling her up flat against his chest. She shuddered, relishing the feel of all that solid muscle plastered along the length of her body.

“That’s all I needed to know, my sweet.” He trailed a pattern of shivery little kisses across her cheek. “I’ll take care of everything else.”

She wriggled her arms free and took his face between her hands. For long seconds they simply gazed at each other, drinking in the wonder of the moment. His bright stare smouldered with passion and a fierce, complicated love.

That look tore through her, blasting away the heartbreak and suffering of all those lonely years, infusing her with a joy so transforming it almost frightened her.

“I love you, Anthony,” she whispered. “I never stopped loving you.”

His lips covered hers in a kiss so raw and needy she could have wept. This was the Anthony she had known. Loving, claiming, protecting her. She had forgotten for a while — they both had — but now they remembered. Now they had at last found their way back to each other.