He grinned.
“I already told you some. Why do you wish to know more?”
He leaned low, whispered, “Because we’re lovers, and I’m jealous to know about the other man to have that honor?”
A hitch in her step before she sailed smoothly forward once more. “I … well … hm. He loved me. Once. And then he stopped. We remained friends until he died. The children were our focus. No different from many other ton marriages.”
And wasn’t that all he really needed to know? Damn. He ached to swing his arm around her waist, haul her behind a tree, and show her loving in every possible way. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and bit out, “You were in love once, though?” There. Focus on the positive.
“I was arranged to marry the previous viscount at a young age. I had no admirers, no men who courted me. Perhaps because they knew I was already sold, already off the market. I didn’t bother looking at them, either, because I knew it, too. My husband and I had a very strong and passionate connection at first. Though, as I know now, not quite a creative one.” She blushed. “I had no idea so much could be done upon a mattress. Other than the basic, that is.”
“And off the mattress. Remember, Freddy darling.” He kept his voice low, a burning coal between them two.
Her breath caught. “And on the rug. And in a bathtub.”
“And on the stairs. And in a chair.”
“Indeed. The stairs could not have been particularly comfortable for you.”
“I like a new angle. How about you?”
She parted her mouth, snagged her bottom lip with her neat, white teeth, and pulled it. “The carriage has been my favorite so far, I think.”
God, he wanted to kiss her. Not only because she was so beautiful it hurt to look at her and not touch her, but because he wanted her to forget being forgotten. He wanted her to know she was the only star in the night sky he could see. Her brightness put all others to shame because she was clever and kind, and she was brave and bold. And who knew what thoughts turned inside her deceptively quiet mind. To hell with the patrons of Hyde Park, the riders, the debutantes, the nannies and their charges, the matrons and the rogues, and the boys looking to pick men’s pockets. To hell with them all so he could have her and this sun-drenched day to himself alone. So he could have her in his arms.
Not possible.
He put a deliberate step between them, cleared his throat. “You were saying, Freddy, about …” He couldn’t bring himself to say husband. He hated the word.
“Ah. Yes. Mine was a … quiet marriage. I was not particularly useful as a wife. I could not bear a son, and I could not keep my husband from squandering his inheritance. Instead of using his money to maintain the property and secure his children’s futures, he drained it all on card games and luxuries.” A sigh, heavy with self-recrimination no doubt. “Poor Max inherited nothing but debts from John.” Her gaze swung toward her daughters, chasing one another.
“They are,” he said, loud enough to bridge the purposeful gap between them, “the epitome of joy. I’ve always wanted children.”
She stopped, looked up at him. “You have? I … I never would have thought.”
“Why not?”
“You are so very daring. A risk-taker.”
“True. A man with as short a life span as I am bound to have is not a man meant for children.” Before she could reply, he held his arms wide. “As I said, I’ve always wanted them, but as you point out, a man like me is not meant for such domestic felicity.”
“That’s so very … sad.” She stepped back into a lazy amble once more. “Do you know, I have felt … dead since my husband’s death, as if I were somehow buried with him. You likely do not know what it is like to not know who you are or why you exist. I have tried quite diligently in the last year to determine the answers to those great mysteries.”
“And how do you come along?”
She grinned, a true grin of stars and sun and something silver from the soul. “Quite well. I am bad at knitting, yet”—a sigh—“I do so love it. The rhythm of it relaxes me. I am also horrid at gardening and painting. But I am good at making toast, it seems.”
“Happy talent, indeed.”
“I think so. And—oh, I particularly like this one—I am excellent at telling stories in silly voices that make the girls laugh before bed.”
“I’d like to—” He stumbled over the words he’d planned to say, swallowed them down. He’d like to tell stories to the girls with her? Would never do, that impulse. Would never happen, that happiness. “I’d like to see that. You’ll have to tell me one sometime. To put me to sleep.”
“I like you best when you’re awake.” She winked.
She winked!
“I like you best when you’re saucy.”