“You can’t still mean to shoot Leath. You two sounded almost friendly before he left.”
Cam’s mouth thinned and he sent her a direct stare that she couldn’t interpret. “I won’t shoot Leath. I may want to shoot you.”
That was hardly news. Despairingly she realized that while Sophie and Harry might get their happy ending once they’d weathered the scandal, no such happy ending awaited her with Cam.
“Don’t say that.”
He frowned. “That was a joke.”
“Not a very funny one.”
He looked shocked. “I really don’t want to shoot you.”
No, he just wanted to freeze her out of his life. Shooting seemed kinder. She raised her chin. “You did earlier.”
He shrugged. “I’ve had time to calm down.”
But not to forgive her. She knew that. “Cam, I feel like I’m teetering on a tightrope. Tell me what we do now.”
That oddly direct stare persisted. “We go on, of course.”
She sighed. “I can’t live with you if it means walking on eggshells forever.”
He sighed impatiently. “Then don’t.”
She stiffened as a blade of ice pierced her heart. His rejection was clear. As clear as the shine on a headman’s ax. She drew a breath and squared her shoulders.
“How do you see this proceeding?” She set out the options, every word slicing like a razor. “I can live at Fentonwyck or on another of your estates. Or I can return to the Continent. There will be talk if we separate, but let’s face it, our marriage was always fated to fail.”
Chapter Forty-One
Pen wanted to leave him?
Appalled, Cam stared at her. “What’s this bloody nonsense?”
“Cam, I should never have married you.” She stood like she faced a firing squad, pale as milk in her black traveling dress. He should find consolation in her lack of enthusiasm for deserting him. “The events of the last day and a half must convince you if nothing else does.”
He sighed and reached for her. She edged away. “Damn it, Pen. There’s no need for this.”
“Yes, there is.” She inhaled deeply. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried until I’m blue in the face. I’ve tried to be a proper duchess and proved a woeful failure. I’ve tried to be true to myself and in the process I’ve embroiled you in a frightful scandal. I’ll never be the wife you want. I’ve known that since you proposed to me at Houghton Park all those years ago.”
He regarded her steadily. “Just how hard did Leath hit you?”
She didn’t smile. Instead her fists closed at her sides as if she resisted clouting him. He almost wished she would. At least that would make a scrap of sense. “Don’t treat me like a fool.”
“Can we leave decisions until after a meal and a few hours’ sleep? Preferably in a place that doesn’t stink like something died in the corner.”
She still looked like a medieval martyr going to the stake. Self-disgust welled up. He’d done a brilliant job of convincing his wife that he despised her. How he regretted his temper. But then, he regretted so much. The question was whether he could heal the breach between them, wide as the Atlantic. Something profound and unhappy, a remnant of his horrid childhood, insisted that he couldn’t.
He wanted to shout his denial to the sky.
“This won’t take long,” she said in a hard voice.
They were both exhausted. She was hurt—her head must pound like an anvil under a hammer. He couldn’t bear to see his wife in such poor surroundings. But his arrogance had done enough harm. If she wanted to talk now, he’d talk, even if it felt like she scraped out his guts with a scalpel.
With a sigh, he slumped onto the unmade bed. “Say what you need to.”
“Don’t sound so long-suffering,” she snapped.