His heart jabbed him in his chest for his stupidity.
Her fingers dropped from his chin, trailing down his neck above his cravat, her eyes following their path. “Yes. I’ve never seen you laugh before. It is a beautiful sight. I am willing to wager you don’t laugh nearly often enough.” She looked back at him. “And that is a bloody shame.”
Fuck.
His heart sped up to a frantic pace.
Fuck, fuck.
And for good measure.
“Fuck.”
20
Felicity
“Ah,there’sabitof vulgar language,” Felicity teased with a smile, a warmth like the heat from a roaring hearth settling over her.
It was as though being sidled up next to him was exactly where she belonged. Perhaps it was just the magic of this place. Perhaps they truly had ventured into another world when he’d carried her through the willow’s branches. Whatever the cause, she was loath to break the spell.
His hands casually ran over her ankle and calf, and she was confident he wasn’t aware he was still touching her. She was sure if he knew, he’d stop immediately. But it was as if they had done this a thousand times before. His hands naturally traced over her without thought. Habitual. Comfortable. Second nature.
His lips curled up in an answering smile.
When he had laughed, she had feared her heart had given out, at seeing the small glimpse of the man he kept so rigidly restrained. And she wanted to find out more about that man, about the man before her. Find out why he didn’t laugh, didn’t allow himself to laugh.
“Would you tell me about your marriage?” she blurted.
His smile disappeared, and she felt the loss like cozy bed linens ripped from her on a cool morning.
“What would you like to know?” His eyes searched hers, guarded.
She almost regretted asking. But she was desperate to know more about him.
“Was it a love match? Were you happy? Do you miss her?” She inwardly winced.Way to throw the bloody gambit at him, Fliss.
He opened his mouth, paused, and then shut it. He leaned back against the tree and stared up into the curtain of willow branches surrounding them, seeming to weigh his words.
“Those are quite heavy questions.”
She studied him, her gaze gravitating to the line of his jaw, traveling down his exposed throat just above his cravat. “I think that response is telling.”
His chin dropped, and he met her gaze again. “I suppose they should be easy questions, if the answers were in the affirmative. But my marriage with my late wife was…complicated.”
“If you are willing,” she said softly, absently running her hand up his chest and fingering his cravat. She couldn’t not touch him. It would be like forcing herself to stop breathing. “I would like to hear why.”
He stared at her but said nothing.
“Please,” she whispered.
And as if he couldn’t deny her, he glanced away, blew out a breath, and started speaking. “We were forced to marry and marry young. My father had just passed, and I had no brothers, no uncles. My grandfather wanted me to secure our line without delay. Winifred and I were thrown together and ordered to produce an heir.”
He looked back at her, his blue eyes tormented. “I was eighteen, and she was sixteen. She got with child immediately, birthing Colborn before she even turned seventeen.”
Felicity sucked in a breath, her fingers digging into his chest. “You were children.”
He gave her a sad smile. “We were. Children raising children. Playing at marriage. Her pregnancy was rough, and afterwards she suffered bouts of extreme melancholy. I had no idea what I was doing. But Colborn seemed to make her happy, and I…didn’t.
