“You, of all people, should know I am no angel.”
Blue ruin’s drunken web held him captive in the strange sensation that she was, indeed an angel. He stood, dead still, awaiting absolution. But even an angel couldn’t absolve him of his lies of omission, or the taint of his blood.
I pray for the poor child you intend to wed.
The woman standing before him was most certainly not a child. Her auburn hair cascaded in clouds over her bare shoulders. She lifted her face to his with a hazel gaze that no longer held any secrets, a gaze as pure as mountain spring water. His fingers itched, yet he did not dare touch. What he touched he ruined.
I pray for the poor child…
Katherine had emerged from her scandal nearly unscathed, only to be trapped, with a little help from her brother, by a scoundrel. His actions suddenly struck him as grossly unfair.
“Angel,” he whispered, half-broken.
“Giles,” her voice was heart-meltingly gentle, “I am neither angel nor ghost.”
No. She was a beautiful woman. And he was a scoundrel—a scoundrel in love.
Good God,love. Love was the feeling sweeping through him like a current, tingling on his fingers and toes. Love was the reason he was coated in both terror and desire. And love was the light that bathed Katherine, making her appear angelic.
But she wasn’t an angel. She was his.
Tentatively, he reached out. Heavens, her skin was soft. She pressed her cheek into his hand, closed her eyes, and sighed.
“I want to hold you again.” And again. And again. His voice came out ragged and pleading.
“Ah well,” she said. “A marquess must have whatever a marquess wants.”
He lifted his other hand and cupped her precious face.
“Must he?” Once he had believed himself due every honor. In fact, he’d taken his “due” without thought or appreciation. No, he did not have marquess’s blood. But, even if he did, would his blood give him rights others were denied? His mind grasped for some cohesive answer. “I think not,” he answered his own question.
“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” she replied. “Have you changed?”
No. Circumstances had changed. But he wanted to change. Form himself into a new answer to an old question. A surge of exhilaration—hope and fear entwined—made him sway.
Terrifying, that.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“Whatever for?”
His mind tumbled through many reasons but landed with a thud on, “I’m drunk.”
“Oh,” she said with a wry smile. “I hadn’t noticed.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Are you saying you are at my mercy?”
“I should be…I should be a better man.”
“Should you?” She pondered the question. “That would be unfortunate, I think. A scandal and a paragon could never unite.”
“You are not a scandal.” He brushed the hair from her face and then traced the tresses as they snaked down her throat. “And I am most certainly not a paragon.”
“We are alone in a bedchamber, and you’ve been tiresomely distant.” She curled against his chest as if coddled in an embrace. “You said you wanted to hold me. I suggest you carry on.”
He wrapped her in his arms. Her scent flooded his nostrils and he submerged, head swimming. Her warmth melted the stubborn pain that even gin had not dulled. He could stand like this all evening, feeling her breath, her weight, her softness.
Reverently, he kissed the wayward line of her part. Helovedher. How impossible. Somehow, he’d actually fallen in love with his betrothed.
The organ thumping in his chest unfurled like a flag and a lightness entered his being. The feeling united with a word—gratitude. Had he known how light gratitude could make one feel, he would have attempted the emotion long ago. Then again, pride, guarded by pomp and circumstance, left little room for appreciation.
