“I know what I’m getting with Mr. Marks. He knows what he’s getting with me. He’s honest. He works hard, and I’ve been honest to him.”
“And he’s not here, but I am.”
“You don’t mind my weaknesses? My sight and my faltering moments? Or the fact that I might be frigid?”
There was no way that could be, not his warm, passionate Ruth. He put his hand upon hers. “I don’t think it possible. If you are trying to run me off, try something else.”
“What if I said I only wanted a marriage of convenience, nothing more? Would that be enough for you?”
Was she serious?
Did she not sense the passion burning in her? That kiss on Fournier Street had been a fire to his soul, a lamp brightening his bruised heart.
“Is that the only thing available? Did the barrister agree to this?”
“I’m asking what you would accept. Would you settle for a platonic marriage of convenience?”
He should’ve put brandy in the basket. He needed to be cold drunk to agree to worship her at a distance.
But what if that was what she wanted?
“Ruth, I’ll take what you are willing to give. As much or as little of your heart as you offer, I want it.”
“My heart is gone. Gone four years. Can you understand that?”
I’m Adam. I am Adam. I’m Adam.The confession was on his tongue. Would his truth make a difference? Would she hate him more?
He tugged at his collar but made sure it did not slip. “I’ll do anything you want, but I’ll try every day to make you so much in love with me, you can’t help but kiss me like you did on Fournier Street. I won’t resist you, Ruth. I won’t even try.”
Her tense smile turned into an easy laugh.
“I’ll try hard to be irresistible.”
She laughed more.
The knot in his throat eased. He wanted Ruth in every way, but he’d be patient. She was everything.
“I’m torn. You are sweet to me in your own manipulative way.”
“Slightly manipulative. Maybe a smidgeon overconfident, but I believe in us.”
His little heir hopped and waved. As he made another lap, she signaled to him.
“Christopher, come. This is your cousin, Lord Wycliff. Lord Wycliff, this is Christopher Wilky.”
He stuck out his hand to the boy.
“How tall are you, Wicky?”
“It’s Wycliff and tall.”
The little fellow bounced, then pointed to Mrs. Bexeley. “You’re big, but my aunt is not tall.”
Wycliff picked him up and looked at the squirming boy eye-to-eye. “I think you will grow big, big like your father.”
“Big? How big is that?”
“Hmmm.Let me think.” Wycliff glanced at the boy again. The skin coloring was right. He could easily be a blend of Ruth’s and his. The wavy bob of hair on the boy’s head could be Wycliff’s mother’s or Ruth’s father’s.
