by Anna Bennett
“I apologize for the long walk,” he said. “But it’s not much farther.”
Fiona smiled up at him without saying what she was thinking—that the walk hadn’t seemed long at all. That she was delighted to have an excuse to hold his hand.
They reached the crest of a hill and paused to take in the view. “There it is,” he said, pointing a short distance away. Nestled in the valley beneath them was a tiny stone cottage with a proud, stout chimney and green shutters that seemed to smile. “It used to belong to the groundskeeper, but—as you may have guessed from the current state of the grounds—he hasn’t been here for decades.”
“It’s lovely,” she said, though she was a bit apprehensive about the condition of the interior.
“I’m glad you like it.” He helped her navigate the steep and slippery hill, then escorted her to an arched wooden door before fishing a key from his pocket. “Here we are.” The door creaked open, and Gray waved an arm toward the inside. “After you.”
Fiona inched her way into the cottage and looked around the small living area. Sunlight streamed through unadorned windows on opposite walls, revealing a small table and a pair of mismatched wooden chairs on one side of the room, and a basket of thick quilts and pillows near the fireplace. A round braided wool rug covered most of the floorboards, which were freshly swept.
“It’s perfect—our own private portrait studio. And you sent someone in advance to prepare it for us,” she said, pleased he’d thought of it.
“Actually, I saw to it myself.”
As he knelt before the fireplace and lit the kindling in the grate, she took note of the small thoughtful touches—a bowl of fruit on the table, candles on the mantel, a vase of wildflowers on a windowsill—with renewed appreciation. She had the sudden and fierce urge to throw her arms around his neck, but she refrained.
He was quieter than usual—which was truly saying something—and he hadn’t looked at her since they entered the cottage. “Has something changed since yesterday?” she probed. “You seem … different.”
He continued to stare into the fireplace at the flames that were just beginning to lick at a huge log. “I saw you with Kirby last night.”
Drat. She scrambled for an explanation and decided to stick to a version of the truth. “Yes. He found a note that belonged to me and wished to return it.”
“I realize it’s none of my business, but it seems you have captured his affections,” he said flatly.
“I don’t think Mr. Kirby is interested in me. He was simply offering…” She’d been on the verge of saying comfort, but that would have sparked a host of unanswerable questions. “… his friendship.”
Gray stood and paced before the fire. “I have no claim to you. And I certainly have no right to object to any attachment you form with another gentleman, and yet…”
Hope sprouted in her chest. “Yes?”
“I confess I am opposed to the idea.”
“I see.” She lowered herself onto one of the chairs, waiting for him to elaborate, to convey the depths of his feelings for her. To tell her that the sight of her with Mr. Kirby had driven him half out of his mind with jealousy and that he wanted her for his own. Forever.
“A little over a week ago, you said you wished to marry me.”
“Yes.” She held her breath.
“Do you still wish it?” he asked soberly.
She didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this … but I am seriously considering agreeing to this scheme.”
Fiona’s heart fluttered. “That’s … that’s wonderful.” Perhaps he could have been a bit more gracious about it, but she knew better than to expect him to recite poetry or profess his love. The only thing that mattered was that he was coming around. She could save Lily and her family from ruin—and still reach for her own happiness.
“I will marry you,” he said, “but there’s something you should know.”
“Whatever it is, it won’t change my mind.” She wished he’d stop wearing a hole in the rug and come to her. He didn’t have to kneel before her or bare his soul, but he might at least hold her hand again.
He gazed at her, his expression tortured. “I can’t ever love you.”
She shook her head, thinking she hadn’t heard him properly. “Pardon? I don’t understand.”
“I like you well enough, and I desire you—far more than I should—but I cannot love you.”
Her belly twisted uncomfortably. “Love isn’t something we can conjure in an instant. It will no doubt take time, but I’m certain that as we become better acquainted, we’ll—”
“No,” he said firmly. “It will never happen. Not with me.”
“Why not?” she asked, even though she was more than a little afraid of the answer. Maybe he thought her too common or forward or outspoken. Maybe he was still in love with Helena.
“I am not capable,” he said simply. “I tried once and got it all wrong. I was a fool to think I could marry for love. After all, my own parents claimed to be passionately in love and that ended … disastrously. I don’t even know what real love looks like.”
Her heart ached for him. “Then I will show you.”
At last, he came to the table and sat in the chair opposite her. But instead of taking her hands, he crossed his arms. “There are some things you can’t teach, Fiona, and if you think that you will change me, you are certain to be disappointed.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“It’s not in my nature. You wouldn’t expect a sheep to fly or a fish to crawl … and you shouldn’t expect me to be the husband of your dreams.”
“But you will be my husband?”
“There are a few particulars we must discuss.”
Good heavens. This was not the proposal she’d imagined in her youthful fantasies. For one thing, she’d never thought she’d be the one to propose. And she never dreamed her intended would have a list of stipulations. Still, she couldn’t help but be encouraged that he’d uttered the word husband. “Please, go on.”
He grabbed an orange out of the bowl and tossed it from hand to hand as if he were discussing the dinner menu rather than the rest of their lives. “I will marry you quickly, as you requested—even if we must go to Gretna Green.”
Her eyes fluttered shut in relief. “Thank you. But I’m hopeful we can procure a special license. I feel certain my parents will be happy to supply the Archbishop with a handsome donation.”
He arched a brow. “Fine. I will leave the arrangements to you.”
She nodded, not quite believing this was happening. “What else?”
His heavy-lidded gaze snapped to hers. “You will bear me an heir.”
The air seemed to rush out of her lungs, but she managed to reply, “I will try.” She’d always hoped for a few children—who could grow up to be as close as she and Lily were. “But, assuming I do conceive, there is the possibility that we’ll have girls.”
He fumbled the orange momentarily but quickly composed himself. “Obviously, there are no guarantees, but we will make a valiant effort.”
Fiona knew admittedly little of passion but had already deduced that, with Gray, the marriage bed would be no hardship. “I have no objections to that,” she replied. “And I’m pleased to hear that your expectations are realistic.”
She fought back the sadness at the edges of her joy. She felt as though they were negotiating a business deal, which was what she had intended—initially. Somewhere along the way, however, she’d begun to yearn for more. Boldly, she reached out and clasped his wrist. “I realize that this has happened quickly, but I promise I’ll try to make you happy.”
He looked rather stunned—as though he hadn’t even considered the possibility of his own happiness. “You needn’t worry about me. You should protect your own interests. Our hasty marriage will raise eyebrows. You must be prepared for cruel gossip. People will say that I’m marrying you for your fortune—or to spite Helena.”
&n
bsp; “Are you? Marrying me for those reasons?”
He had the good grace to look contrite. “I won’t deny they’ve played a part in my decision. But there are other factors, too.”
She winced. “Such as?”
“As I said, I desire you.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Yes, I believe we’ve established that. But is there anything else?”
With a shrug, he said, “You are talented and kind. I enjoy your company.”
Well. It might not have been the most romantic of proposals. Indeed, she wasn’t at all certain it qualified as an actual proposal, but it was something—and many marriages had been built on less.
She sighed and pulled back her hand. “Have you any other conditions?”
“Yes. You must promise that you’ll be honest with me. No deception. No secrets.”
“I assume that you will abide by the same terms?” she challenged.
He hesitated for the space of three heartbeats. “I will be honest and forthcoming—concerning any matters that relate to our marriage.”
Fiona narrowed her eyes, aware he was hedging. But since the qualifier worked to her advantage, she didn’t argue. The truth about Lily’s birth mother and the blackmailer had nothing to do with Gray. Well, perhaps it had a little to do with him, but the fewer people who knew, the better. And nothing was more important than keeping Lily’s secret safe. “Very well.”
“I think we should wait a day or two before making our intentions known. I want you to be certain you can live with my terms.”
“I don’t require time,” she protested. “Marrying you was my idea, if you recall.”
“I do. But now you know me better. You’ve seen my country house and know there’s next to nothing left in my coffers. You know that I abhor poetry and sentimentality and that there’s a block of ice where my heart should be. Carefully consider all those facts, and, if you still want to marry me … we’ll see it done.”
He tossed the orange straight up into the air and tracked it with his eyes, preparing to catch it—but Fiona snatched it out of the air.
And was rewarded with his full attention. “I’m not going to change my mind,” she said evenly, “but if it will make you feel more at ease, we can wait to announce our betrothal.”
She reminded herself that Helena had called off their engagement and that he was understandably reluctant to subject himself to that sort of humiliation again. A couple of days made little difference in the big scheme of things. As long as Fiona could access her dowry in time to pay off her blackmailer, she would be content.
Satisfied, if not elated, she plopped the orange into the bowl and leaned back in her chair. “I told you this would be easy.”
He shot her a tight smile. “You did.”
Why did everything seem so suddenly awkward now that they were engaged, albeit secretly? Shouldn’t they have been embracing or kissing each other to celebrate this milestone? Instead, the air between them had grown chilly. The cottage that had seemed so cozy when they’d first entered seemed rather lonely and barren.
Gray stood stiffly and planted his hands on his hips. “Now then. We have at least an hour before we must return for breakfast, and I promised that you could finish your sketch. Would you like to continue?”
So, this was to be the way of it. If he had his druthers, they’d continue as they had been, amicable and coolly detached, never truly breaking down the barriers between them. But Fiona had already discovered the chink in his armor—the hidden entrance into his soul: her sketching. And he was unwittingly playing right into her hand.
“Yes. I am eager to finish your portrait.” She looked around the cottage. “Shall we spread a quilt on the floor in front of the fire and work there?”
“You are the artist,” he said. “I am merely the subject, at your service.” With that, he strode to the large basket and layered two fluffy quilts as she’d requested. “Here are a few pillows. I hope you’ll be comfortable enough to work.”
“I’m certain I will be.” Fiona grabbed her sketch pad and settled herself while he assumed the same charmingly nonchalant and wickedly languorous pose he had during their last session. Just the sight of him reclining next to her made her breath hitch. She reached for the pencil behind her ear and prayed that whatever magic her drawing had managed to conjure before could be summoned again.
She decided to begin by sketching his hand—the same large, warm hand that had enveloped hers as they’d walked through the mist earlier that morning. Now he rested it casually in front of his taut abdomen. A dusting of hair peeked from beneath his sleeve near his wrist. The back of his hand was several shades darker than her own, and his veins were visible just beneath his skin. Unlike most gentlemen, he wore no signet ring or jewels—no jewelry at all. Long, strong fingers tapered to short nails, and three knuckles were red and scabbed over as though he’d scraped them while working. Or fighting. But she would not ask about it—not now, at any rate.
For she was too absorbed in the task before her.
She did not study his hand in artistic terms. She wasn’t thinking about texture and shadows and color and light. Rather, she was remembering how his hand had felt.
When he’d placed a blossom behind her ear that first night in the garden.
When he’d tenderly brushed the hair away from her face before kissing her.
When he’d caressed her, bringing her exquisite pleasure.
That was the hand she needed to capture on paper. Somehow, she needed to show the strength and gentleness, the calluses and the warmth.
Swept up by a swirl of memories, she almost forgot she was drawing. Her chest flushed as she recalled how he’d slid that hand beneath her nightgown. Her skin tingled as though he touched her now, his fingers skimming the insides of her thighs, teasing her with light brushes. A sure and steady pulsing began at her core. Her breathing grew heavy.
To her surprise, his did, too. He swallowed and looked at her with … longing. Not affection, precisely, but something close to it. One thing was certain—there was nothing cool in his demeanor now. His gaze was molten, and though at least a yard separated them, she could feel the heat emanating from his body and creating a current that traveled through hers.
“Fiona,” he breathed. It was an apology and a plea.
She blinked up at him, and the pencil fell from her fingers.
He crawled toward her slowly, searching her face.
Without hesitation, she set aside her sketchbook, met him halfway, and answered the question in his eyes. “Yes.”
Chapter 18
Gray cursed his own weakness. He’d managed to discuss the particulars of his and Fiona’s betrothal with cool detachment. He’d refused to give in to the temptation to hold her and kiss her. He’d thought he was capable of maintaining a modicum of control.
He was dead wrong.
The moment she’d begun drawing, his control began to slip away. The way she observed him was intensely intimate. Sensual. Almost erotic.
Still, he’d refrained from giving in to the impulse to gather her in his arms and pick up where they’d left off that night in the library. He’d resisted her … until it became glaringly clear that her desire mirrored his own. The darkening of her eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and the parting of her lips had been his downfall.
When he couldn’t bear to be apart from her for another second, he went to her, desperate to taste her lips and caress her skin.
He stopped, scarcely a breath away. “This is madness.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and they collided in a kiss that was raw and primal. His tongue plundered her mouth as she grasped at his clothes. He speared his hands through her hair as she pressed her body to his.
“When you draw, I’m pulled to you like the tide.” He pressed his lips against her neck. “You wield that pencil like an enchanted wand.”
Amused, she pulled away and arched a sardonic brow. “You accuse me of being a witch?”
He la
id her back on the quilt and gazed into her eyes. “I’m under your spell.”
“Then I fear I am under the same spell. Surely no witch worth her weight in toads would cast a spell on herself, though. So I think we have disproved that theory.”
“Is it always like this when you draw?” He had to know.
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“The connection we feel. Is it always there—between you and your subject?”
She propped herself up on an elbow and traced the curve of his jaw with a featherlight touch. “The pull we feel is not due to my sketching. It’s there because you let me in. You let me see beyond the brooding earl who trusts no one, beyond the man who is obsessed with improving his house.”
“That’s all I am,” he said flatly. “If you see anything beyond that, then it’s a figment of your imagination.”
“I will tell you what I see.” She cupped his cheek, and every instinct screamed for him to turn away—lest she see too much. Instead, he kept his face stony and braced himself. “I see a man whose primary goal in life is to dote on his grandmother and ensure her happiness. A man who thought to prepare this cottage with fruit and wildflowers and quilts. A man who introduced me to pleasure and refused to take his own in order to protect me.”
She ran a fingertip across his lower lip and lightly dragged it down, teasing him. Stoking the fire that already burned for her. “To answer your question, I don’t feel this way with anyone but you. I never have. And I daresay I never will.”
Shit. She was uttering everything his godforsaken heart wanted to hear. Hell, she probably believed what she was saying. But that didn’t mean it was true. “You are too young, too inexperienced, to know your own heart.”
“No. I am courageous enough to see what is written there. It tells me I belong with you.” She pulled his head down for a brief but soul-melting kiss. “What is your heart telling you?”