Of course she had no desire to marry a profligate, debt-ridden marquess.

“It felt as though I could never breathe deeply,” she said softly, her hazel eyes locked with his blue ones. “As though my entire life, I’d been wearing the tightest corset imaginable, taking shallow little breaths, never able to get quite enough air. And that first night of my marriage to Templeton—even having married someone so much older, someone I knew wanted me for my appearance alone, as some sort of prize—it felt like I was at last able to inhale properly. It was dizzying.” She took a deep breath, as if to illustrate her point.

“It was not a terrible marriage, you know. It was somewhat comforting, in fact, that it wasn’t a love match—it felt like we didn’t have unrealistic expectations of each other. The bit in the bedroom was uninspiring, I’ll confess, but he was never terribly interested in me—physically, I mean. I sometimes wonder if he was interested in ladies at all, for that matter. He had his nephew next in line, and he was fond enough of him, so I don’t think he was terribly bothered about producing an heir. He had his pursuits, and I had mine. He was generous with my pin money, and I was able to paint as much as I wanted. I could go about in society and do all the things I loved—dance and socialize and, yes, flirt—without being under constant pressure to find someone to marry, now, and it was all rather pleasant.

“And then Templeton died, and I was sorry about it, because he had been kind enough to me. But even mourning was not so dreadful, because it was an excuse to stay home and paint and be no one but myself, and that was another new sort of freedom for me. And when my mourning period was over, and I was able to be back out among society, and the first flood of invitations came in and I realized I could do whatever I chose, with no one to answer to, with money that was mine, forever…”

She trailed off.

“You got to experience what it is like to live as a man,” he finished for her.

“A very privileged sort of man,” she amended with a quirk to her mouth. “Yes.” She paused, took another breath. “Penvale grew up in that house, too, and I think he felt what I did to a certain extent, but, well… he was able to leave. I had to stay until I was married. And each day that I stayed, I was conscious of what I was costing them.”

She looked down at the pencil in her hands, turning it over between her fingers. “I’ve offered to help Penvale, you know,” she said quietly. “With the cost of buying back Trethwick Abbey. I don’t even know if our uncle would sell it to him, but I told Penvale that if he were willing, I could put up half of the cost.” She looked up again, meeting Jeremy’s eyes, an expression of fond exasperation upon her face. “He refused, of course. Just as he refuses to marry a wealthy heiress to solve his problems. He’s determined to do it himself—to not rely on anyone else.”

She sighed, the quiet exhalation of breath so soft that Jeremy would not have heard it if he hadn’t been listening so carefully to every word she spoke. “It’s the Bourne curse, apparently—or at least for our particular branch of the family tree. We don’t wish to be a burden on anyone else. We just want our independence—the independence we never had as children.”

She fell silent at last, and Jeremy sat as though frozen in his seat, unable to break her gaze and equally unable to stem the flow of shame he was feeling. He remembered, during her first Season, at some ball or other, mocking her for the list of potential suitors she was keeping. He had dismissed her as cold and mercenary. But he had never truly understood. He’d had his fair share of financial difficulties, particularly after the death of David, but at the end of the day he’d been a marquess—and, prior to inheriting, the second son of a marquess, with an allowance befitting his position. He’d never felt this helpless sense of dependence that she had experienced. How could he fault her for using the one weapon she had in her arsenal?

“Have you finished sketching me?” he asked, his voice rough at the edges.

She blinked, then looked down, appearing surprised to see the sketch pad before her and the pencil still clutched in her hand. “I suppose I have. This is certainly a good enough start for this evening.”

“Good.” He rose in one fluid motion and walked toward her. He reached down and plucked the sketch pad and pencil from her hand, laying them down carefully on a nearby table. He then took her hands in his and drew her to her feet. The firelight flickered across her face, creating shadows against her cheekbones, dancing across the smattering of freckles on her nose. He drew her forward until they were pressed together and he could feel the steady beat of her heart pounding against his chest.

“I’m sorry for judging you. In the past, I mean,” he added, seeing her slight frown. “I didn’t understand. I couldn’t possibly have understood. But I understand a bit better now, and I apologize for how I behaved then. It’s years too late, but—”

“Better late than never,” she said softly, but there was a warmth to her gaze that let him know he was forgiven—a warmth that he was not certain he’d ever seen directed at him, from her.

A warmth that made other parts of him begin to heat in response.

“It feels rather presumptuous to ask for anything, when I’ve just had to apologize to you,” he said, leaning forward slowly, bringing his face oh so close to her own.