“Yes?”
“I begin to wonder if there is not some connection to Belvoir’s Library in all of this.” She’d looked up at him then, chin set and midnight-blue eyes determined. “That is the only way I can conceive that Jasper might have known about my correspondence with Davis. And you said they mentioned aspy?”
“Aye.”Espion.He knew the word—fromespionnage.
The notion of espionage and the presence of the French couple in Edinburgh cast a troubling light over the situation. Could the Thibodeaux be French agents of some kind? And if so, what were they after?
If it had to do with Davis and the rifle scope, he did not think it could be good.
Lydia’s expression had turned inward, a studied reverie that he knew well. She was thinking through the evidence, resolving the pattern in her mind.
“Belvoir’s,” she’d murmured. “And Jasper—and a spy.” Her gaze, when she looked up, had been keen as a blade. “What better place for the Home Office to pass information than a library built upon the privacy of its members?”
“You think your brother works for the Home Office?”
“It’s possible. I’d certainly like to go home and ask him about it.”
He’d leaned forward and caught her fingers in his, then brought them to his lips. “Rest tonight. We’ll go tomorrow on the mail coach.”
From there the hot bath he’d ordered had come. The strings of her pelisse had dried into tight, tangled knots, and he’d worked them open for her. He’d slipped loose the buttons of her gown and taken down her stockings. He’d helped her wash her hair, and then—
Well. The floor had not stayed dry, nor had the scarlet brocade chair. He’d carried her to it, knelt between her heat-flushed thighs and watched her as he’d pleasured her. Her back had arched. Her feet had flexed and pointed, restless with demand, until he’d locked them around his neck. Her nails had pressed crescents into the upholstered arms of the chair, tiny imprints that had remained long after her deft fingers had brought him to culmination as well.
He loved that godforsaken chair. He wanted to take it home with him. He wanted to put it in a museum.
But now—in the morning—Lydia lay prone on the bed, her knees bent and her bare feet waving behind her, crossed at the ankles. She was propped up on her elbows, examining the handwritten bill that had come on the tea tray and counting the coins she’d removed from where they’d been sewn into her hem.
She wore only her chemise and stays. Her hem was unpicked and her dress was irremediably stained after their encounter in the forest from where he—from where he had—
Jesus. He had spilled himself on her breasts. He hadnever—had scarcely evenimagined—
He was not sure what was more mortifying: the fact that he had done it in the first place, or the fact that right now, faced with the bounty of her half-bared bosom, he could not think about anything else.
Surely he could have planned this in some more strategic fashion. Did he really mean to declare himself to her—Lydia Hope-Wallace, the cleverest and most arousing woman in the world—less than twenty-four hours after he had despoiled her only frock?
What a way to convince her of his abiding respect and affection!I worship the ground you walk upon, my darling, in case that was not apparent from the way I came on your tits. Would you like to be my wife?
Good God.
From her place on the bed, she began to stack the coins. “These prices are absurd,” she muttered. “They must have known you for a lord.”
“Lydia,” he managed. His voice was hoarse.
She peered up at him and grinned. “You shall have to be theone to sell the horse. I fear I cannot manage haggling, even in extremity. It’s most unfortunate. I quite liked that horse.”
Her cheeks had gone pink. Her hair was in sweet flyaway tangles all around her face, and her smile curved right round his heart.
His stomach pitched. He had forgotten how to form words.
“Marry me,” he choked out.
One gold sovereign rolled off the bed and landed on the floor. Her lips parted, and not a single sound emerged.
Oh Christ. Oh hell. “Marry me,” he said again. “After London. After all of this is over. Come back to Strathrannoch with me.”
“I beg your pardon?” she croaked.
He felt a desperate, rising panic at her apparent stupefaction. He had gone about this wrong, he knew he had. He ought to have found a more opportune moment, more persuasive words. He should have asked her over candlelight.
