A Closed Heart by Oster, Camille (acx book reading txt) 📕

done to him. Jane had given him a haven in this cruel world, but it had only been to tease him. How could she be so cruel?

A child in him was speaking now, he acknowledged, but he wasn’t a child. And really, he should have known better. He couldn’t put the responsibility of this on her when he’d let this happen.

Continuing to walk, he made his way to the Promenade and then along it toward his hotel. The sea was dark and ominous, it sang as it tumbled over the pebbles of the beach. The air had a wetness to it that didn’t seem to entirely go away.

At the entrance to the hotel, he paused for a moment, reticent to go in, because he knew when he did, he would be leaving Brighton behind. Granted, there would be a quick journey to the train station in the morning, but effectively, this was the last of his time in Brighton. He took a step and was soon met by the bright, cheery inside of the lobby.

This was comforting. This was where he belonged. Not in some shabby pub or some mismatched Italian café. That was a point she’d been trying to make all along, and he’d been dodging it like diving seagulls.

“If you would be so kind to bring a bottle of whiskey to my room,” he said to one of the attendants as he made his way to the stairs.

“Any particular kind, My Lord?”

“Any kind will do.” Which meant he would probably get the best in the house, which was fine with him. Right now, he didn’t care if he overly paid for nice whiskey. It wasn’t as if he had to pinch pennies. That was who he was, and it served him not to forget that. Because he’d lost himself for a moment. This was who he was—someone staid and repressed in Jane Brightly’s book.

The room was nicely heated, and he took his jacket off. The whiskey arrived and he was left to his own company after refusing further assistance. Pouring himself a generous measure, he stared out into the darkness and wondered if it was the pale lights of France he saw in the distance. Probably just reflections in the water.

Taking his glass, he sat down heavily on the bed and then lay down. Somehow, he’d coaxed himself to go in the entirely wrong direction. Now it was time to retrace his steps and go back. Atticus, that was who he needed to turn his attention to. The boy needed guidance, and he needed to learn. Julius would spend his time and attention there.

It still ached in his chest, but it was emotion that he should never have allowed in. What had he been thinking?

*

Jane cried as she got home and buried herself under blankets that still smelled like him. This had been inevitable since the moment he’d arrived. Because she knew that Julius wouldn’t stop until he got his way. Even without meaning to, he would get his way, and then she would be trapped. She would end up living in Denham, and would become a dabbler in art. All the things she’d worked for, her standing in the artistic community, her reputation, would disappear. She would simply be the fine lord’s wife, who everyone dismissed because she didn’t need to be there, and her profession was really to entertain his well-heeled friends.

If she gave an inch, it would become a mile. It was just natural—even if he didn’t intend it. Even so, she knew that he expected that over time, her life would simply shift to his life. His life was firmly in Denham, with some time in London mixed in. His life would assume hers even as he’d assure her she had the freedom to spend her time as she pleased. Brighton would become a yearly pilgrimage for her to keep up the pretense that she was still part of this set. For her security, he would insist she stay somewhere like the Albion, where he would be assured she would be taken care of.

In the end, no matter what they said, the sacrifices would be hers to make, while they would both delude themselves that they weren’t sacrifices at all.

It just couldn’t work. Julius was what he was, and she was what she was, and their worlds had no common ground.

It was still awful, though. It had been a massive mistake dallying with him, and she’d been deluded to think it had been for his benefit. She’d thought she could control it, and now he was in love with her. Unease clenched her stomach. She’d done this to him. Hurt him, and now he would retreat to probably be worse than the state she’d found him in.

How could she have been so stupid to think you could simply dally with someone and then walk away? Utterly idiotic and foolish.

Renewed tears stung her eyes. She’d baited a bear and it had turned on her. Now he was suffering and she was the cause of it. But there was no way to make this easy. It simply had to be. Short and sharp was the best way to deal with it.

First thing in the morning, he’d leave town and she would never see him again. She knew this in her gut. He’d lick his wounds and then pretend it had never happened. Her name would never cross his lips again.

Everything felt so empty, but this had to happen. It wasn’t as if she could give up her life for a mistake. It hadn’t felt like a mistake, which was the main problem. This had entirely gotten out of control, but what had she expected when she’d taken up with a man who’d been in such desperate need? That he would suddenly decide he wasn’t starving anymore? That he would have his fill and walk away? That