Chapter 19

Quinton needed to leave the woman-scented bed as quickly as he could. He must abandon the sweet tangle of arms and legs. Never happened before—that urge to stay. But he’d never been married before, either, and a few hours after the sun rose, he would be. He poked his chest, rifled around in his brain. Discovered he felt no urgency to leave Lottie. The urgency lay in the need to marry her.

Thankfully, the sun had yet to spill golden across London’s gray, murky dawn. He had time to return his bride to her family, return to his own home, and bathe and dress.

Prepare to be married.

He should be terrified. With any other woman, he’d be a fit of nerves and sweat, a sour stomach personified, his body knowing what it had for six years now—only one woman felt right. And she slept naked and warm beside him, her golden head nuzzled against his chest, her mouth slightly open, her lips pink even in the pre-dawn shadows, her breasts plump and brushing his ribs. Hard as a rock, he was, had been since waking. But they had no time for dalliance. They’d slept too long.

A long strand of a gold curl wrapped neatly around his finger, and he tugged. She wrinkled her nose. He tugged again. She swatted his chest. He trailed his fingertip down the bridge of her nose, over her chin, down her neck, stopping only at her breasts. There, he flicked his thumb across her nipple. She gasped, arched, and her eyes flew open, finding him. She stretched for a lazy, sleepy second.

Then she shot upright. “What time is it?”

“Time to make our escape, Merriweather.” He kissed her soundly, and when she melted into his arms, he almost said to hell with it. But that wouldn’t get him what he really wanted—her in his bed every night. So, he released her with a sigh (hers) and a grin (his) and swung his feet to the floor. They dressed quickly, him helping with her stays, her tapes, and her not helping at all with the buttons of his fall where her sneaky fingers often found their way, flicking, unfastening.

“Desist, temptress,” he said with a laugh, manacling her hands together with his own. “We must be married today, and the sun demands we make haste.”

“I see no sun.” She wandered to the window, peeked out between the curtains. “And the rain seems to have stopped.”

“Precisely. We can’t see the sun, or we’re done for.” He settled himself behind her, cravat dangling from his neck untied. He placed his hand on the luscious curve of her hip and stroked the length of her neck with the other. Now he was distracted. And when she turned in his arms to beam up at him, his heart did an entirely odd thing. It skipped. It flipped over like a fish on a riverbank. Then it pounded like drums in his ears. All for this woman.

“I think I’m ill,” he whispered.

“It’s because you’re getting married today. All rakes feel their death coming as they walk up the aisle.”

That wasn’t it at all. No death. But life. The beginning of it. His heart settling into a new rhythm. He cleared his throat and flicked a curl lying over her forehead. “You put that cloak on. Pull it low. And I’ll gather Princess.”

The dog lay belly up near the foot of the bed, having found a pool of blankets to make a nest of. Her ears twitched. Lottie laughed and did as he asked, and he finished tying his cravat, donned his jacket, smoothed his hair, and located Princess’s lead.

When the hack they’d hailed stopped in the alley between the Merriweather residence and the mews, Quinton pushed Lottie’s cloak back and kissed her cheek. She kissed his lips, and his arms moved to hold her tight. He almost called out for the driver to take them to the edges of London and back again. But instead, he pushed her away, placed a peck of a kiss on the tip of her nose.

“Later, Lottie,” he said softly.

And she groaned, but she left, and the hack rolled forward without her, leaving Quinton in a cloud of loneliness. And… bliss? Odd combination that. But perfectly understandable considering Lottie. Princess rolled over and leaned against his feet with a huff, and he reached down to scratch behind her ear.

“Me as well, pup.” He wanted to roll over and lie at Lottie’s feet. Dangerous. The stuff Barnaby had warned him of. He rubbed at an aching spot in his chest, massaging away an uncomfortable tug of… what? Fear? Surely not. Doubt? For what?

The hack stopped. He was home, and he slipped through the back door as fast as Princess would allow, summoning his valet and having a bath heated. He sank into the water with a groan. It lapped over his skin as he rested his head against the rim, washing visions of Lottie sinking into her bath last night into his mind. His hand floated down his body, wrapped tight around his cock and—

The slam of boots thundering up the stairs shot his eyes open and his head upright.

“What the hell?” He gripped the edges of the tub, ready to fly from it.

His door flew open, slamming against the wall. Barnaby stormed into the room, a thundercloud deep on his thick, furrowed brows.

“Barnaby? Hell, give a man some privacy.” Quinton sank back into the water.

“Do you know where I’ve just come from?”

“No.” A clipped word as Quinton grabbed a square of linen from nearby and stood, wrapping it around the pertinent bits and exiting the tub. “But you can go back there. Or anywhere. Except for my chamber.”

“Bluevale.”

“Blue… why?”

“I wanted to see the work you’ve been doing with the cottages. I wanted to see that you’d come to your senses and chosen Parker’s designs instead of that useless Catcher’s.” Barnaby’s voice had reached the volume of a roar.

“Quiet down. You’ll wake the house. I’ve been busy with Lady Charlotte. I plan to visit Bluevale soon, view the improvements, and talk with Catcher, not Parker, about any problems the builders might be having.”

“Next week is too late, boy. Yesterday was too late. While you were frolicking with that harpy, there was a storm. Half the cottages are blown to bits.”

Quinton’s body shivered into ice. “When?”

“Just yesterday. I rode back to London without stopping as soon as I could. You should be riding to Bluevale just the same. Now.”

“Yes.” Quinton reached for his clothes, but he froze with his hand outstretched. “No. I’m to be married today. I… I’ll have to go after the wedding.” Irritation sliced through him, and he cut a hand through his hair with a small growl. Irritation with whom? Himself? Lottie? The situation?

“You can be married any day, lad. Your people need you. You’ve wasted enough time messing about with that woman, and—”

“That woman is to be my wife.” Quinton stuffed his arms through his shirt sleeves and glared at Barnaby. “And the mother of my future heir. You will speak of her with respect.”

Barnaby’s lips twitched. “The fact remains your people are suffering, and you’re here catering to that wo—Lady Charlotte’s whims.”

His people were suffering. With tingling fingers and numb legs, he stepped into his pantaloons. Hell, he was a mess. Barely bathed, barely able to breathe, let alone think, and he had to stand up with Lottie in a few hours.

“You must leave quickly, boy.”

Boy. The word had always grated and felt now like pebbles ground into his skin, between his teeth. “I’ll leave. After the wedding.”

“But—”

“I’ve no other choice, Barnaby.”

“A damn fine position you’ve put yourself in. Reminds me of—”

“Do not say my father.”

“It’s the truth. Had you chosen another lady, one you didn’t care for, you’d have a nice rational conversation with her, tell her you couldn’t attend the wedding. Hell, just send her a note. You’d be halfway to Bluevale by now. If you’d made a rational choice, you’d already be there, overseeing improvements.”

“Abandon the wedding? Are you mad? You truly think that the best course of action? You would do that?”

Barnaby shrugged. “Extreme, perhaps. But it’s an urgent matter, boy. Your peoples’ lives are at risk.”

Quinton scrubbed his palms over his face. He needed to be at Bluevale, a truth that sang through his blood. But he would not abandon Lottie, a truth bound with his bones.

He glanced out the window where the first rays of dawn flooded over London rooftops. “How many cottages damaged?”

“Five. Flimsy things. Should have been taken care of ages ago.”

Quinton winced. A tiny, involuntary gesture, the surface tell of a deep and painful cut. He’d done this. He’d known the cottages needed care. He’d had the plans, made the decision which architect to hire. But not quickly enough. While he’d been kissing, his people had been shivering. While he’d been flirting and folding bloody paper flowers, his people had watched roofs crash in on them.

He might be sick.

The rising sun glowed pink at the edges, promising purple.

But Quinton’s soul had gone gray, and his heart, no longer sleeping, wailed like a storm-angry wind.