Dobbins paused in the act of aiding him with his necktie. “I suppose I would have persisted, sir, until her answer was yes.”
He mulled that over whilst he donned his waistcoat. Persistence in life was good. He and Dobbins could agree upon that score, at least. But persistence when one had already been dismissed was another matter entirely. It smacked of desperation, and he was not, nor had he ever been, a desperate man.
Did he want to marry Hazel? No, of course he did not. He did not want to marry anyone, ever. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Where was all the maudlin sentimentalism heralding from? Why could he not shake this strange, incipient longing from his chest? Why was he now mired in this inexplicable notion that having Hazel in his bed every night, Hazel carrying his child, Hazel becoming his duchess, would please him in a way nothing and no one else could?
“How would you have persisted, Dobbins?” he asked at last, his curiosity driving at him with the force of a swinging cricket bat.
Dobbins was silent for a moment as he helped Lucien put on his coat.
“I would have courted her, Your Grace,” he said at length, his tone thoughtful, as if to suggest he had simply won Mrs. Dobbins’ hand outright, and it had required frightfully little effort on his part.Lucky chap.“I would have done everything in my power to make her smile and laugh.”
Courting.
Lucien had never courted anyone. Had never even possessed the slightest desire to do so. Courting led to marriage, and marriage led to children, and children led to the possibility of him inflicting his mother’s madness upon an innocent. And that, he could not do.
But there was that question again, that voice which would not be ignored inside him. Making him wonder what he would do if the outcome was already determined. What if Hazel were already carrying his babe? The die would have been cast, the decision made. If the choice was already out of his hands, what would he do?
He refused to examine it too closely just now.
Lucien smoothed a hand down each of his sleeves. “That is excellent advice, Dobbins. I thank you.”
“Are you…are you wishing to court a lady, Your Grace?” Dobbins dared to ask, perhaps emboldened by the personal nature of their dialogue this morning, quite extraordinary.
And Lucien found he was not bothered by the query. Nor was he bothered by his answer, though perhaps he ought to have been.
“I think I may be, Dobbins,” he said, the admission filling him with a curious sense of rightness. “Perhaps.”
Only one otherman had ever proposed marriage to Hazel, and Adam’s request to make her his wife had occurred under decidedly different circumstances. He had been pleased to make the offer, for one thing. He had come calling to take her for a drive. She recalled the innocence of that long-ago moment quite fondly now, as she prepared herself to enter the dining room in Lark House.
The scent of breakfast wafted to her as she remembered how Adam’s cheeks had been tinged with pink, how his hands had shaken upon the reins, and how he had seemed nervous. Smiling too much, talking too loudly. When he had given her his mother’s ring, she had been moved to tears, an overwhelming sense of belonging blossoming inside her. The feeling that, at long last, after all her years without a home and a family, she would finally,finallyhave one of her own.
But that had not been meant to be, and the young woman she had been then would scarcely recognize the world-weary woman she had become. She still wore the ring upon her finger, but she had never been able to wear it as his wife. The ring and acarte de visitebearing his young, unsmiling countenance were all that remained, along with the love in her heart, which had never faded. But she had realized, somehow along the way, loving Adam did not mean she could not have room in her heart for others.
She hesitated outside the dining room, uncertain of how she should proceed after the duke within had proposed to marry her the night before. What if his aunt, the queenly Lady Beaufort, was present this morning? How would Hazel face her, without her face blushing crimson with guilt? What if Arden regretted his actions, his words? What if he wished he had never offered to marry her at all? Would it matter? Would she care?
There was such a contrast between the two proposals she had received, one from the heart and the other under duress. One receiving her instantyes,and the other her instantno.
And yet, she could not deny she was conflicted about not only Lucien’s proposal, but her reaction to it. She had spent most of the night in his bed. She knew him in a way she had never known another man: his scent, the groan deep in his throat when he lost himself inside her, the taste of his lips, the weight of him, thick and heavy and firm in her hand, the taut sinews of his back, the silkiness of his hair. Some foolish part of her wished his proposal had been made in the same spirit as Adam’s. Some part of her wished their worlds were not so disparate, that she could have saidyes.
Silly, she knew. She was better on her own, just as she had always been. Life was simpler when she had no heart to worry after but hers. If she put herself in danger, she alone would pay the price. If she did not love Lucien, she would not have to lose him.
Realizing she could not continue tarrying at the threshold of the dining room, caught in the tangled web of her conflicting emotions and desires, she took a deep, steadying breath, and entered. She had taken care in her dress this morning, donning her divided skirt and bodice, instructing Bunton to confine her hair in a rather severe knot. She did not wish to look feminine. She wanted to remind Arden she was his partner, not his bedmate.
Last night could not be repeated, she admonished herself sternly as she entered the room with its striped wallpaper and immense windows admitting the morning sun. At least Lady Beaufort was not in attendance, and there would be no glowers of disapproval this morning, though she did wonder if Lucien’s aunt was avoiding her or if she was truly that ill. Hazel did not like to think of Lady Beaufort suffering. Perhaps she could check on Lucien’s aunt later.
For now, she would forget the way her body reacted to Arden’s. Pretend none of it had happened. It was only the animal within her, after all, a base need for pleasure. Pretending her thoughts were not so heavily burdened, she forced herself to smile at Reynolds, who was overseeing breakfast. He gave her an imperious look in return, his expression never wavering. The man seemed perpetually immovable.
Her gaze drifted inevitably to Lucien.
He had risen at her entrance, and offered her a courtly bow now, his emerald eyes burning into her. His formality rendered her immobile. She stopped halfway across the chamber, staring at him stupidly. Had he grown even more handsome overnight? With his jaw freshly shaven, his wavy, dark hair brushing the collar of his jacket, his charcoal waistcoat and perfectly tailored trousers, the crispness of his shirt and necktie, he was breathtaking.
He made her remember in vivid detail what had happened the night before. The way he had dropped to his knees, making love to her with his mouth. Between her thighs, she pulsed and ached at the memory.
She burned.
And yearned.
And hungered for more.
