Even now, lost in the anger and resentment that had followed her for nine years, she could admit that he cared for her. But his reasoning, his timing—his assumption that she would be coerced into marriage when she had explicitly said she would not—merely stoked her temper.
Even if she had not been barren, even if she could have made him the perfect little wife, she would not have accepted a proposal such as this, when she had been so very plain about her intentions. He should have known better than to ask.
“Oh,” she said, and gave a hard, angry laugh. “Well, I admit it was satisfying. I would not object if you wished to be my lover. Do you want to keep me as your mistress?”
He was silent behind her, and the next thing she knew, he was lacing up her dress.
Duty had been the cornerstone of Henry’s life from the moment he had understood what he had been born into. He understood the need to uphold it the way the stars understand they cannot outshine the sun.
And yet when he had asked Louisa to marry him, he had not been thinking of his obligation to his family, or her fortune, or of anything but the fact he did not think he could bear to let her go now. Their joining had been a gift and a curse; before, he had wanted without knowing precisely what it was he was being denied, and he had been ignorant of the blessing that was.
The truth was, he had acted on instinct; his body had asked her before his mind had a chance to agree. The proposal was a mistake blurted at the worst possible moment. And now she hated him all over again, shaking with anger under his fingers as he loosely and poorly laced her dress.
“Louisa,” he said in a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. “When I asked you . . . That was not what I meant.”
“No?” Her brow rose. “How perfectly flattering.”
“For God’s sake.” He strode away from her, needing the space to think. His body was still overwhelmed by the torrent of sensation it had experienced, and it was at odds with the peculiar pain in his heart. “I was speaking of the method, not . . . I have every wish to marry you, but I had not intended to ask you then.”
“You need not explain yourself,” she said, turning to the full-size mirror and applying herself to her hair. “I understand perfectly, but if you were caught up with passion, then time should put that to rights.”
He should have known better than to blurt out a proposal when she was vulnerable, when they were both naked. She was like a nervous horse, liable to bolt from any hint of affection, no matter how much she had shown herself to want it.
Then again, what did he know? Perhaps she was like that with all her lovers, and he had become another name on a long list. The thought was excruciating.
“It was not merely passion,” he said.
Her hands paused. She was delectable, brown hair tumbling about her shoulders despite her attempts to pin it up. Although she was wearing her dress, she looked rumpled, ravished, and so utterly exquisite that he could have pulled her to the bed. Taken her again. His hunger for her was insatiable.
He did not know how he could learn to live without her now he had given her everything.
He drew in a breath. “How could you think I have ever wanted anything else?”
Her green eyes met his, the feeling in his gut a tug like a fish on a hook, before she returned to her appearance. “You should think of Miss Winton,” she said, and the tug in his gut turned into a blow.
Miss Winton.
Over the past few days, he had done his duty in singling her out and making conversation. She was a lovely girl, one whom he could imagine being friends with. If they were to marry, they would have a harmonious, if uninspiring, existence. It was an existence he had been resigned to—until this with Louisa, where she had not so much as crossed his mind.
He was a blackguard.
He could not do it.
“Miss Winton,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I take it you forgot your betrothed while in here with me.” She combed through her tangled curls. “Fear not, Henry. You are not the first.”
His world rocked. Louisa would not have him; he could not have Miss Winton.
“I can’t,” he said, gripping a post on the bed. “I can’t marry her.”
Louisa’s face twisted, and she whirled, the rawness in her expression almost frightening. “Is that how you think to compel me to agree to marry you? Because you will not succeed, I can assure you of that.”
“I can’t marry her,” he repeated.
She advanced on him now, eyes blazing, her lips twisted in a snarl. “Is that how you intend to treat the poor girl?”
“There’s no formal agreement between us—”
