Keats and Palmerson had met once since returning to London. The viscount had wanted Keats’s word he would not discuss the duel. He had been awfully contrite, considered the puckered, healing wound in his son’s shoulder fitting punishment for taking a lady’s innocence before marriage.
Keats flattened his palm on her knee, and the tingles erupted all at once, hotter than before. “Palmerson is hunting for a wife.For his son. And he seems to have found one. Lady Annabelle. Who happens to be in love with a young baron, who happens to be in love with her.”
“That is certainly a sticky web.”
“Isn’t it grand.” He squeezed her thigh, and she felt it higher, between her legs, clenching her gut.
“But why does it necessitate a visit?” Not that she wanted him to leave. Or remove his hand. In fact, the wordsA little higher, please, Keatssat on her tongue. She locked them up.
Ah—there, the prison bars of her own design.
“Because I think we can save her.”
Her brain, which had been wholly involved with the growing ache between her legs, shifted. “Pardon? Save Lady Annabelle?”
“Yes. I know you’re unwilling to risk the secrets of Hawthorne House anymore, but what if we can prevent Lady Annabelle’s marriage to Hutchens without involving Hawthorne at all? Just you and me. We can save her.”
“How?”
“The baron I told you about. He’s entirely smitten. And a good man. I did a little snooping about him, spied on him at the club. He’s a giant, but he’s a gentle one. And according to my sources?—”
“You have sources?”
He nodded. “The best gossip comes from credible sources. And according to mine, Lady Annabelle kissed him last week at some ball or other. Then she ran off crying. Star-crossed lovers if I’ve ever seen them.”
“Have you? Ever seen star-crossed lovers?”
“You and I were star-crossed once.” He squeezed her thigh, this time higher as he leaned closer, his other hand cupping her cheek, his gaze narrowing on her lips. So close now, almost kissing distance. “I think with a very little nudging, Lady Annabelle and her baron could be happy.”
“And you think”—her voice breathless—“we should nudge them?”
“Yes. They need the help, and you are bored. Do not bother denying it. You miss the purpose of Hawthorne House. You miss being useful.”
She did rather. She’d not been entirely idle since moving to London. Only making friends and learning how the ton moved was slow, tedious work. Important work, though, if she intended to be Hawthorne’s eyes and ears in the city. And she did.
“See,” Keats said, “you’ve stars in your eyes simply contemplating it. We should start planning now. We’ve much to do.”
“Such as?”
“Well,laterhelping the baron and his lady organize a trip to Gretna Green. Andnow…” He inched even closer, his lips brushing against her.
She sank into his kiss, so hot, so soft, so very perfect.
And then she broke it with words she should have said weeks ago. “I want more than kisses, Keats. And I want it now.”
His eyes flashed. He knew what she wanted, and he would give it to her. But then why was he pushing away? Why did cold air rush between them?
And why was he hitting his knees before her?
“I have promised to be a better man. And a better man would not take a woman who was not his wife.”
Oh.Finally.
“Will you marry me?” Keats wrapped his large hands around hers, holding them safe and steady.
“Yes.” Her laugh was bounced about by tears—both came freely. “What other man would offer a woman radical machinations instead of flowers as an engagement gift?”
“I do know what you desire, Lucy Jones.”
