He wiped away her tears with his knuckles and brought her close. “Marry me, Louisa,” he whispered. “Marry me and be happy.”
“Better.” She laughed, the sound was a little drunken. “And to think I tried my hardest to hate you.”
He kissed her damp, salty mouth, feeling it curve under his lips. “Then thank heavens there is one thing you put your mind to that you did not achieve.”
Given Henry could not be sure a servant—or worse, a member of his family—would not interrupt them, it wasn’t long before they moved upstairs. She followed in his wake, her hand locked in his, gazing at the rambling old house around them with its history and crooked floors. He was certain and unerring in his movements, and she could not fail to recognise the significance of where he led her: his bedchamber.
This was a room, she saw at a glance, that bore all the signs of a child growing up here. There were scratches along the side of the mahogany dresser, as though he had taken a knife to the corner, and the curtains were very slightly ripped at the hem. A hand had been thrown up in the face of time, and here it had stopped.
He closed the door behind her and she looked around, curious about the paintings on the wall. “Are these Thomas Hyatt’s?”
“One. The others are replicas.”
“They’re beautiful.”
He looked directly at her. “So are you.”
The unabashed sincerity in his voice made her blush, a little foolishly, and she strolled to the window, gazing out across the garden and at the glint of ocean in the far distance. “I hadn’t known you were so near the sea here,” she said in surprise.
“Would you like to visit?”
She glanced archly over her shoulder. “Perhaps when we are married.”
“We should probably discuss the details,” he said, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her waist. She leant back into his chest. “I don’t mind telling you that a runaway marriage is off the table.”
“A shame. I was looking forward to fleeing to Gretna Green in the dead of night.”
“I believe you would,” he said wryly.
“If the situation called for it, certainly. But I doubt it will. After all, I’m of age and perfectly able to make my own decisions without the permission of a ridiculous parent.” She twisted in his arms, looking up into his handsome face. “May we marry here?”
“Not London?”
She made a face. “My first marriage was in London.”
“Then I’ll consult with the local reverend. Would you like me to procure a special licence?”
At the thought, her nose wrinkled. Gretna Green, she could have endured, but she had married Bolton by way of special licence. “Have the banns read,” she said. “We can wait three weeks. Unless you intend to abstain before our wedding night, in which case I will overcome my distaste for special licences, and even the prospect of marriage in London if it will make you mine faster.”
He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “If I’ve broken my vows once, I hardly see the harm in doing so again.”
“I never properly thanked you for retrieving my painting for me. It must have cost you a great deal.”
“No,” he said, fingertips brushing her face, his eyes searching hers. “It cost me nothing I don’t mind losing.” A slow smile broke across his face. “But if you would like to thank me, I can think of a few ways in which you may.” Without giving her time to answer, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Once there, he busied himself with the pins in her hair.
“When will your family return from Havercroft?”
“Not for some hours yet.” He eased her dress aside and kissed the slip of bare shoulder it revealed. “I’ll have you presentable again before then.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” she warned, and tugged at his cravat. She wanted it off, all of it. He retaliated by removing her layers, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar clothing—although if she had her way, it would become familiar soon enough. Before she could return the favour, he seated himself against his pillows and drew her bare back against his clothed chest.
“Henry,” she said, but he shook his head.
“Let me touch you.”
Well, there seemed little to be said to that.
His hand travelled luxuriously down her body, exploring one breast then the next, before the soft curve of her stomach, her hipbone, the flare of her thighs below, then finally between them. She could not help arching her back at his touch, and he made a low noise in the back of his throat at the slick feel of her against his fingers. So often he seemed to forget that as much as he wanted, she was his equal in desire.
