“Louisa,” he said as gently as he could. “How can you possibly know you want to marry me?”
Her expression took on a mulish cast. “Why should I not?”
“Because I am not certain I will have anything to inherit!” He spat the words, his voice unintentionally harsh, and immediately regretted saying anything. Sympathy softened the stubbornness on her face, and she reached out a hand, sliding it down his arm until her fingers meshed with his.
He ought to push her away and tell her that this was all very improper. They were alone together and she was touching him, her fingers cool and soft. Everything about her was so soft, and he wanted her so badly he could barely breathe.
“I have nothing to offer a wife, Louisa,” he said eventually, hating the pleading note in his voice.
Because no matter how little he wanted to admit it, he wanted to make her his. An entirely primal, savage desire that he had kept chained up in his chest.
“Henry,” she said, and the sound of his name on her lips sent another bolt of desire through him. “Our parents . . . they might have brought us into the world, but that does not mean we should feel as though their inadequacies are a reflection of our own.” She stepped closer, looking as though she was tempted to pull him into an embrace.
He should not have wanted her to. He was not supposed to want her; she was a complication in a life he needed to be orderly and under his control. She was an escaped firework, a burst of light and joy in his cold, dreary existence.
If she left, she would take the colour with her.
“Dance with me,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She held up their joint hands. “Dance with me, Lord Eynsham.”
He looked from her hand to her eyes. They were a deeper colour now, a brown that reminded him of soft bark, of a boyhood half spent in the woods to avoid going back home. All he could think about were the perfect proportions of her face, and the realisation that her family would never be satisfied with him, the penniless son of an earl.
“There’s no music,” he said.
“We have no need for music.” She tugged him away from the window and into the middle of the room. There, she curtsied. As if trapped in a dream, he bowed, and her lips moved as she counted. He caught every number as though she were whispering a secret, and when she moved, he found himself following her lead. Close, then away, their hands clasping, thenfalling. The country dances had never felt so intimate, and there was nothing as natural as their movements, feet scuffing against the rolling floorboards as they danced underneath the watchful gaze of Comerford’s ancestors.
There was no way he could ever go back to how he had been. Even his vow, made in frustration and anger at his father’s blatant disrespect and his mother’s misery, felt far away. A fog clouded his vision until all he could see was her.
Men have gone to war for less.
For the first time, he thought he could understand why.
Chapter Fourteen
PRESENT DAY
March 1815
Louisa should not have been surprised to see Henry arrive at her side like a smartly dressed, disturbingly handsome guard dog the moment Knight showed any interest in her. It was just like Henry to ignore her until the moment she least wanted him.
If Knight was going to make any threats against her, she would rather he did it here than wait for a time they were both alone. That was when she feared he might take revenge, or enact some kind of retribution. In the middle of a drawing room, she was safe.
Henry, it transpired, was unaware of that.
She tamped down on the thrill that his proximity brought her, smothering it until she could convince herself it no longer existed. Instead, she gave him a cool smile, and glanced across at Mr Knight. “Gentlemen,” she said smoothly.
Mr Knight glanced up at Henry and the sneer that lurked just under his smile rose to the fore. “Lady Bolton,” he said. “I see you have not come undefended.”
She held up a hand to prevent Henry from speaking, and his lips pressed tight with the effort of keeping quiet. To her relief, however, he maintained his menacing silence. Heavens, but he really was good at brooding. She suspected it was the severity of his cheekbones—of all his face, softened only by a sinfully soft mouth.
“Mr Knight,” she said, doing her best to pretend that Henry didn’t exist. Unfortunately, the very magnetism of his presence prevented her from doing that. “What a surprise to see you here.”
His eyes narrowed very slightly, though the smile was still on his lips. She had never come across a man so adept at hiding his true feelings behind an expression of bland geniality. If she had not been looking at his eyes, relentlessly cold, she might never have noticed. “Is it, Lady Bolton?”
“Why, yes. What else would it be?”
