Melanie bit her lip, and then, “You meant it, didn’t you?” she asked, not caring that her voice sounded rough. “You meant every word, didn’t you?”
She didn’t need to specify which words.
“Yes.” Harry sank to his knees beside the bed, his hands holding hers reverently. “Every damn word.” His voice came out husky, but filled with conviction. He lifted their hands to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “You will marry me, won’t you?”
Tears—happy ones—welled in her eyes. “For love?” she whispered, needing to know for certain that this wasn’t about honor. It wasn’t about duty or guilt.
“For love.” He chuckled softly, his smile breaking through the tension. “As long as you remember all of this tomorrow.”
“I’ll remember.” A laugh bubbled out of her, light and free. “I love you, Harry,” she whispered.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” he whispered back. Leaning forward, he kissed her, and Melanie sighed into it.
He tasted of whisky and smoke and… Harry.
This was exactly what she needed.He, it seemed, was exactlywhoshe needed.
When Melanie pulled him closer, the kiss deepened.
Talking was no longer necessary. Instead, they would convey unspoken feelings with all manner of intimate gestures—affection.
Friendship. Protection. Need. Want. Love.
And still, somehow, so much more.
“Harry,” Melanie breathed, and gentleness gave way to urgency.
She felt his hand cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, and she clenched her thighs together.
Tightening her arms around his neck, she pulled him onto the bed. He dropped his weight beside her, but when she turned to face him, he pulled away a little.
Then, with a low, regretful sound, Harry rested his forehead against hers.
“We can’t,” he murmured, his voice unsteady but firm. “I can’t. Not yet. You’re still recovering.”
“But…” She sighed, wanting to protest, but when she realized that she was too tired to know where to begin, it occurred to her that he might be right.
On top of that, aside from however long he’d rested while sitting at her bedside, Harry himself looked like he hadn’t really slept for days. “Very well,” she conceded. As long as he didn’t think she’d give in this easily next time. “You’re exhausted, too.”
He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “A little,” he said.
He leaned closer, his lips on her forehead for the briefest moment before he pulled back, his silver eyes never leaving her face. “Get some rest, Melanie. You’re safe now, and we have all the time in the world.”
“You’ll stay with me?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He pulled her into his arms, snuggling up beside her.
And as she closed her eyes, she felt it—not just the safety of his presence, but the certainty of his love.
EPILOGUE
THE ENGAGEMENT BALL
The betrothal ball celebrating the engagement of Lady Melanie Rutherford to the Duke of Malum was, without question, the event of the Season—if not the entire decade.
Hosted by the Earl and Countess of Standish at their Mayfair home on Hanover Square, the ball had been eagerly anticipated by everyone fortunate enough to receive one of the highly-coveted invitations.
It was the talk of London.
