She glanced back at him, her heart pounding. He was not laughing or smiling or teasing. His ordinary, unflappable charm was absent. He was serious.
A pang of longing tore through her. Once, she had dreamed of having his babes. “Jack, please stop.”
“Why?” He took the basket from her and placed it on the grass at their feet and then took her hands in his. “You act as if I am the most ridiculous man in the world, wanting to remain married to my wife, wanting her to bear my children. You told me you wanted to become a mother. I want to make you one. I need an heir. You want a child. We are already wed. Nothing makes sensemore.”
How dangerous he was. His hands on hers were warm, reassuring. She could not seem to summon the desire to extricate herself from his grasp. In more ways than one.
“You hurt me, Jack,” she admitted, hating herself for the tremor in her voice, the way it broke. “I trusted you once, and you took that trust and you crushed it into a thousand pieces the night you allowed Lady Billingsley into your bed. I want to become a mother with a man I trust when he tells me he loves me.”
And she did trust Tom. Tom had waited for her, patiently, sweetly, for so long. He was waiting for her still.
Jack’s fingers tightened on hers. “I am sorry, so sorry for that night. I wish to God it had never happened. I wish I had not been so deep in my cups that I kissed her back. But I have not made love to another woman since we married. I have been faithful to you, aside from those godforsaken kisses.”
He was so earnest. His gaze never wavered.
“Part of me wishes I could believe you.” The admission fled her before she could think better of it. “But all those rumors, Jack…your time on the Continent. Even had I not seen Lady Billingsley in your bed…”
What was she saying? That she wanted to believe him? Did she?
Dear God.Did she still love him? No. She could not. It was not possible. She refused to believe herself so weak, so foolish, so witless.
“Youcanbelieve me, Nellie,” he insisted.
“No!” The vehemence of her denial rang out, bouncing off the grassy hill behind them and echoing over the lake.
She tore herself from his grasp and whirled away, needing to put some distance between them. Her cry and the haste of her movements spooked the ducks, who flew back to the safety of the glittering water. His footfalls followed her, crunching on the gravel walk. She moved faster, desperation coursing through her.
Her foot suddenly caught in the hem of her gown, and she could not save herself. She tripped, flying to her knees, her hands catching the brunt of her fall. Pain radiated from her palms and knees.
“Devil take it, woman.” He was there, of course, his hands on her elbows, helping her to stand. Frowning down at her. “Are you hell-bent upon doing yourself harm?”
“I was trying to get away from you, which seems a Sisyphean fate,” she snapped, irritated with herself and her lack of grace as much as she was angry with him for making her feel things she had no wish to feel. “I have been telling you for days to go away and leave me alone. Why do you not do it, Needham?”
He turned her hands over, inspecting the damage she had done to her palms. The sharp gravel had torn open her skin. He brushed gently at the dirt sticking to her wounded flesh. “Because you are my wife, damn it. And you are clearly in need of a keeper. Before the week is out, you shall be little more than one big bandage.”
She could not stifle the helpless laughter rising in her throat. It escaped before she could tamp it down. He was not wrong—shehadsuffered rather a great deal of mishaps in the wake of his return.
“There it is,” he said softly.
Her gaze jerked to his. He watched her with a strange, rapt expression. “There what is?”
“Your laugh.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I missed it.”
He was so beautiful when he smiled. His words sent a fresh pang to her heart.
She did her best to ignore it. “I could argue that all the injuries which have befallen me have been because of you.”
His smile faded. “Hmm. Or because of your stubbornness. If you had listened to me about waiting for the carriage, you would not have suffered blisters. If you had worn your hat, the sun would not have burned your pretty skin. And if you had not been running from me just now, you would not have fallen.”
Once more, he was not wrong, drat him.
She tugged her hands from his grasp. “How like you to paint yourself a hero.”
“When you think upon it, I am a hero.” His tone went wry. “After all, I did save you from breaking your neck when you were dancing upon the dining room table.”
Blast the man. “I would have landed on my feet.”
“Undoubtedly.” He raised a brow, his expression one of blatant disbelief.
