“I was wrong. You lived through something few have, and instead of crumbling, you reinvented yourself, jumped on a boat to who knew where, and joined yourself to a man and his nephew you did not know.”
“I may have known. Everyone knew your uncle back then.”
“Very well, but you did not know what he is like. You were lucky. And brave. And I do not blame you for wanting to leave all of that in the past.”
A bit of color returned to her cheeks as the tips of her lips tugged upward. Gwendolynismy name, you know. Mary Gwendolyn Lytemore. I suppose legally that’s what I’m to be called. Legally, it’s what I would have to sign in a wedding registry. Marrying you means resurrecting her, signing her name. I have not been brave enough to face that.”
He tightened the hug, tucked her head underneath his chin. “What is in a name? A Gwendolyn by any other name would still smell as sweet. Or rather, snap as sharply.”
“You’ve butchered Shakespeare, Jackson.” But she laughed, and the happiness of the tone seemed to lighten the sky above, lessen the rain.
“Or bettered him.” Jackson smoothed his fingers down her back. Cold, wet. Unsupportable.
“Vanity, thy name is Mr. Cavendish.”
He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and held her at arm’s length, nodded. “Capable of barbs. You’re feeling better.”
“I am. Miracle, that. I always feared this conversation. But a weight that has rested on my shoulders for six long years… it seems… lifted. Lightened.” She wrapped her hands around his jaw. “That night in Paris, I felt light, too. It seemed like a moment out of time where I could be myself with no name or history and just have you.”
“You want me?”
“I do.”
He took her hand and led her closer to the fire. “Then have me, Miss Smith. But be careful. For I won’t let you give me back.”
Twenty-One
The ground had not opened up and swallowed her. Her parents had not jumped out from hidden corners to chastise her for her sins. The man she’d once called husband had not waltzed in and staked a claim to her, nor had his father.
But her heart had stopped racing. Her feet had stopped itching to run, and her mind had settled into the sort of peace she’d only ever found in a large field on a misty morning as the sun rose slowly and banished the fog, unfolding a clear blue over everything. Even the thunder in the sky had quieted, the violent cascade of the rain through the roof’s holes slowed to a hypnotic pitter-patter.
She’d spoken her shame and survived.
And the man she loved tugged her down to the old rug on the floor before a happy, crackling fire with eyes burning with passion and a lush mouth of promises. As soon as she sat, he leaned her back and stretched out beside her.
But when he slowly—oh so slowly—lifted his hand to her neck, her jaw, he used the lightest, softest touch and the stone at her back no longer mattered. No one else but they two mattered. A world of feathers, a bed of flowers, a puddle of moonlight for them. And the fires of hell, the crush of rock against bone for all others.
He swept his thumb over her lower lip. “I knew you before this, Gwendolyn. I know the steel of you and the porcelain. I know your thorns and your petals. I know your meticulous notes and your impatience for fools. I know your worry and your joy. I may not have known some details, but—”
“Being a bigamist is not a detail, Jackson.”
He shrugged. “Were you the bigamist, or he? You had only the one husband, correct? Speaking of details, let’s get them right, hm?”
She snorted. “Here is a correct detail for you, then. I lived as a married woman but was not married.”
“You assume I care.”
“Others have.”
“I don’t. I only care that he knew he had three wives. Or did he forget?”
“He knew. The villain.”
“I’d use a much stronger name for him, frankly. May I ask what happened to him?”
She shook her head. She did not know. “I’ve diligently avoided any knowledge of him these six years.”
“I hope he’s dead. But if not, I can think of several creative ways to make it happen. Life and death often go hand in hand, you see, and in my study of the amorous arts, I’ve coincidentally picked up an unasked-for bevy of information on more deadly matters. Hands can be used in many ways.”
