Lady Ainsworth dabbed at her eye as if dust had offended her.
And Graham… Graham looked at Eleanor as though the world had narrowed to one point of light.
He offered his arm. Eleanor took it, and they stepped into the pale London morning.
A carriage waited at the curb—plain, hired, discreet. No crests. No flourishes.
Colin approached the step, hands clasped behind his back. “Try not to die for at least a fortnight,” he said. “The paperwork would be intolerable.”
Graham’s reply was dry. “Your sentiment overwhelms.”
“It is my gift.” He held the envelope with the red seal out to Eleanor. “And this.”
She accepted it, offering a small nod of gratitude, then Colin stepped back, allowing them into the carriage.
As she seated herself, Eleanor felt the first tremors of relief, joy, the strange unmooring of being claimed in public without being owned.
Graham sat opposite her, the carriage suddenly too small to contain what pressed between them. His gaze went, inevitably, to her hand.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
Eleanor’s brows rose. “You think I would endure the church and the clergyman and your friend’s smugness only to regret it?”
His mouth tightened. “I think you are capable of enduring anything.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said softly. “But this…” She lifted her hand. “This is what I wanted. A man who values me. One who treats me like an equal and cares about me, not just for me.”
Graham’s gaze darkened. “And what do you want now, Lady Rathbourne?” he asked, voice low.
The title struck her like a small, thrilling blow. She leaned forward, wicked as any hellion. “I want my husband to stop looking at me as though I might vanish,” she murmured, “and to start touching me as though I cannot.”
Graham’s restraint snapped. He reached for her, drew her close, and kissed her. Deep and passionate. A vow sealed with heat.
Eleanor laughed into his mouth and tugged his cravat loose. “I hate that knot.”
“I have always hated it,” Graham confessed, and kissed her harder.
The carriage rocked over cobbles as the world outside blurred into gray and gold. Graham drew her into his lap as though distance were an insult. Her gloves landed somewhere on the floor.
His hand found the seam of her sleeve, fingers tracing the skin at her wrist. “You are cold,” he said.
“Then you had better warm me up.”
His mouth slid to her throat.
Eleanor cupped his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Say it,” she demanded softly.
His eyes held hers—dark, feral.
“Say that you want me,” Eleanor said, “not because it is sensible, not because it protects me, but because it is undeniable.”
“I want you,” he said, raw and absolute. “I wanted you the moment you refused to be frightened into silence. I want you with every breath I take, mind, body, and soul.”
Eleanor kissed him again, taking what she had asked for.
The carriage turned into the mews and stopped.
Graham pressed his forehead to hers, breath unsteady. “We are home.”
