She didn’t doubt for a minute that he liked their current relationship and wanted it to continue. The emotion he was displaying was because he didn’t want her to end it. But she had no choice. He might care for her, but not enough to want to make her a permanent part of his life. And what did that leave her? What exactly had he envisioned for her? Being his mistress, when her upbringing simply wouldn’t allow it? Or had he envisioned no more than a brief love affair that was ending sooner than he’d expected?

She was starting to feel some frustration herself, which was welcome, really. Anything to distract her from the pain squeezing at her heart.

“Vincent, I don’t know what you want from me. Do you even know?”

“I know I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Only marriage would assure that.”

“Blast it,” he exploded. “I can’t marry you.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because of your father.”

Confusion filled her, and with it, alarm. “What about him?”

“There are things you don’t know.”

“Then tell me!”

“You revere him, Larissa,” he replied. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

She paled, drawing her own conclusions yet again. “He is dead, isn’t he? And you’ve known all along. You’ve received proof—”

“No!” He pounced this time, before she could step back again, but only to grab her shoulders. He shook her once. “No, it’s nothing like that. Ah, bloody hell, it’s not worth it anymore. You’re more important. But your father is only detained. There’s no reason to assume the worst. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up today at my door—”

The knock at the front door was too loud to miss hearing, and too prophetic not to strongly affect Larissa. She went utterly still. She held her breath in hopeful anticipation. But it was too much anticipation to wait. She broke out of Vincent’s hold, heard him sigh, but ignored it. She ran to the open doorway of the parlor, stared as his butler rushed to deal with the loud visitor.

“I didn’t mean he would literally show up this minute, Larissa,” Vincent said behind her in a voice that was already starting to reveal sympathy.

She ignored him again, wouldn’t listen to denials anymore. This was her last hope. Dear God, let it be her father. She’d never ask for another thing, never . . .

It wasn’t her father. It was a big, burly man standing there, asking if this was where the Baron of Windsmoor lived. She didn’t hear any more after that. A ringing began in her ears. Her vision blurred. She grasped the fact that she was fainting and almost laughed, because she was made of sterner stuff than that. Wasn’t she? She had probably just held her breath too long . . .