Page 45 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

He stilled, his mouth at the curve of her neck and shoulders. “You said you did not wish to marry again.”

She swallowed hard. “I have revised my stance. I will consider marriage, but only to one particular person.”

He lifted his head to stare at her, candlelight glinting in his eyes. “Me?” he said, as if he were not certain.

Oh, the darling. This man. She slid her fingers into his hair, loving the thick, silken texture. “I fancy being the mistress of Rowan Hill. Riding about in my very dashing whiskey. Taking calls as Lady Wilkins.”

“But you are a viscountess. Would it not be lowering to marry a mere baronet?”

“Was a viscountess,” she said gently. “And I consider it great good fortune to be able to marry exactly as I wish. Not for my family, but for me.”

His eyes tightened at the corners. He cradled her in his arms, his touch gentle but cautious. “You know my past. You know what I’ve done. I nearly beat your brother-in-law to death. Twice.”

“And Turbeville?”

“No, the Hound sent others after him.” Pete winced. “You heard the history of my family. Are you not concerned—”

“No,” she said softly, framing his face with her hands. She looked into his eyes and saw everything she needed. His gentleness. His strength. His constancy. “I know you, Pedr Wilkins. And I trust you with my life.”

He wrapped his arms about her, and Prunella sank against him in surrender. “I’ll never be worthy of you,” he said hoarsely. “But I will try.”

She kissed him then and stopped all other conversation, for nothing more was needed but what they gave and promised with kiss and touch. And all of Prunella’s body melted into him as he held her close and kissed her, because she knew she was finally where she belonged.