“Listen to me,” he said, his face inches from her own, “we have known each other for a long time. It wouldn’t matter to me if we discovered that you were the daughter of the ragman at Breminster Hall. Because no matter who your parents are or what your title is, you’re still the only woman for me. The moments we have had together, I could never forget them. I’ll die thinking about them. They are clearer to me than anything else in my entire life. On the balcony at the Worthington ball, or in your drawing room at Breminster House, or my study. And, hell, yes, even earlier than that, that night at the opera house during your debut—and even earlier than that, although I loved you in a different way. They meant so much to me, even then.”
“Really?” she gasped.
“Yes,” he said. “I didn’t know it, at least not consciously, but I don’t think it is a mistake that I never thought of marriage before last week. There could be no one else for me, Henrietta.”
Her face was wet again. She had no idea when she had become such a watering pot, crying twice in one day. He wiped away her tears with his thumb.
“But none of this explains how we came to be on this road in the middle of the night.”
She let out a watery laugh.
“It’s hard to explain,” she said, her voice shaking. “I had this feeling suddenly. That I needed to see her—Mary Forster. I thought I felt angry with you that you didn’t care about this secret. But I think, really, I felt angry with myself for having done nothing about it. I was angry with myself for not caring who I am. How can I know who I am without knowing her? If she were dead, that would be one thing. But I know where to find her. I’ve just been too…cowardly.”
“I see,” he said, his thumb still on her cheek, the soft pressure soothing her. “But why now?”
“It is foolish, but…” She cast her mind back to earlier that day, embarrassed to admit what she had felt. “I was at Mrs. Warburton’s, with Cassandra and her mother…”
“Ah,” Trem said, and she noticed how nice it felt to be close to him like this, when she could feel the way his voice reverberated through his chest. “Wasn’t Catherine with you?”
“She had to stay behind with Griffon. And I know that I shouldn’t complain. Catherine has done so much for me. And John. Why should I care that I don’t have a mother?”
“As someone who does not have either a father or mother,” he said softly, “I can say, with confidence, that your problem is not that you don’t have a mother, but you do have one and you don’t know her.”
“That is what I thought earlier today! And why I decided to go and see her. In Dorset.”
“I understand. If I suddenly found out that one of my parents was living, I would do the same thing. I would go to wherever I had to in order to find them.”
She pressed her forehead to his and, suddenly, it seemed very clear to her that their lips were very close.
His thumb trailed down to her lip and he pressed the flesh there. She felt the nearness of his body anew. She was hopelessly wanton. He had a gunshot wound and was talking about his dead parents—and now she was thinking about kissing him.
But any shame fell away when he removed his thumb and pressed his mouth to hers, softly. Then, breaking the kiss, he drew away.
“I thought I had lost you tonight.”
“What?” she said, startled. “Why?”
“I thought you had left to escape our engagement.”
“No! Of course not. I can’t imagine marrying anyone else.”
He kissed her again, his tongue only just edging her lower lip. His body was hot and needy under hers and she could feel, from herself, the same desperate desire.
“Your arm—” she began, “I don’t want to hurt—”
“I could fuck you with a bullet in both,” he responded, his fingers gripped underneath her jaw, his grasp just short of drawing pain.
She kissed him, letting her hands rove down his chest towards his breeches. She felt mad that she could want him under these conditions and yet her breath was coming short and fast. Her core clenched as he pressed her to him.
Once more, he broke the kiss, placing his forehead on hers. “Henrietta,” he said, his voice ragged. “We shouldn’t.”
“I thought you just said—but of course I understand.”
“It’s not my arm. But I’ve had you on a sofa and on a balcony and I’ve had one of the most delicious orgasms of my life into your very wet drawers. But the next time I have you I want it to be in a bed.”
“Why?” she said. “It’s no matter to me.”
“But it matters to me,” he said, his look so earnest and sincere that it nearly brought tears to her eyes again. “And, anyway,” he continued, the carriage slowing, “we are arriving at the Craven Arms.”
