She clenched her jaw. “I wish you happy, then. You may thank me for setting you free, all the better to pursue her.”
Her heart, which had been floating with premature happiness, was suddenly heavy as a boulder, threatening to crush her beneath its weight. Blinking against a furious rush of tears, she jerked her attention to the window. Beyond the panes, the bright, beckoning Yorkshire countryside blurred.
What was wrong with her? What had she expected? And how had she been so reckless, so careless, as to fall in love with a charming rake like the Marquess of Dorset? She had known from the moment he had announced their betrothal that it was a sham. And she had not liked him. Nor had she wanted to marry him.
Why had he made her fall in love with him?
Just as she had believed, her fate was to remain forever alone. Her heart was destined to be broken.
“Clementine.”
She swallowed. “Why are you still here, Dorset? Have you not a bride to be wooing?”
“Will you not look at me? This is bloody difficult enough without you staring out the cursed window as if you cannot bear the sight of me.”
His low growl had her turning back to him. “She will no doubt be easily won, since you have been hailed as the hero of the house party.”
If there was bitterness in her voice, it could not be helped. The notion of Dorset flirting with, charming, kissing another lady. Of offering to marry that lady instead, hurt.
“I hope she will be,” he said earnestly, “though she has not proven easily won thus far. Indeed, she has led me on a merry chase. She has also told me I am the last man she would ever wish to marry and that she does not like me. How shall I change her mind, do you suppose? Was the kitten rescue sufficient?”
She blinked. He could not be speaking ofher, could he? “You are confusing me, Dorset. Cease speaking in riddles.”
“You, Clementine,” he said, the tenderness once more creeping into his expression. “You are the woman I wish to marry. That is the realization I made when I stood on the banks of the River Derwent, sodden to the bone, this little puff of fur attempting to assassinate me with his claws. I had eyes only for you. You were all I wanted to see. Somewhere along the way, our ruse has ceased to be a fiction for me. I can only hope that you may be willing to reconsider throwing me over. When we had that row just before we were called to the river, and you told me you wanted to end our betrothal immediately, it changed me.Youchanged me.”
Her heart was racing as if she had just run to the River Derwent anew. Her mind was swirling. She could not seem to make sense of what Dorset had just said to her. He wanted to marry her after all?
But how could that be? Had he not just agreed with her that he thought it best for them to end their betrothal immediately?
“You want to marry me,” she repeated.
The kitten, either sensing the heaviness of the emotions around him or growing weary of the pair of hands atop his small back, shifted and yawned. Dorset retracted his hand and so did she, allowing the little orange cat to shift until he was content.
“I do,” he said.
“But you blame me for the Marchioness of Huntly marrying the marquess and throwing you over,” she protested stupidly.
Why am I protesting?
I want to marry him too, do I not?
“I did blame you,” he admitted, then winced. “Damnation, but this is a deuced awkward position. Do you mind if I join you on the seat?”
The seat was generous in size, and there was ample room for him. But having Ambrose pressed against her, so near, in her chamber,alone, seemed a terribly poor notion to entertain.
Also a terribly tempting one.
One look into his emerald eyes, and how could she resist?
Clementine shifted her rump to the left, disturbing her lap-dweller in the process. The kitten blinked sleepily up at her and mewed.
“I am sorry, little fellow,” she crooned to him.
As if he understood, the kitten shifted against her, settling into a new position that was to his liking. But in the next moment, she forgot all about the kitten in her lap.
The marquess folded his tall, lean form onto the cushion at her side. His hip was pressed to hers, his warmth invading her through all the layers of civility separating her bare skin from his.
How strange it was, she thought, the barriers of clothing. Fashioned to hide the body, to protect modesty, and yet cleverly contrived in a way to put as much of the body on display as possible. In Dorset, it was his broad shoulders filling out his coat, his long legs encased in tweed trousers. It was the bare skin of his neck and jaw, the masculine protrusion of his Adam’s apple above the simple necktie he wore. It was his hands, the fingers long and strong, the nails neat.
