"Youknowwhat I wish to say?" That made her lift her brow.
He returned her look with a sardonic one of his own. "First, you want to thank me for all I have done for you and Primrose."
"True," she allowed.
"You want to tell me you've enjoyed our time together. The pleasure we've shared."
His bright gaze dared her to disagree, but why would she when he spoke the truth?
"A great deal of pleasure, I should think," she said softly.
He flinched, as if her words had caused him physical pain. He straightened his shoulders, met her eyes. "Be that as it may, you have responsibilities. A daughter to think of." His lashes grazed his cheek. "And you want to remind me that we've never made promises to one another."
Her throat thickened. "Haven't we?"
His gaze snapped back to hers. "Don't play games with me, Marianne. It doesn't suit you," he said tersely. "You and I both know you've committed nothing to me."
She ached fiercely for the hurt she saw in his beautiful eyes. And his courage and innate heroism struck her once more: he'd given her so much—her daughter, her very life back—with no expectation of receiving anything in return. On a flash of insight, she realized that she was dealing with a wounded male. Her skin tingled with remorse and love... so much love.
"Butyouhave," she said, her voice tremulous. "You have committed something to me. You said you loved me, Ambrose."
A weaker man might have taken back those words. Excused them as a moment's folly, meaningless sentiment uttered in the heat of passion.
Ambrose only shook his head. "I cannot do this anymore. I can't live for the moment. The mistake was mine in thinking that I could." His hands balled at his sides. "I'm a simple man, Marianne, with simple wants. And I see now that what I want is not possible with you."
"Why not?" she whispered, reaching for him.
He took a step back. "No... don't. This ends now. You and I both know that is what is best for Primrose. For you."
"You'rebest for us," she said softly. "I want you, Ambrose."
A spasm crossed his features. "You can't have me, Marianne. I'll not be content to share your bed as the moment suits. I want—nay, Ideserve—more."
"You deserve everything," she agreed. "Everything and more. If you give me a chance, I vow I'll do my utmost to give it to you."
He stared at her. "What are you saying?"
"I love you." Strange how she'd held onto those words with such trepidation; now they left her lips with no hesitation at all. With nothing but a rush of liberation and joy.
"I love you so very much, Ambrose," she said steadily, "and if you will have me, I promise to spend the rest of my days proving that to you. I'll never give you cause for regret. I'll make myself worthy of your name, if you bestow it upon me."
She saw the fire kindling in his eyes, the sudden flare of hope. Yet his hands stayed clenched at his sides.
"You cannot mean that," he said. "You have Primrose to think of. Lady Harteford was right: your daughter needs the protection of wealth, a title."
"You heard our conversation?" she said, frowning.
Though he flushed, his gaze did not waver. "Enough of it to know that you spoke nothing but the truth. I—I can't give you and Primrose a position in society. I can't provide for you, not in the style you are accustomed to."
"I don't need you to provide for us. I have plenty of money," she said. "As for Primrose, I've decided that her happiness is more important than what thetonthinks. We'll have our friends and our detractors, and that is the way of life. Primrose will do well to learn that lesson early on." She gave him a wistful smile. "What she needs is a father—a good, decent man to protect and love her."
"I failed to keep you safe. I exposed Primrose to harm."
At his stark words, she looked at him in surprise. "How can you say that? Thanks to your ingenuity, you saved us both. You freed us from Coyner once and for all."
His throat worked, and she saw how much he was struggling between his principles and his desires. Between what he thought was right and his own happiness. Silly man, didn't he realize they were one and the same? Shamelessly, she played her trump card.
"My daughter needs you, butIneed you even more," she said, her voice breaking just a little. "I need to fall asleep in your arms each night and to wake with you beside me. I need your advice, even though I won't always heed it. I need to share your laughter and your woes and to be a part of the family we will create together." Blinking away sudden moisture, she said, "Most of all, Ambrose, I need you to love me as much as I love you."
