His name on her lips destroyed what little control was left.
And he wept on until there was nothing left.
He fumbled about in his pocket for his handkerchief, swiped at his eyes, and blew his nose. “Devil take it,” he said. “I am so sorry. Whatever will you think?”
She tipped her head back against his shoulder and looked into his face. “Canyou forgive him?” she asked.
He thought about it a long time, until his breathing fully calmed.
“She was vain and conniving,” he said. “She destroyed his life and very nearly mine too. And probably her own. She lied to Maria and depleted her happiness. But she was essentially a helpless woman, out of her element, only seventeen when she trapped him. And he chose to honor and protect her. Until doing so led him into hell itself.The choice between two evils.He chose the one he had to choose, being the man he was, the man I admired above all others. Yes, I forgive him. I just wish I could tell him so. And I wish I could tell him that I would not wipe out the last twelve years and everything that happened during them even if I could. There would be no Ricky, no Wes, no Hilda.”
“No broken nose,” she said.
“And no broken nose.”
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the chair back.
“Life is a funny thing,” he said. He surprised himself by laughing then. “A profound observation indeed. Someone should include it in a book of wise quotations for the ages.Life is a funny thing.”
They sat quietly for a while.
“Stay here with me?” he said then. His voice made a question of it.
There was another stretch of silence.
“Yes,” she said.
***
Estelle heard the echo of her response and waited for guilt, panic, denial, moral outrage,somethingto rush at her inprotest. Nothing did. She had said yes, and yes was what she meant.
He stood up with her and set her on her feet before tossing her cloak back over the chair arm. He reached for her hands and curled his own about them at their sides. Then he moved his hands up her arms and along her shoulders and cupped her face in his palms. There were the marks of tears still on his own cheeks. His eyes were luminous. And she marveled over the fact that this was the same man she had first seen on horseback, dark and dour, huge and menacing, while she sat on the riverbank. She set her own hands on either side of his waist.
“You will be marrying me,” he said.
Her eyes smiled into his. “That is a proposal?”
“No,” he said. “That is a statement.”
“The proposal is still to come?” she asked. “Are you busy composing a sonnet?”
For a moment—ah, for a precious moment—laughter flashed in his eyes. She thought he was about to say something. But he kissed her instead, lightly and gently, and she felt all his need for her, all his yearning for a human touch, for connection. She felt his barely leashed passion. This was something she would not have considered herself capable of doing in a million years—lying with a man to whom she was not wed or even officially betrothed. But there were no doubts in her mind. He needed her now, tonight, and she...? Ah, she needed him too. His father’s letter had affected her deeply. If only... If only her mother had had enough warning of her death to have written to her and Bertrand. Surely she would have done it had she known. And surely she would have written something similar at the end—Live a life filled with love. It is, ultimately, all that matters.
She wrapped her arms about Justin’s waist, leaned into him, and kissed him back. Not just with desire, but with everything that was herself.
He drew back from her after a while and went to extinguish the lantern and all the candles except the one on the bookcase. The single flame flickered dimly over walls and ceiling while he tossed a few of the cushions from the bed onto the chair with the books on it. He drew back the covers to expose crisp white sheets and pillowcases.
“It is narrow,” he said, turning to her again. “But we will make it wide enough.”
“Yes.”
He turned her to face away from him and undid the buttons at the back of her dress, which she had so recently done up without the help of her maid. He folded the edges back and over her shoulders and down her arms until the whole dress slid down her body to pool at her feet. She was not wearing stays. She turned for him to roll down her stockings one at a time and remove them with her shoes. Only her shift remained.
Desire hummed in her now. It pulsated low in her abdomen and along her inner thighs. His eyes gazed into hers as his hands were in her hair, which she had pinned up earlier into a simple, rather untidy knot. After a few moments it all cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. She heard the tinkle of a few hairpins as they hit the floor.
He took off his coat and waistcoat then, and his neckcloth. He pulled his shirt free of his pantaloons, crossed his arms, and drew it off over his head to join her dress on the floor.
She had known that his great size was due to muscle more than fat, but she had not guessed quite how magnificent he would look without his shirt. All solid, ripplingmuscles and broad shoulders and powerful arms. A light dusting of hair on his chest tapered in a V shape to disappear below the waistband of his pantaloons. He was masculinity personified.
