“Yes. I am in short precisely the sort of woman I cannot conceive you wanting to be with, but I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I don’t care.”
A band around his chest broke away and snapped, and he felt as though he was floating. Or perhaps dreaming. Perhaps while he was sleeping he had imbibed a gallon of wine. “No?” he said.
“No,” she said. “Because, Henry Beaumont, I’m terribly in love with you.”
“Terribly,” he repeated.
“Awfully. Obscenely.” Her smile gained in warmth; her eyes were twin green flames. “Frankly, it is horrific and—”
Something snapped inside him, and he tugged her closer, fisting his hands in her dress as he kissed her. Her lips parted on a gasp, and he took every piece of her that she offered. If this was another figment of his imagination, another dream taking on an eerily realistic form, then he would make the most of every last second.
Her arms closed around his neck, fingers digging into his hair. Her nails scraped against his scalp. His hand was on her back, holding her against him, urgent. Eager. Her body was soft, and as he traced her curves, they were familiar as old songs.
“I had still more to say to you,” she said as he broke away to kiss her neck.
“Wait a while.”
“No, Henry.” Her slim fingers closed around his wrist, stilling him instantly. “I want you to listen to what I have to say before you do something you regret.”
“I have not regretted a single moment with you.”
“I’m going to ask you to marry me.”
He laughed, a little giddy. “What is there to regret in that?”
“I cannot bear children,” she said, the words stark and harsh as though it had taken everything in her to say them. Her hazeleyes were shuttered now, brown more than green. “If we marry, if you consent to marry me, you will not have an heir.”
He frowned, confused. “Louisa—”
“And do not tell me that perhaps things will be different, because they will not. And I warn you, Henry, I will not consent to bring up your bastards as my own.”
He laughed then, to her obvious displeasure. “There will be no bastards.”
“This isserious.”
“My love,” he said gently, sobering when he saw how distressed she was, “why do you think this would have any bearing on my decision?”
“Because you will be the Earl of Shrewsbury one day.”
He brushed an errant curl back from her lovely face. “When I resolved to break things off with Miss Winton, I thought I would never marry,” he said, holding her gaze so she understood how much he meant what he was saying. “I would have had no heirs then.”
“But—”
“I dislike children. Babies in particular, but all children. Even my own siblings, once I was an adult and they were not. After enduring the upbringing my father chose to give us, I never yearned for a family. My brother can inherit when I die, and if I somehow outlive him, I am certain he will have children.” A thought occurred to him, and his hold on her waist tightened. “But what of you? Do you want a family?”
“No,” she said emphatically. “And you should know that, too. I understand the need to procreate as a species, but it has never been a personal desire of mine.”
“Excellent. Then we will want for nothing.”
She blinked and frowned, as though that was a ludicrous statement. “We? Then you will marry me despite it?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“Truly?”
He laughed, the sound rusty and disused. “I would be a madman and a fool not to marry you now.”
“That,” she said, “was a terrible proposal.” Then she smiled, and touched a finger to the dampness under her eyes. “I think I might be crying.”
