He’d caught her eye more often than he’d confess during the past hour, yet notoncehad he glanced at the documents.
Louisa’s decision crystallized. She was to be his wife, protector of his every vulnerability, as he would vow to protect hers. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she interrupted lightly, “would you mind giving us a moment? There are a few things I’d like to discuss with Mr. Beckett before my father returns to finalize the agreement. If you see him in the corridor, please occupy him.”
Her matchmaker glanced at the mantel clock. “Ten minutes. Not enough time to allow another indiscretion.” Then she smiled, or Louisa imagined she did behind the thick veil. “Although you’ll findthischemistry matters more than any other, my dear.”
Advice given, Mrs. Dove-Lyon exited the room, leaving the door conspicuously ajar.
As soon as she was out of hearing, Louisa drew the papers toward her. “Come, I’ll read them to you. Then you and my father can spend the afternoon negotiating to your heart’s content. The financial section I shall leave to your sound negotiation skills. In my experience, women aren’t asked their opinion on those matters.”
“My heart’s content, is it?” he murmured from his post against the beveled window frame and now that they were alone, lounging as though he hadn’t a care in the world. When she could still see the restlessness simmering beneath his calm veneer. He had a habit of rubbing his thumb over his knuckles, a slight, steady rhythm betraying his unease. She wondered if anyone else in the entire world knew this about him.
Dominic Beckett: so maddeningly composed under pressure, cool where most men blustered, capable where others faltered, brilliant without realizing it, had adorable tells.
And unbelievably, he was soon to behers.
Crushing the smile that threatened, Louisa crooked her finger.
Rocking back, he hesitated, then sighed and crossed the room with the reluctant stride of a man forced over hot coals. As he drew nearer, his hand raked through his hair, sending it into a stunning tumble over his brow. “This needs cutting before the ceremony. My sister-in-law was clear on the matter.”
“Don’t,” Louisa said too quickly, the word slipping out before she could school her tone. She had a straightforward fantasy: tangling her fingers in those silken strands while they lost themselves in each other.
Dominic paused, arm falling to his side. “Quit looking at me like that, or the wedding night be damned. I’ll climb through your window to get to you.”
She shrugged as a rush of heat spiraled through her, ending its pathway right between her thighs. “Then climb.”
He crushed his own delight, though the betraying curve of his lips only rendered them more kissable. “You truly are the most puzzling woman I’ve ever known, Radcliffe. I look forward to trying to tame you.” He held up his hand before she could argue. “Note: I used the wordtrying.”
Louisa tipped her chin, voice laced with mischief. “Good choice. I’d hate to marry a man who thought me biddable.”
He coughed, half laugh, half surrender, before dropping onto the nearest settee. The leather creaked beneath his weight, the faint scent of linseed oil and sun-warmed wood drifting over as he stretched out with the careless grace of a man who’d spent many a night sleeping where he could. One arm slung over his eyes, blocking her from view, as though—please, let it be—her very presence tested the limits of his restraint. “Read, then. I’ll swear loudly if I have an objection.”
So she began reciting the contract that laid out their future in tidy lines of ink, the act intimate despite the harmless look of it. The crackle of parchment, the hush of her voice, the faint rasp of his breath. How strange that such domestic sounds could feel more binding than a kiss. Swallowing hard, Louisa faltered at the next clause. One slipped in this morning, without her father’s knowledge. Clearing her throat, she forced the words out: “Lady Louisa will be allowed to continue her scientific endeavors, including reasonable expenditure on materials.”
Silence.
Her heart pounded against her ribs. Was he asleep?
“Go on,” he murmured at last, his palm ironing idly over the flat plane of his belly. Cognizant. Present. Relaxed, almost drowsy. And agreeable—inwriting—to her pyrotechnic experiments, unlike any man society would have chosen for her.
The rush of feeling that swept Louisa was devastating. Too sharp, too warm, too close to the one thing she dared not name. She’d never pictured marrying anyone. And, suddenly, Dominic was there, beside her, and she could picture marrying him.
Oh, heavens. Oh,blazes.
This isn’t love. It can’t be.
This union was a practical arrangement, driven by financial need on his side and a family frustrated to the point of delirium on hers. If she’d been half-besotted with Dominic Beckett since the bookstore incident, she could only pray he’d one day be besotted, too.
Imagining this marvel, her voice splintered on the final words of the contract.
When she looked up, he’d lifted his arm from his eyes, his keen gaze finding hers with a frankness that unraveled her. “I’ll try, Lou, to be a good husband,” he said hoarsely, as though each word had to be pushed past a barrier. He shifted upright on the settee, restless, raking his hand through his hair until it stood in adorable spikes she longed to settle. “We don’t know each other well, not really, but I’m finding that…”
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t want to disappoint you, like I’ve disappointed every person who’s ever depended on me. I can’t bear it, getting it wrong again with someone I care about.”
Did hecareabout her? Louisa rose, crossing to him before she could think better of it, her skirt covering his boots when she stopped in front of him, kneeling until their faces were level. “I believe in you,” she said softly.
Dominic’s gaze searched hers, skeptical, hungry, disbelieving. His eyes were the fiery color of the sky before a storm, the sea before an onslaught. “You don’tknowme.”
“I do.” Her throat tightened, the truth trembling there, aching to be spoken. He needed an action from his past to be proud of. “When I was fifteen, we met, briefly, in Longman’s. You saw me clutching a book my father refused to buy. You added it to your account as if it were nothing. You showed me kindness, something I hadn’t been offered often. Not when it came to that part of me.”
