The words hit him like a physical blow. “Then why are we waiting?” He cupped her face. “Why are we torturing ourselves with propriety when we both know how this ends?”
“Because I need to be certain.” Her eyes searched his. “I need to know this isn’t just?—”
“Just what?”
“Just wanting proximity. Just—” She stopped. “I need to know you see me. Not the widow. Not the woman who comes with burdens. Me.”
“I see you.” He leaned closer. “I’ve seen you since the pea conversation. Since you looked at me like I was worth knowing instead of just a title. Since you let me help with your father-in-law. I see you, Margaret. All of you. And I choose you. Every day. Every moment.”
“Henry—”
He kissed her.
Three weeks of restraint shattered in an instant.
His mouth claimed hers, desperate and demanding. She gasped against his lips, and he deepened the kiss, tasting her, drowning in her.
Her hands slid into his hair and pulled him closer. She met him with equal hunger.
This wasn’t the sweet kiss in her kitchen with siblings upstairs. This was three weeks of wanting compressed into a single moment. Three weeks of proper touches and stolen glances and going rigid as he thought of her.
He pulled her closer, and she came willingly, melting against him. The coat fell from her shoulders. Neither of them cared. His hand found the curve of her waist, then her ribs, then the swell of her breast through fabric.
She gasped and arched into his touch, making a sound that shot straight through him.
He traced the edge of her neckline and felt her shiver, felt his own control fracturing. “Tell me to stop,” he managed against her mouth.
“Don’t stop.” Her fingers twisted in his hair. “Please, Henry. Don’t stop.”
His thumb brushed over her nipple through the fabric. She moaned.
He kissed her jaw, her throat, the sensitive spot below her ear that made her gasp.
“Margaret,” he breathed against her skin. “Marry me. Tomorrow. I have the license. We don’t have to wait. Just say yes and?—”
Gravel crunched.
They stilled.
Margaret’s eyes went wide. Henry’s hand tightened at her waist.
“Oh, gracious dear!” The voice cut through the night like a blade.
Margaret pulled back from Henry, heart hammering as she turned to face the garden path.
Aunt Agnes stood there with theatrical shock written across her face, her ridiculous feathered turban bobbing indignantly. Behind her stood the vicar’s wife and Mrs. Henderson—the biggest gossip in three counties.
Henry stepped forward, already opening his mouth to speak.
Margaret stopped him with a hand on his arm. “No,” she said quietly. Then louder, to the women watching, “Let me.”
She stepped past Henry and faced the three women, who were already composing tomorrow’s gossip in their heads, already deciding how to tell the story of the scheming widow who’d trapped another man.
“Before you say anything,” Margaret said, voice steady despite the way her hands shook, “let me save you the trouble of speculation. Yes, we were kissing. Yes, we were alone. Yes, this looks improper.”
She lifted her chin. “But I didn’t trap him. I didn’t scheme or manipulate or set this up. Henry has been courting me for three weeks—openly, with chaperones and propriety and every rule you could possibly demand. He invited me here. He’s had a special license ready since the day I arrived in London. If anyone’s been trapped, it’s mutual.”
The vicar’s wife blinked. “Lady Margaret?—”
