He warmed to the inviting sound of her chuckle. “How could I begrudge such a noble cause as keeping Markham and Lady Julia from further scandal?”
“Mmmm. Noble, indeed,” she said. “You terrified me.”
Terrified. Past tense. “Me? I am as gentle as a lamb.”
“You are a brute.” She grinned. “You told me so yourself.”
He brushed her hair from her face and tipped up her chin. “Tame me, then.”
“Tempting.” She clamped her mouth for an eternal pause. “In seriousness, I cannot imagine why you’d choose me. Not only am I the unmarriageable maiden, I have an excessively inappropriate sense of humor. And Markham tells me I can be a shrew.”
His acquiescent expression made her snort.
“Lord Bromton,” she continued, “I’m no stranger to scandal. But you…you are.”
He blinked. “Are you worried about damagingmyreputation?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
Would she ever cease to astonish? No one had ever been concerned for his well-being. The sensation was startling. Humbling. That boulder in his chest broke, leaving him unmoored.
She lifted both brows. “How will you respond when people suggest you were taken in by Markham—led, by the nose, to his spinster sister? How will you feel when they whisper behind their fans, speculating as to whether I came to you tarnished?”
Just the thought kindled fire in his chest. “Gossips be damned.”
“You are a man of honor,” she said, “such shame is, by definition, beyond your power to bear.”
Nothing was beyond his power to bear. Not for her. “By whose definition?”
“By Society’s definition,” she replied. “Or,” she inhaled, “at least those members of Society who manufacture dueling pistols.”
A startled chuckle escaped his throat.
“Why?” she asked again. “Why are you willing to court me over some proper London lady? Theremustbe a very compelling reason.”
When he did not answer, she jerked away. The heel of her slipper snapped, and she lost her balance. He caught her in his arms as she stumbled against his chest.
His breath quickened. His heart pounded. To the devil with bloodlines and promises and honor. She was already his—the first thing in his life he could ever truly call his own, and so precious to him he dared not encircle her with his arms.
“Do you want to know why?” he asked against her hair. “Because no London lady has ever made me feelthis.”
…
The fear that had starched Katherine’s resistance wilted, though she wondered, once again, if she and Bromton even spoke the same language.
Bythis, she supposed he meant the rapid heartbeat that thudded in a tempo matching her own, but she could not be sure, could she? Just like she could not be sure of anything where the marquess was concerned. He’d defied every expectation, thwarted every plan, stole her certainties, and replaced them with unanswerable, perplexing questions.
And yet, to rest against his chest was comfort, sublime.
Her reservations dissipated when they touched, as did any noble intention she had of protecting him from scandal and shame.
Their proximity was that of an intimate embrace, if not an actual embrace. Neither moved to deepen the connection, nor to part. They remained there, suspended between then and now, just as they were suspended between separate lives and lives that would be joined.
Heaven help me, why doesn’t Bromton move?
She rode his breath joining him in the subtle dance of life. His scent filled her lungs, and his waistcoat chafed her cheek. His hands spanned her back, rooting her both to him and to the ground.
Being held by Bromton was a glorious wonder. His strength secured that which was necessary, almost as if the unwanted pieces of her past would soon break away. What lady in her right mind would step back? Despite the threat of being seen. Despite the rain. Despite the chill hovering just beyond the circle of their loose connection.
