“I’m personally escorting you to your family’s Scottish estates.” He proceeded to open the drawers, adding items to his valise as he talked. “It does not make sense for us to wait any longer.” Because he’d given up on her family remembering her, and yet, he also proved too kind, too gentle to say as much, and any other time she might have felt a warmth at that concern for her feelings. “I’m seeing to the arrangements.” He made to close the bag, but Horace gave a piteous whine.

I know how you feel, pup . . .

The dog proceeded to scratch at the bottom drawer.

Muttering something to himself, Val yanked that panel open and withdrew a handful of wrapped packages and threw them inside. “Are you happy?”

“Yes.” She blurted out that lie. Because how could she tell him? How could she . . . ?

Val gave her an odd look. “I was talking to Horace.”

She curled her toes into the floor. “Oh.” And because in that moment it was entirely easier to look at Horace than at the man whom she’d fallen heels over head for, she glanced at the pup, who’d lain down on the floor and resumed snoring. “Er . . . he seems more content?”

“Yes, he does at that,” he said, giving his head a wry shake.

She wanted to ask him what those packages were. She wanted Val to just remain with her here, and she yearned to talk with him about those wrapped gifts, and everything else in between. She wanted to use her dwindling time with him to discover everything there was to know about Val and Horace and . . .

“If you’ll excuse me?” And dropping a deep, respectful bow, Val grabbed his bag and left her standing there.

He was taking her to her family.

She should be grateful.

And yet . . .

He was so eager to be rid of her and his sense of duty was so great that he’d pack her up immediately.

They would be alone together on the journey.

There was that small consolation—she would be able to steal these last final moments with him, and as pathetic and desperate for him as she was, she would take even those scraps.

It had been years since he’d paid a visit to anyone. Not his brother. Not his mother. Not the many friends he’d had before.

He’d not gone to his former clubs.

He’d remained exclusively at his London townhouse, content to shut out the rest of the world and to live in solitude.

As such, the shocked, speechless, jaw-gaping reaction from his brother, Sidney, was to be expected.

His brother immediately found himself. “Please, sit.” He motioned not to the seating at the desk where Val now stood, but to the leather button sofa near the roaring fire.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said sharply, more sharply than he intended, but as gently as he was capable of anymore.