No oneseemed the obvious answer.
But that time was at an end, for she had meant every word she had spoken to him. He had her now, and regardless of the manner in which their marriage had come to fruition, she was his. She would chase away the darkness with light, banish his ghosts. Whatever he required, she would be there if he would but let her.
She realized she had been quiet for too long, and that he was looking at her oddly now, as if he could sense the bent of her introspection. “Your stallion is impressive,” she said, thinking of the muscled, rich brown horse back at Boswell Manor. “I should like to ride him some day.”
“Pharaoh,” he answered, giving her a pointed look. “I imported him from Aleppo. He is a wary beast, and you are never quite certain where you stand with him. One moment, he can be docile as a lamb, and the next he is a force of nature.”
She raised a brow. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Minx,” he said without heat. “You cannot ride him without me. I alone can sense his moods. It seems to be a particular talent of mine. Perhaps the only one I possess.”
“I do not know about that.” She cast a sly look his way. “I can think of several others.”
A wicked smile curved his sensual lips, and it sent a pulse between her thighs that was only heightened by the rhythmic plodding of her horse beneath her. “Oh? What would those be? Perhaps you would care to enlighten me.”
Bo smiled right back at him. “You excel at arrogance, for one thing. For another, you are quite good at stealing books. You are also brilliant at insults.”
“Allow me to argue that arrogance is a ducal obligation.” He paused, cocking his head at her. “As for stealing books, I have only ever taken one book into my possession without having purchased it, and as that tome was decidedly contraband, I do not think it signifies. And I admit to having a difficult time recalling a single insult I have issued.”
She pursed her lips. “You did call me a wanton tart masquerading as a lady.”
Was it her imagination, or did a flush stain his high cheekbones?
He glanced away from her for a moment, clenching his jaw, before meeting her gaze once more. “I was an ass, and I am sorry. I…you are unlike any other lady in my acquaintance. I was not certain what to make of your, er, reading proclivities or your bold nature.”
His awkward admission touched her, as much because she knew it was sincere as because it was so very Spencer. Now that she was beginning to learn the man beneath his façade, she could well imagine how she must have flummoxed him. She was not unaware of her own shortcomings. Her sisters referred to her as a rapscallion in skirts. She had never pretended to behave. Had never wished to be the meek and mild-mannered lady her parents had longed for her to become. Finishing school had not finished her, as she had no wish to change. She was herself, and she had a tendency to find trouble, and every part of her balked at rules and propriety. She could not reconstitute herself to make her more palatable for others. It was not in her nature.
“I accept your apology,” she told him, something alarmingly warm and tender sinking through her. He was so handsome, the sun clinging to the hair peeking beneath his rakish hat, bathing him in a glow. His expression was so pained, so vulnerable once more, and she loved it.
She could lovehim.
Dear God.
The thought struck her, unwanted. Unneeded. Alarming. No, she did not love her husband of one day. It was all the lovemaking that was rendering her maudlin, ruining her mind. That and his undeniable masculine beauty. And his halting, heartfelt apology. Not to mention the way he had embraced her earlier, as if she were the life sustaining him, how he had buried his face in her hair as though he wanted to inhale her. And his laugh. How beautiful it was to see him smile, hear him give in. The heady knowledge that she could melt his ice. That she was already melting it, like a summer sun, even in this moment.
That he was hers.
Yes, it was all those things working at her feverish mind, tricking her into thinking nonsense. She did not love Spencer Marlow. No, she did not. She could not.
Loving him would be foolish. Dangerous. Stupid. Naïve.
Their marriage had been forced. He had not wished to wed her. She had not wished to wed him. He was damaged by whatever he had endured with his previous wife. That woman’s demons still haunted him. And yet…
“You say you accept my apology, though you are glaring at me now as if we are at daggers drawn.” His quizzical observation burst through her tortured musings.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh damn it all.
This was happening whether she wished it to or not, and she most decidedly did not wish it to happen.
She stared at him, and her heart, her stupid, ludicrous heart, expanded in her chest. Warmth filled her from the inside, as though the sun had somehow managed to infiltrate her body. Her heart pounded, a strange exhilaration sluiced over her, and it was the most surreal moment of her life.
Bo sat atop her mare, completely motionless, being carried across a verdant field, staring at the man she had married, realizing that this was the sort of moment from which there was no return. Understanding that everything had changed. That what she least wanted was blossoming inside her, undeniable and demanding.
That she was falling in love with her husband.
