His hands seemed clumsy, his tongue thick. He felt—as ever—like the wrong Baird brother.
“You could still write your pamphlets,” he got out, a haphazard stab at persuasion. “I would have my vote in the Lords. You could still do your political work. ’Twould be well—the two of us together.”
But she did not seem to acknowledge his words. Her eyes were dark, dark blue, and when she spoke, her voice was shaking. “Is this—because of last night? Because we spent the night together? We did not do anything irrevocable, Arthur. You are not bound by guilt or honor to make such an offer. You are under no obligation.”
“Bound by—” He could not bring her words into a sensible arrangement, could not imagine what she meant. Of everythingin his heart as he looked down at her worried face, guilt was a pale whisper beside the chorus of admiration and yearning and—yes.
And love.
The deep bow of her lower lip trembled. He had touched her there, had put his mouth to that fragile curve. “I would not want a marriage that was not entered into freely,” she murmured. “I should not want…”
Her voice trailed off, and he looked at her mouth, that sweet expressive arc, taut now with anxiety and hesitation. He had seen that look on her face before—had seen it over breakfast at Kilbride House and in drawing rooms when she was surrounded by strangers.
He knew she doubted herself. He could recall with painful clarity her words in the carriage.I shall embarrass you—pretending to be your wife.
Was it possible her hesitation was not about him, but about herself?
How could it be that she did not see herself the way that he saw her? The most desirable woman in the world—as glorious as a sunset—as brilliant—as impossible to look away from.
He took her hands and drew her up to sitting, then wrapped one arm about her waist. “You are not an obligation,” he murmured. “I want you, Lydia Hope-Wallace. I want to bring you home with me. I want you to be my wife.”
She searched his face. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist, felt his own pulse throb with hers.
The pattern of his heart was longing, waspleaseandmine. “Marry me,” he said again. “Say you will.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
If there was uneasiness inside him at the soft rasp of her voice,at the trembling in her fingers, it was drowned out by the force of his relief. He bent his head and kissed her, and she kissed him back: in answer, in reciprocation, in promise.
She would be his, he thought as his arms came tighter around her body, as her cold fingers brushed the back of his neck. Shewashis. Nothing else mattered beyond that.
By the time they arrived at her home in London, Lydia was fairly certain she had never been so bedraggled in her life, including when she’d nearly been run over by a herd of zebras. They’d slept on the mail coach in order to make their way to London faster, and they’d scarcely stopped to eat. She was in desperate need of a bath. She had not seen a mirror or the state of her own hair in nearly a week.
Arthur, for his part, only looked more handsome and appealing with his shirt open at the collar and his beard thick again with curls. Her body tipped toward his in sleep, and every time she jolted awake, it was with his arms around her and a distinct desire to put her mouth to his bare skin.
It was impossible on the mail coach—there were half a dozen other passengers and everyone was pressed nearly knee to knee. They’d had a few rushed private moments when the coach had stopped for food and drink, and every time she’d felt—
Wild and carnal desires. Irrational fears.
She wanted to peel his clothes off, the way she had in the forest. She wanted to slide her hands up his muscular chest and press every inch of her skin to his. She wanted to feel him over her again, his weight, his irresistible gravity.
She wanted to make things indelible between them. She did not want him to take it back.
Oh God, she was so tangled up inside she could not think clearly.
She’d been entirely caught off guard by his sudden proposal. She had scarcely dared hope that what had passed between them was something he might want to hold fast to. Her body’s first reaction had been a familiar surge of anxiety—fear that his conscience had seized him, that his words were motivated by obligation, not by desire.
But he said it was not so. He had told her that he wanted her to be his wife, and she was trying to believe him.
She trusted him, knew him for a good and careful man. It was only her own lack of confidence, her tendency to fret and chafe, that had her in such a snarl. She did not doubt him. She would not let herself.
She forced her mind to the project of their return to London. She needed to send a note to Georgiana’s house to ensure her friend had arrived safely; she suspected Georgiana was in a fever of worry over the precise mechanism by which Sir Francis Bacon would be returned to her from Scotland.
And she needed to go home. She wanted to find Jasper as quickly as she could. She would look for him first at the Hope-Wallace residence, and then—if he was not there—she intended to go to Selina at Belvoir’s.
By the time they arrived at her own street, she’d almost managed to set aside her anxieties. Almost.
Just outside the residence, Arthur cleared his throat. His face had gone a delicate shade of pink. “Can I help you with your, ah—” He made an abortive gesture at her figure and then shoved his hand into his pocket.
