“I am,” he agreed, his expression serious, and so intent that it seemed to pierce her. “I will be the first to admit that I do not deserve a lady of your immeasurable worth. And yet, I find I am horridly selfish. Even should I search to the ends of the realm, I would not find anyone more suited to me than you. Will you be my wife, Lady Lydia Brownlow?”
As he asked the question, he opened his hand directly over her heart, soaking in its frantic beats. Lydia searched his gaze, struggling to sift through thoughts muddied by his nearness and his touch, by her body’s overzealous reaction to him. Did he truly mean those words, or were they meaningless flattery, easily spoken from his silver tongue?
“I do not…that is to say…” Her words trailed away as she struggled to make sense of it all. “Warwick, you cannot be serious about this. I have never been aught but a nuisance to you, trailing after you and Rand where I was not wanted. Why, we do not even get on, you and I.”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes dipping to her lips. “Never a nuisance, Freckles. As for getting on, need I remind you of all the time we have enjoyed together at this house party?”
No. She did not require assistance in recalling his searing kisses or smoldering glances, or the way it felt to be held in his arms. The rightness of it all, in spite of herself. The yearning he had brought to life in her foolish heart.
She frowned. “You are well-versed in the art of kissing, Warwick. Such is the way of things with all rakes, I imagine.”
He leaned nearer, his mouth almost upon hers once more. “Who said anything about kissing, Freckles?”
She flushed, forcing herself to ignore the delightful way his body pressed into hers, the rich scent of him, pleasant and inviting, the breadth of his shoulders in his coat. Above all, she would not be affected by the wicked dimples that had chosen that moment to once again reveal themselves as he smiled.
“You are a scourge,” she muttered. “I cannot think why my brother would consider your offer for my hand.”
But of course, she could. They both could. Rand was his friend. Warwick was a duke, and Lydia was on her last season before retiring firmly to the shelf. He very wisely refrained from pointing that out.
“Perhaps he thinks, as I do, that we would suit immensely. I want to gaze up at the night sky with you, to waltz with you, to make you laugh. I want you to be my duchess, to bear me children, to walk through this life with me.” His tone was earnest. He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Lydia, sweet. Tell me you will be mine. I want to begin the new year with you as my bride.”
I want to gaze up at the night sky with you.
Perhaps it was that single phrase. Perhaps it was the passion of his gaze burning into hers. Mayhap it was even the slow seduction of his wonderful mouth so near to hers, hovering at the corners, settling over her bottom lip, teasing and tasting. Or his tongue, swiping the seam, slipping inside to taste her. His hand, sliding beneath her heart to cup her breast through her gown. His body, crowding her into the wall until there was no escape, and all she could see, feel, and breathe was him.
And it still wasn’t enough.
She wanted more.
She wanted everything he spoke of. Most of all, she simply wanted the Duke of Warwick, with a ferocity that scared the wits out of her. She could not—would not—turn him away now, but neither would she simply acquiesce. “I will agree to be your wife, Warwick, but I do have requirements.”
“Requirements,” he repeated, as though she had said she would like to venture to the moon.
“Yes.” She warmed to her cause, knowing that while she would have precious few rights as a married lady, Warwick was a gentleman. While he was undeniably a rake, he still possessed scruples. She had seen his kindness, gentleness, goodness, and honor. If she asked him to honor her wishes, she had to believe that he would. As things stood, her options were to either marry Warwick—the devil she knew—one of her other suitors, or to become a companion. She chose Warwick, just as he had chosen her.
“These…requirements, Freckles. What can they be?” His brow furrowed, and he seemed less imposing in his vexation.
Lydia smiled, sensing she had already won this particular battle. “First is fidelity, Warwick. I do not wish to marry a gentleman who will keep a…”
“Mistress.” His dimples returned, diminishing her defenses once more. “You have my word that I do not currently have one, nor will I take one, as you are all that I desire.”
His words sent a fresh surge of heat and yearning through her, but she tamped it down. Could it be that he desired her? That the Duke of Warwick, handsome, self-assured Corinthian, desired a plain, plump spinster who preferred burying her nose in a book to dancing at a ball?
Silver tongue, she reminded herself.He is a rogue.
Still, he seemed genuine. She forced herself to forge onward before she lost her nerve. “Second: you will agree not to become an impediment in my thirst for knowledge.”
“Gads no,” he was quick to respond. “I admire your sharp mind, Freckles. I do not seek to bury it.”
Excellent. “If I wish to read a book that is not considered suitable material for a lady, you will not object.”
His grin widened, showing twin rows of even, white teeth. “What sort of book have you in mind, love? I may have a tome or two that you would find of interest.”
Of course, he did, the knave. How was it that he could charm her with his raffish ways? Nor did she overlook that particular term of endearment that had rolled so fluently off his tongue.Love.
Oh, heavens. Why was it so blessedly stuffy in the chamber all of a sudden? And why was he looking upon her with expectation, as though he awaited her next words? Belatedly, it occurred to her that she was meant to be setting up the foundation for their union, not gazing at him with witless adoration.
Adoration? Who was she, and where had the real Brownlow gone? Drat. Had she just thought of herself as Warwick’s pet name for her? Indeed, she had. Obviously, she was a hopeless cause.
