“How can you know?” Her lower lip trembled.
He understood the newness of the feelings assailing her. They had been thrust upon him as well, what seemed a lifetime ago. How different he had been then. How different life had been.
“I know because I know you. I know you and I love you, and you are going to be the best damned mother in all England.” Of that, he was certain.
He knew it instinctively.
“I wish I had your certainty.” Again, her lower lip trembled.
He lowered his head, pressed his mouth to hers. Her hands went to his shoulders as she turned her body toward his. Sweet, so sweet, her kiss. He vowed to himself that he would do everything and anything he could to protect her, to protect their child. No matter what the cost, he would bear it.
He kissed her until he felt some of the tension seeping from her body. His hands traveled over her. Once again, she was not wearing a corset, and he was glad for it. Her body was all welcoming softness. Delicious, feminine curves. He stroked up her waist, over her back, traveling the length of her spine, where all her determination dwelled. Her strength, too.
Then he kissed the corners of her lips, kissed her brow, the regal slashes of her cheekbones. Her ear, her throat.
“Believe in yourself,” he said, worshiping every part of her skin he could find. “Believe in yourself as I believe in you.”
“You make me feel as if I am capable of anything.”
He knew the feeling, for she did the same. “You are, my love.”
“I believe it when I am in your arms. You give me strength.”
Adrian took her mouth once more as the train brought them ever nearer to London. The future seemed impossibly bright, like the burning orb of the sun on the edge of the fields, glinting through the glass, chasing them to their destiny.
Part III
The Present
Chapter 10
Haddon House, London, 1886
On this I am firm. You must not reveal your given name or your claims to Her Grace under any circumstances.
~letter from the Duke of Longleigh to Mr. Adrian Hastings
You fucked your husband’s bastard son.
Tilly’s mind was spinning. Whirling. Her heart was pounding. Her mouth was dry. Her palms were damp. She was still sprawled helplessly on the carpets, where she had fallen after swooning beneath the effects of shock.
And she could not form words. Could not form coherent thoughts.
Robin was…
No, he was not Robin at all, was he?
The man on his knees at her side, his gaze hard and frigid, the blue of the ocean in winter—merciless and wild and unpredictable—fixed upon her…that man was Adrian Hastings.
An angry, cold, cutting, man.
A man who had shared her bed. Fathered her child. And lied to her.
Why had he returned? What did he want?
Her heart, which had been briefly overjoyed at the notion of her love returning to her after so much time had passed, was shattered. Nothing but broken shards.
“You…you lied to me,” she said.
