She waited, but the right words didn’t come to him. He could only think of crude words.
“To you, I’m not someone worth loving,” she finally said, with a sigh. “Not that I can blame you. I wrote that appalling poem; I blackmailed you; I lose my head utterly when you touch me. I’d rather . . . In time, I’ll lose myself.”
She got up without looking at him and put on a wrapper. “Go now, Vander. Please.”
Vander followed and swung her about, not gently. “Everything you’re saying is wrong. It’s rubbish.”
She gave a crack of laughter. “I suppose you do think that.” She broke free, her chin in the air. At least she didn’t look empty and wooden: now every part of her blazed with fire and determination.
“My feelings are not rubbish, Duke. Just because you do not agree does not mean that my feelings are invalid. In fact, you just confirmed what I already told you: at the heart, you think my opinions, my feelings, are unimportant. And if we remained married, your opinion would always come out in one way or another.”
The pain in her voice made each word feel like a needle piercing his skin. “I don’t think that,” he said, straining to explain to the fiery, rebellious woman whom he’d hurt that—that what? He had never had any use for eloquence; he had paid for his pleasures. But Mia deserved eloquence.
“Go. Just leave me alone. Please.” Her face and her voice were empty again, the charm and strength that everyone from Chuffy to Jafeer had responded to gone.
He tried one more time. “I know your name, Mia, and I don’t want to live without you. I love being married to you. You are mine, my wife.”
“I am no man’s possession!” she flashed. “I am my own person, Vander. Always. And I want a divorce.”
He stared at her hard as he realized something. Mia was right.
He didn’t respect her the way a storybook hero might. He didn’t want to kneel and beg for her hand; he wanted to throw her on the bed again, and do all sorts of disrespectful things to her. He wanted to spend a lifetime arguing with her over anything and everything, giving up and kissing her until neither of them cared about their disagreement.
He wanted to possess her, eat her, fuck her, live with her, die with her. Put his seed into her and have children—not because he needed an heir, but so that they created a child together.
So that someone with her eyes and her intelligence and her deep sweetness would always live in England, on his estate. So that future Pindar dukes would have some of her blood to counter the madness in his.
With a sharp nod, he turned to go.
Only when he was back in his carriage, turning into the drive leading to Rutherford Park, did it occur to him, with a pulse of despair, that the saintly Frederic would never talk about “putting his seed” into Flora.
When it came to it, Frederic wouldn’t want to fuck her either.
That wasn’t romantic. That wasn’t what Mia wanted.
There truly was no saving his marriage.
Chapter Thirty-three
The next morning, after a few short hours of sleep, Vander entered the breakfast room to find Thorn meditatively spreading preserves on a roll while reading a note from his wife. Thorn and India were constantly sending notes back and forth, via footman if Thorn was in his study and India in her sitting room a few paces away, or groom if he was in London and she in the country.
Vander contemplated sending a letter to Mia, but promptly discarded the idea. She was the writer, not he.
“India is not pleased,” Thorn remarked, looking up from his note.