He halted two paces away.

She met his gaze, arched her brows.

He hesitated, then shifted to sit on the low stone wall edging the raised bed from which she was snipping.

Heather turned back to the wormwood she was harvesting. “I presume you didn’t come here just to sit in the sunshine.”

“No, but the prospect does have a certain allure.”

Her lips started to twitch; she straightened them. “Don’t try to charm me — it won’t work.”

He sighed, a touch histrionically.

She clipped another frond. She wasn’t going to make this any easier for him—

“Earlier, last time we talked out here, we touched on most of the usual elements that are factors in a decision to wed.”

His voice was smooth, the tones relaxed, as if he discussed such matters every day.

“Station, wealth, estate, children. The role I play now, and the one I’ll eventually inherit as Brunswick’s heir, and the role you would play by my side. In addition to that, of course, there’ll be the accompanying social round commensurate with being my viscountess. During those times we reside in London, there’ll be plenty of opportunity for you to socially shine. Assuming you wish to.”

She glanced at him, let her puzzlement show. “Why do you imagine that’s important to me?”

He didn’t frown, but she detected a certain darkness in his eyes. “I thought that might be something you’d want to do.”

She sent him an exasperated look and turned back to her clipping.

After a brief pause, he went on, “You’ll have to redecorate the house — houses, come to think of it. The London house as well as Baraclough. My mother died over a decade ago, and Constance and Cordelia have had their own establishments for even longer — both places are in dire need of a woman’s touch. You’ll have free rein—”

She made an exasperated, frustrated sound and whirled on him. “Why are you telling me this?”

His frown materialized — blackly. “I’m trying to tell you whatever it is you want to hear.” When she glared at him, he capped that with a distinctly terse, “Am I getting close?”

“No!”

He stood; she swung to face him. His jaw looked like iron; a tic flickered beneath one eye as he loomed intimidatingly and glowered down at her. “What the devil is it you want me to say?” He flung out his arms. “For God’s sake! Tell me and I’ll say it.”

That was what she was afraid of.

Her temper rising, provoked by his, she pressed her lips tight, kept her eyes locked with his, and tried to ignore the yawning emptiness inside.

He was telling her all the things she didn’t need to hear, and nothing of the one thing she did. She was increasingly afraid she’d made a tactical error the previous night; clearly he’d interpreted her wordless declaration correctly — and now that he knew she loved him, he thought everything was settled. .

It would have been if he hadn’t been what he was — such an expert that, on reflection, on deeper thought, there was no earthly way she could be sure that his side of their night’s exchange hadn’t been anything other than, as he’d just stated, him giving her — telling her — what he’d thought she’d wanted to hear.

Now he thought she would marry him with no more said.

Holding his gaze wasn’t easy, not when, with him this close, every sense she possessed was reminding her of what had passed between them in the night.

“If you don’t know—”

“I don’t.”

“—then”—she glared belligerently up at him—“telling you won’t fix it.”

His eyes narrowed to agate shards. “If you refuse to tell me what you want, how can I give it to you?”

“It’s not what I want, it’s what I need.”

“Which is?”

His heart, the fool. She needed his heart.

They were all but nose to nose. Clenching her jaw, she forced herself to say, “I told you that in order to marry I required true. . affection.” She had to grit her teeth to get the lesser word out, but there was no point badgering him to say he loved her — he just might oblige, but all that would do now was assure her he didn’t mean it.

That he was only saying it because he’d decided that them marrying was absolutely imperative for both their reputations. . would he have behaved as he had last night, then demand this morning that she name the wedding day if that was his goal? She didn’t need to think to know the answer was yes.

That he might, if pressed hard enough, even utter the word love, just to get her to agree to marry him.

The more she pushed, the less likely this would work out well. But she had to try. “And I wanted that depth of affection offered to me freely—not because of my standing, because of who I am, my name, and not because my reputation needs saving — but because I’m me.”

He was blocking the sun, so she couldn’t be sure, but she thought he’d paled. Dragging in a breath, she concluded, “That’s what I want, and if—”

“That’s what I thought last night was all about.”

His flat tone halted her mid-rant.

She searched his eyes, could read nothing beyond an implacable determination.

“I thought”—he continued in the same cold, impossibly even tone—“that last night was all about your true affections. I thought it was about exchanging opinions — if not vows — on that score. I thought last night was about us examining our affections and thereby taking a step closer to the altar.”

Oh, God. Wildly she searched his eyes, trying to convince herself she wasn’t looking at the confirmation of her worst fears.

He’d known; he’d recognized what she’d been doing and had with cold deliberation — the same deliberate planning with which she’d approached the exchange — given her what she’d wanted. He hadn’t been swept away by passion, hadn’t been moved by her wordless declaration — he’d been as deliberate as she in using the act to communicate what he’d known she’d wanted to hear. . he’d come looking for her intending to do just that.

She’d received the response she’d schemed to get, but now she had no reason to believe he’d meant it, rather than that he’d seized the opportunity she’d engineered as the surest route to his desired goal.

The hollowness inside intensified.

His hazel eyes bored into hers; his voice dropped to a lower register. “Are you telling me last night wasn’t an indication of your true affections?”

She glanced aside. Forced her shoulders to lift in a small shrug, then elevated her nose. “Last night. . was just another night. Wasn’t it?” She glanced fleetingly at him, saw nothing but an increasing stoniness in his features, looked away and hurriedly went on, “It was, I grant you, somewhat more intense, but. .”

Why the devil had she let herself expose her heart so? It hurt. Just thinking that he’d deliberately intended to engage with her, to persuade her like that even though he didn’t — clearly didn’t — love her slashed like a blade through her heart.

Dragging in a breath, raising her head higher, she baldly lied, “I wasn’t aware it was anything all that special. It wasn’t on my part.”

Silence greeted her pronouncement.

She couldn’t look at him, didn’t dare. If she did, he would see the emotions roiling inside her.

“I. . see.” There was a tone in his voice that she’d never heard before.

She wanted to look at him but didn’t. The too-exposed, too screamingly vulnerable part of her couldn’t.

She sensed him draw in a huge, deep breath.

Then he more crisply, almost normally, said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just remembered something I need to do.”

Before she even glanced his way, Breckenridge turned and started walking back along the path, heading toward the rear of the manor, back the way he’d come.

He kept his head high, his shoulders straight.

He’d suffered rejection before.

He couldn’t remember it hurting like this.

Last night hadn’t been anything special on her part. What he’d seen as exposing his heart — and his soul, come to think of it — had meant nothing to her.

Suppressing the urge to swear and kick something took effort.

Just as well — the effort distracted him.

He knew better than to get on an unfamiliar horse in such a temper. In such turmoil. He kept walking. Out past the stables, out along a track between two fences.

Picking up his pace, he strode fast and furiously. Only when he was out of sight of the manor’s turrets did he halt. Hands on his hips, breathing hard, he hung his head.

Closed his eyes.

He’d thought. . tipping back his head, he blinked up at the blue, blue sky.

He’d thought she loved him.

But no.

For some reason, the foremost rake in the ton was impossible to love.

Perhaps because he was the foremost rake in the ton. . but that had been a reaction to not being loved by Helen Maitland. He’d thought to show her what she’d declined by becoming the noble lover all the ladies like her begged to grace their beds. .

And he’d somehow made himself unlovable in the process.

He didn’t know how he’d done it; if he knew, he’d try to change.

But no. Too late. He was what he’d become, and no matter what he thought had occurred in the dark passionate watches of the night, Heather Cynster wasn’t about to give her heart to him.

Back in the herb garden Heather stood where he’d left her, her gaze fixed on the spot where he’d passed out of her sight.

He’d gone.

Simply turned on his heel and left. . because he’d realized his tack hadn’t been working and so had abandoned it and gone off to think of some other way to pressure her?