Gavin settled for a small nod before trudging out to his car. He started the engine but sat in the driveway, watching as light after light went dark inside. Everything he loved most in the world was in that house, and driving away was going to be harder tonight than it had ever been. Because the next time he returned, he had just one month to earn the right to stay. Though her conditions made his task difficult, a batter didn’t get to choose his pitches. All he could do was study the field and come up with a game plan.

One month.

That’s all it had taken for them to fall in love the first time.

He could do it again.

“Okay, Lord Tight Pants,” Gavin said as he backed out of the driveway. “Tell me what to do next.”

Courting the Countess

It took two weeks, three days, and sixteen hours for Benedict to realize the fatal flaw in his starting-over plan.

His wife was not a willing participant in it.

He couldn’t very well court someone who had no desire to be courted.

Irena had not allowed him more than a few minutes of time alone with her since their wedding night, though she was clever enough to make it seem unintentional. Anytime he attempted to engage with her, she suddenly had a pressing matter to discuss with the cook or a task that needed to be finished elsewhere. Whenever he finished with the business of the estate, she suddenly became consumed with her own. And though the door separating their bedchambers remained unlocked every night, he could not bring himself to enter hers and quench his burning thirst to consummate the marriage. Not as long as she believed that allowing him into her bed was simply her duty. Not until her thirst was as strong as his.

But Benedict was not giving up. He was and would always be a risk-taker at heart—something he and Irena shared. It was, after all, how they met. When he learned that a lowly baron’s horse had beaten one of his prestigious thoroughbreds, he was shocked and smitten to discover the horse had been trained by none other than the lowly baron’s daughter herself.

Which made them both rebellious gamblers and absolutely perfect for each other in a way that Benedict had never before known was possible.

And now it was time to up the ante.

Benedict poured two fingers of brandy into a glass and positioned himself next to the fireplace in his office to wait for her. When her knock sounded on the heavy wooden door, he downed the amber liquid to calm his nerves and commanded her to enter.

She walked in wearing a day dress of pale blue and an annoyed expression. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. “You summoned me, my lord?”

He ignored her sharp sarcasm. Benedict gestured toward the sofa near the window. “Please sit.”

She hesitated, probably caught off guard by the formality of his tone, but then she obeyed. She sat in a stiff, ladylike pose—spine straight, hands primly folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles and draped elegantly to the side.

“I have another gift for you,” he said.

Her sigh could have powered a steam engine. “My lord—”

“Benedict.”

“—this has to stop.”

“You do not like the other gifts I’ve given you?” He’d given her seven so far. Earbobs and necklaces and bracelets in every shade of gemstone.

“They are unnecessary.”

“You are the only woman I have ever met who would describe earbobs and rings as unnecessary.”

“Then you must not know many women.”

“Touché.” Benedict pulled away from the mantel and crossed to his desk. From the drawer, he pulled out the unwrapped box. It took only a handful of steps to reach the sofa, but it felt longer under the weight of her gaze and the threat of his failure. “Perhaps this gift will be of more use to you.”

She accepted the box and wordlessly opened it. Her eyebrows pulled together as she withdrew the slim, silver instrument. “What is it?”

“That,” Benedict said, lowering himself to sit beside her, “is a fountain pen.”

“I see.”

“You dip this part here,” he said, pointing to the sharp nib at the end, “into the well, and it draws ink up into a thin capillary, which then holds the ink and deposits it onto the paper when you write. It allows one to write much longer without pausing for more ink.”

He watched as she fought a battle between stubbornness and fascination.

Stubbornness won. She replaced the pen in the box. “What use do I have for such a frivolity?”

“You write to your younger sister every day, Irena. I thought this would make the task much easier for you.”

The mask of indifference that had held her features in stony neutrality now slipped, revealing a hint of loneliness that tore at his conscience.

“I’m sorry that you miss her so much,” he stated.

“I worry about her,” she corrected flatly. “The scandal of our marriage has tainted her as well. My parents have become ruthless in seeking her a respectable marriage of her own before it’s too late, regardless of what she wants. There is nothing I can do to protect her now.”

Guilt threatened to suffocate him—not only for what he’d done but for what he was about to do. He reached over and covered her hands with one of his. “Irena, I have come to a decision.”

Her eyes darted to his. “What kind of decision?”

“There will be no heir.”

Panic flashed through her eyes, widening the pupils and darkening her emerald irises. “What?” she breathed, swaying where she sat.

“You have refused to accept any of my overtures to prove that I love you.”

She shot to her feet, the pen clattering to the floor. “And this is how you are going to do it? By denying me a child?”

“I will deny you nothing.” He rose and grasped her hands in his. “If I cannot win your love again, I will get you with child in whatever cold, passionless manner you require. Then I shall purchase you an estate with an ample stable where you and the child can retire with your beloved horses, and I shall never bother you again. But not until you give me a chance to remind you how much more there can be between us.”

Her head shook back and forth in a frantic pattern. “How can you possibly think I would agree to engage in such a cruel bargain?”

“Because you have everything to gain if you win. I, on the other hand, have everything to lose.”

Disgust darkened her expression as she yanked her hands away. “Spoken like someone who has viewed the world for too long through the cloudy lens of the male gaze. No matter what happens between us, you maintain your status, your title, your money, your ownership of the entire world. You will remain welcome in every club and every ballroom. You will forever be the victim of a vicious, scheming woman, whereas I will forever be the Delilah who cut off your hair. You stand to lose nothing.”

Benedict gripped her shoulders. “I stand to lose you!” he exclaimed.

A quiet gasp escaped her lips.

Benedict shifted his hands to cradle the curve of her jaw. “If you think I care about any of it—the money, the title, any of it—you’re wrong. None of it matters if I lose you.”

She wanted to believe him. He could see it in her eyes. Yet she pulled from his touch, turned away, and walked to the line of decanters on the bar against the opposite wall. He watched with bittersweet bemusement as she poured a stiff serving of brandy and shot it back with practiced precision. His love, always full of surprises.

“I don’t understand what you want me to do, my lord.”

“Let me court you. Let me take you to the theater, to balls. Sit with me in the evening and speak with me at dinner. Dance with me. Ride with me in the park. Let us do all the things we did before—”

He cut himself off. She finished in a scathing tone. “Before you accused me of treachery against you and refused to hear my side of the story.”

“Yes,” he answered calmly.

“And if I refuse to do your bidding?”

He took a deep breath and played his last card. “Then your sister will be ruined.”

She rounded on him again. “What does any of this have to do with my sister?”

“You said yourself that our scandal has threatened her reputation. If we can convince the ton that ours was—is—a love match, that the rumors were untrue about you, then your sister’s prospects will improve as well. But if we remain childless, if the rumors persist about us for long, she’ll be forced to marry any cur your parents push upon her. You know I’m right.”

Long moments of silence passed between them, each more painful than the last, until finally she spoke. “Benedict, there’s something I still don’t understand.”

Her use of his first name propelled him toward her. “What is it?”

“If you win, what do you get out of this?”

Benedict reached for her hand and drew it to his heart. “The greatest prize of all. I win your love.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Thea woke up the next morning with butterflies in her gut and a foot in her face. Sometime in the middle of the night, Ava had once again awakened, gotten scared in the dark, and climbed in bed with her.

Thea pressed a soft kiss to her daughter’s foot and quietly moved out from under her. The mental mom to-do list that never quieted started its slow crawl through Thea’s brain. Get groceries. Wash towels. Dump the rest of Gavin’s clothes on the guest room bed.

But first, she had to face Liv.

Thea did the bathroom thing and crept down the hallway. The door to the guest room stood open, but Liv wasn’t inside. Which meant she’d fallen asleep on the couch again after work. When she worked late shifts, she was usually too keyed up to fall asleep when she got home, so she watched TV for a while until she crashed.

Thea padded down the stairs. The rising sun cast a soft orange glow along the line of family photos that hung in meticulous order down the stairwell. Thea had never missed a year scheduling a family photo, because that’s what perfect WAGs did. Were you even a real baseball wife if you didn’t have a picture-perfect Christmas card?