“You will leave, then,” she said with a shiver.
“No,” he replied. “I will not.”
She drew back to search his face. His features were penciled canvas, form in want of being filled.
“Why?” Her voice was hoarse. “Why would you stay? How could you understand what I did when you do not believe in love?”
“Did I say I didn’t believe in love?” he asked gently.
“Do you?” she countered.
He sighed. “You”—his eyes turned soft, as if she were an adored but puzzling child—“make me want to believe.” He ran his fingers down her cheek. “You could teach me to believe.”
Ah. What a clever man he was. Who could resist such a soulful plea?
“Surely, you’ve known something of love,” she said.
“Friendship, yes. Esteem, yes. Love? No.”
“What of your parents?”
“My family gave me pride and honor. But love? Definitively not.”
She searched his eyes and found only truth.
“And I must confess, I come to you as a tarnished groom,” he smiled, rueful, “my virtue has also been marred.”
She snorted.
“What do you say?” he asked. “Will you accept me, sullied virtue and all?”
She’d been so sure of his rejection, so positive he would rush to be gone.
“Please marry me,” he said. “You are the only one who can make things right.”
She cupped his cheeks. She had believed he would cast her aside. Instead—remarkably, unthinkably—he had drawn her close. She lifted herself to her toes and kissed his cheek.
“I’ll depart for London in the morning and return just as soon as I can procure the license.” He paused. “By your leave, of course.”
“Giles,” she said, “I’d be delighted to marry you.”
He exhaled. Deeply. Thoroughly. And then drew her solidly into his arms.
Chapter Eight
After little more than a day in the city, Bromton had achieved his primary goals: one, a carefully folded special license, and two, an exquisitely fashioned betrothal ring. He patted his waistcoat pocket, satisfied by the soft crackle of parchment.
All in all, he’d accomplished everything he’d intended to accomplish. He had amended his will, opened credit accounts in Katherine’s name, and planned a surprise he hoped would make his bride feel more at home when she moved.
He had not, however, intended to find himself in his current circumstance—standing on the steps of a modest townhouse in an unfamiliar part of Town, staring down a lion-shaped knocker while dread looped knots inside his stomach.
For anyone accustomed to living amongst the moniedton, the modest dwelling would not have elicited remark. No ornamentation accented the brick, nor was there any architectural extravagance that declared the home to be a residence fit for, as the former marquess would have said, of a familyof consequence.
Yet, it was of decent size, was it not? Perfectly respectable for an artist and his wife. His heart slammed against his ribs.
…Just not for a marchioness.
He lifted his hand to the knocker. His fingers hovered and then fell before touching the shining brass. He should not be here. He should go, at once. Even if his mother were to grant him entrance, which was not guaranteed in the least, he hadn’t any idea what he wished to say to her, and, of course, nothing at all he wished to say to her new husband.
