Brogan looked at me as if I might be crazy, his features harsh and unflinching. But as his eyes moved over my face, something gentled in his expression. "Lydia, so forgiving. If only I could let go the way you've seemed to be able to."
"You have to, Brogan. You have to or it will ruin you inside."
"Maybe I'm already ruined, Mo Chroí."
I shook my head. "No, I don't believe that. You can make this right." I squeezed his hands. Looking into his handsome face, those almost otherworldly blue eyes, I thought that what I really saw there was an aching loneliness. "You can," I whispered. "I know you can." But his silence told me he didn't agree.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brogan
I spent the rest of the day in my office, but I didn't work. I sat staring at the wall, a drink in my hand, contemplating everything that had happened in the De Havilland's former stable earlier that day. My gut clenched, and I closed my eyes again at the memory. She'd been pregnant. She'd been pregnant and alone. Yet, all these years, when I thought of Lydia, I had thought of nothing but my own misery, my own damaged pride. "Selfish fucker," I muttered, throwing back the remainder of my drink. I'd come inside her that day, and yet I had never even considered pregnancy because I'd been too caught up in my own suffering.
She'd tried to find me—or at least Stuart had been sent to find me. I was gripped by a wave of hatred so fierce I felt like it might knock me to the ground, as I remembered the disgusted look on his face when he'd come to our apartment and the way he'd left without saying a word about Lydia.
I might have eventually forgiven him for what happened in the stable after I'd made love to Lydia—maybe. But I could never forgive him for not telling me Lydia was carrying my baby when he'd had the opportunity. What if it was the stress of her situation that caused the miscarriage? I'd have a six-year-old . . . I could hardly wrap my head or my heart around it. We'd created a life.
And God, she'd asked me to meet her that day not to use me but because she'd wanted me. I was still reeling from her confession, was still hearing her voice in my head. And I should have just told you I loved you. My heart squeezed. I hadn't even considered it, had only seen it through the eyes of someone who felt so unworthy of her. And now, to some extent, because of my own devious acts, I still felt just as unworthy. Arseways. What a fecking understatement.
So what happened now? Where did this leave Lydia and me? I laid my head back against my chair and stared up at the ceiling. What a bloody mess I'd made of everything. I knew I wanted her, but what did that mean? We still had the same intense physical attraction between us. Hell, all she had to do was look at me and I was fucking hard. Kissing her today had been the most pleasurable thing I'd experienced in years, far better than any sex I'd had in the time we'd been apart. She seemed to understand me in a way no other woman ever had, and it made me feel . . . both safe and vastly unsafe in the same breath.
But the real question when it came to Lydia was, would it be a good idea to pursue more, whatever more was? Or had I created a situation where she'd never trust me and wonder at my motives, even if she understood the true nature of my desire for revenge? I wouldn't blame her if that was the case. God, I'd acted like a child and a fool. And even knowing that, there was still so much I couldn't let go of, not even for her. Namely, her fuck-up of a brother. Jaysus, the arsehole was making a bad situation worse. I hadn't even imagined that was possible. But clearly I had underestimated the complete and utter idiocy that was Stuart De Havilland. I let out a long sigh. I would have to figure all this out, but first, I needed to get dressed for dinner. I had to make some proposals to Lydia, and I had no idea how she was going to take them.
The doorbell rang with perfect timing, and I opened the door to the kid working for the restaurant delivery service holding two large cases in his hands. After tipping him, I placed the items in the oven and refrigerator as indicated on the instructions and went upstairs and showered, changing into a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt.
I could hear what sounded like a hair dryer being used in Lydia's room and my heart sped up in anticipation of being alone with her tonight. Despite all we had hanging over us, inside I was seventeen years old again. And that feeling both filled my blood with an excited anticipation unlike anything I'd experienced since I was seventeen and made me feel powerless and vulnerable at the same time.
And I should have just told you I loved you.
I stepped out into the hall at almost the same moment Lydia did, and we both stood staring at each other over the short distance, her words from earlier repeating in my head. Lydia.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hi." She was wearing the same black dress she had been wearing before I had her change for the party yesterday, and this time, I took the time to appreciate her in it. My eyes moved from her slim legs, to her sweetly curved hips, to her luscious breasts, up to her beautiful face, and her shiny blonde hair. "You look beautiful. Your hair, it's different."
She smiled, running a hand down it. "Oh, I just straightened it."
"I like it." God, I sounded like a seventeen-year-old. But Lydia only smiled and walked toward me.
"Thank you. You look nice, too. Where are we going?"
"I ordered dinner in tonight. I thought it'd be easier to talk without worrying about a bunch of people all around us."
"Oh," she said, sounding a bit surprised. "Okay. Actually," she stopped once we'd reached the bottom of the stairs and took off her heels, sighing with what sounded like relief, "that sounds great. I'm also not sure if I'm ready to face Greenwich society again so soon."