Page 122 of A Story of Love

“Yes. Until my grandfather wrote asking me to return.” He stared at their joined hands, an unreadable expression on his face.

Just when he looked on the verge of speaking, he seemed to shake himself and look up, his eyes blank as if he’d just woken from a trance.

Lori opened her mouth to ask what had changed—why his grandfather wanted him to return, but all of a sudden Fast released her hands and got to his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To bring your gifts to you, so I can watch you open them.” He carried the boxes back to her and set one on the table and the other in her lap. “Open it,” he ordered, taking the chair across from her.

She gave him a pained look.

“What is it, Lorelei?”

“It’s just that I’ve never given you anything.”

“Oh yes you have. Open your gifts, please.”

***

Fast was bloody grateful that he had snapped out of the powerfully confiding spell that had wrapped around him before he’d blurted out the truth about Bevil Norman and his part in Percy’s death.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but rather because he was so uncertain of what his future held. If he could not bring Moreland to justice in the accepted way, he would kill the man. Something told him that Lorelei would be less than eager to ally herself with a murderer.

Not only was the situation with Moreland a problem, but Fast believed Lorelei when she said she did not wish to marry. If he were given enough time, he knew that he could convince her that spending the rest of their lives together would be worth sacrificing some of her Wollstonecraftian ideals.

And then there was the issue of his grandfather, who would also need a great deal of careful handling. Although the old man was a stickler in many ways, Fast felt sure he could talk him around to his position in the end.

But he could hardly engage in either conversation when he might be a fugitive from the law, wanted for the murder of a peer, before the bloody week was out.

What he needed was some time to sort out one problem before turning to another. Not that being married to Lorelei was a problem. Indeed, he was fairly certain they would deal very well together once they’d got past a few minor hurdles—such as her hatred of the institution of marriage and his grandfather’s near-obsession with a lineage that could be traced back to the Conqueror.

Fast put the matter out of his head for the moment and enjoyed watching his lover open her gifts.

Her cheeks were flushed as she pulled the ribbon and lifted the lid off the box, rustling through the tissue paper before giving a small gasp and lifting a hand to her mouth.

He sat forward in his chair, his eyes fastened to her face. “Do you like it?”

She stroked the gauzy silk fabric, which was the same rich shade of red as the fruit of a pomegranate.

“It is magnificent,” she said, cutting him a quick, shy look. “I’ve never worn this color before.”

“Hold it up in front of yourself so I can see if I chose well. I argued quite fiercely for this color as Madam Thérèse said you couldn’t wear this shade.”

“How did she know what color I—” she broke off. “Ah, she saw me.”

He laughed. “Indeed, she saw far more of you than she liked. I think she was on the verge of capitulating the last time you interrogated her.”

She stood and lifted the silk which flowed like a scarlet waterfall from her hands.

When she held it up, Fast nodded, smugly pleased. “Just as I thought. Go look at yourself in the cheval glass. It is just inside my dressing room.”

“Well?” he called out, when he heard no sound from inside the adjacent room.

She came out slowly, her eyes downcast, her cheeks almost the same red as the gown.

“You don’t like it,” he said flatly.

“I love it. You were right; the color is perfect.”