Grubby pre-dawn light streaked in through the threadbare curtains, illuminating his face just enough that when she raised her head, she could make out the faint, faded freckles across his cheeks and his luxurious half-moon lashes. In sleep, he was fully at peace, relaxed and at ease. If only he could stay this way. When he woke, her troubles would greet him, chasing away his smile.
First she had hurt him, and now she relied on him for his help.
How terribly, bitterly ironic.
She slid her fingers along his chin, brushing the steadily growing stubble there. The roughness sent heat through her, though she had no time to indulge in that. Part of her wished shecould—wished she could put the grief and anger and fear in her body to rest just long enough to take him.
His eyes opened. Soft hazel, pupils pinpricked to reveal the rings of green at their full brightness. His lips moved against the palm of her hand, his hand firming at her waist. “Good morning, darling,” he said, voice low and hoarse with sleep. “Did you sleep well?”
She had. Remarkably well with him there.
“This was the first time I’ve woken with a man in my bed.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I only wish the circumstances were better.”
Oliver slid his hand into his hair, and with an impressive show of abdominal strength, sat both of them up. He kissed her. “They could still be,” he said against her mouth. “Not this morning. But perhaps next week, or the week after. All is not lost.”
For several long, glorious seconds, she lost herself to the feel of his mouth on hers. By the movement of his body, he was more than ready for more, but she forced herself away, catching his face in her hands.
“I can’t. Not here.” She glanced at the pillow, where Isabella’s head so often lay. “Not where she usually sleeps.”
His face softened in understanding, and he pressed one final, chaste kiss to her lips before sliding out of the bed. The covers fell from him, and she had the perfect view to see the full extent of his nudity. And, incidentally, the full extent of his arousal.
“It’ll pass,” he said with a wry smile directed over his shoulder. “I often awaken like this, even without a beautiful woman in my bed.”
Her cheeks heated, though she ought to have known better. “You are a flirt.”
“I,” he said solemnly, finding a case and opening it for a fresh shirt, “am yours, body and soul, Emily.” He tugged it over hishead, wincing as it caught his arm, then grinned. “And I am also a flirt. Flatter me and tell me I’m good at it.”
“Why should I?”
“To satisfy my ego? Or perhaps because I have never once meant the flattery I’ve given a woman as much as the flattery I offer you. I say nothing lightly, you know. I think you are as damn near perfect as any woman I’ve encountered.” Then, as though he had not delivered this with all the ease of informing her it might rain, he fastened his breeches and shrugged on his waistcoat. “We’ll breakfast at theRose & Crown. I have enough left for that, at least.”
Emily frowned at the case containing his things. “You retrieved that from Lord Marlbury’s house?”
“Well, I have no intention of coming back, and I confess, it’s pleasing to be wearing something clean and fresh for once.” He examined his waistcoat, which was particularly fine and looked out of place in her dingy room. “Pack your Sunday best for meeting my brother. Appearances matter to him a great deal, and although he will agree to help us, I have a vested interest in ensuring he approves of you.”
Because he intended to marry her after all? She had offered to—and part of her even wanted to—but the thought terrified her.
“I doubt a pretty dress”—though she didn’t have one of those—“would make him approve of me.”
“Nonsense. He will like you a great deal.”
“Don’t lie to me merely to placate me, Oliver.”
“You and he are rather similar,” he said ruefully. “He took it upon himself to manage our father as much as he could and made the best of a situation I, certainly, could not have touched. And, from the outside, he seems somewhat . . .” He hesitated, fingers skating lightly across her cheekbone. “Cold.”
Amusement, as bitter as it was warm, tinged her smile. “Like me?”
“Once you get to know him, you will discover he is secretly kind, and very dutiful. He cares a great deal about us all. I believe that is why he’s been so harsh with me.” He sat on the edge of the bed, looking uncommonly serious. “He’ll help us, Em. For my sake if not for yours, but I think he will for your sake, too.”
“How can you be so certain?” she asked, searching his eyes.
“Because I will ensure it. If there is one thing you can trust me on, it is that I will make this happen, one way or the other. Whether I must sacrifice my inheritance or commit myself to working on his estate for the rest of my life. Whatever it takes.” He squeezed her hand, then kissed her fingers. “I’ll admit my life thus far has not amounted to much, but it will amount to this. Trust me.”
And Emily did. She could not have had any choice; with his earnest assurance and the determination in his eyes, she could not have done anything but surrender her doubt and place herself fully in his hands.
She could not have done anything but love him.
The journey to Licolnshire took four days. Emily spent a great deal of it silent, staring out of the window, and Oliver endured every bump and pothole the English roads had to offer. All the while, he thought about how he might persuade Henry to help. Louisa, he had no worries over—but he had stolen Henry’s carriage and sworn he would marry the first girl he saw.
