Chapter Thirty-Two

Henry's dream had been by far the best he'd had of her. He tried to hold on to the feeling, but it slipped away as wakefulness, and the remainder of his hangover, crashed back over him. He blinked, eyes gritty, resigned to spending the rest of the day in the study and meeting with the steward.

That was, until he became aware of a weight on his stomach. He blinked again and brought his gaze to focus on the sight in front of him. Louisa was perched on his stomach, knees on either side of his hips, flexing her fingers.

Could it be he was still dreaming?

She raised her brows at him. "Will I be obliged to strike you again?"

Dazedly, he rubbed his cheek where he still felt the lingering sting of her last blow. "I would rather you didn't."

"Then do me the honour of believing I exist this time around." Her words were prim, but there was a dancing, mischievous light in her eyes that made his head spin.

"Did we kiss?" he asked.

"Strictly speaking, you kissed me."

He pushed into a sitting position, but although she slid down his body and into his lap, she made no effort to extricate herself from him. "I think," he said, "I must be dreaming."

"Perfectly real, I assure you."

"But how did you come to be here?"

She reached up to pinch his cheek, her mouth twitching. "There is a wonderful thing called a carriage—truly a miracle of modern ingenuity—that conveyed me to—"

"Wretch," he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his mouth before his beleaguered brain thought perhaps she would not want him to. But she was showing no signs of being averse to such treatment: she merely smiled and shuffled a little closer. "Why are you here? Did you receive the painting?"

"And your note."

His brow wrinkled. "I left a note?"

"Avery was right," she said with some delight. "You were drunk. Heavens, I thought I would never see the day where you proved beyond doubt that you are human." Her laugh died as she frowned. "I should begin with an apology."

"I don't mind being woken in this way," he assured her.

"Not about that, although it bodes well for what I'm about to say." She took a breath. "You did me the honour of asking for my hand in marriage, and I was . . . less than kind in return." Her smile was oddly, unusually shy, and he thought with dazed certainty that he could have looked at her for the rest of his life and not tired of it. "The problem is, Henry, I made an error in refusing you, and I only realised the extent of it when I saw the lengths you went to in order to retrieve my damn painting."

"You have a foul mouth," he said, unable to prevent himself from kissing her jaw.

"Yes. I am in short precisely the sort of woman I cannot conceive you wanting to be with, but I've finally come to the conclusion that I don't care."

A band around his chest broke away and snapped, and he felt as though he was floating. Or perhaps dreaming. Perhaps while he was sleeping he had imbibed a gallon of wine. "No?" he said.

"No," she said. "Because, Henry Beaumont, I'm terribly in love with you."

"Terribly," he repeated.

"Awfully. Obscenely." Her smile gained in warmth; her eyes were twin green flames. "Frankly, it is horrific and—"

Something snapped inside him, and he tugged her closer, fisting his hands in her dress as he kissed her. Her lips parted on a gasp, and he took every piece of her that she offered. If this was another figment of his imagination, another dream taking on an eerily realistic form, then he would make the most of every last second.

Her arms closed around his neck, fingers digging into his hair. Her nails scraped against his scalp. His hand was on her back, holding her against him, urgent. Eager. Her body was soft, and as he traced her curves, they were familiar as old songs.

"I had still more to say to you," she said as he broke away to kiss her neck.

"Wait a while."

"No, Henry." Her slim fingers closed around his wrist, stilling him instantly. "I want you to listen to what I have to say before you do something you regret."

"I have not regretted a single moment with you."

"I'm going to ask you to marry me."

He laughed, a little giddy. "What is there to regret in that?"

"I cannot bear children," she said, the words stark and harsh as though it had taken everything in her to say them. Her hazel eyes were shuttered now, brown more than green. "If we marry, if you consent to marry me, you will not have an heir."

He frowned, confused. "Louisa—"

"And do not tell me that perhaps things will be different, because they will not. And I warn you, Henry, I will not consent to bring up your bastards as my own."

He laughed then, to her obvious displeasure. "There will be no bastards."

"This is serious ."

"My love," he said gently, sobering when he saw how distressed she was, "why do you think this would have any bearing on my decision?"

"Because you will be the Earl of Shrewsbury one day."

He brushed an errant curl back from her lovely face. "When I resolved to break things off with Miss Winton, I thought I would never marry," he said, holding her gaze so she understood how much he meant what he was saying. "I would have had no heirs then."

"But—"

"I dislike children. Babies in particular, but all children. Even my own siblings, once I was an adult and they were not. After enduring the upbringing my father chose to give us, I never yearned for a family. My brother can inherit when I die, and if I somehow outlive him, I am certain he will have children." A thought occurred to him, and his hold on her waist tightened. "But what of you? Do you want a family?"

"No," she said emphatically. "And you should know that, too. I understand the need to procreate as a species, but it has never been a personal desire of mine."

"Excellent. Then we will want for nothing."

She blinked and frowned, as though that was a ludicrous statement. "We? Then you will marry me despite it?"

"If you'll have me."

"Truly?"

He laughed, the sound rusty and disused. "I would be a madman and a fool not to marry you now."

"That," she said, "was a terrible proposal." Then she smiled, and touched a finger to the dampness under her eyes. "I think I might be crying."

He wiped away her tears with his knuckles and brought her close. "Marry me, Louisa," he whispered. "Marry me and be happy."

"Better." She laughed, the sound was a little drunken. "And to think I tried my hardest to hate you."

He kissed her damp, salty mouth, feeling it curve under his lips. "Then thank heavens there is one thing you put your mind to that you did not achieve."

Given Henry could not be sure a servant—or worse, a member of his family—would not interrupt them, it wasn't long before they moved upstairs. She followed in his wake, her hand locked in his, gazing at the rambling old house around them with its history and crooked floors. He was certain and unerring in his movements, and she could not fail to recognise the significance of where he led her: his bedchamber.

This was a room, she saw at a glance, that bore all the signs of a child growing up here. There were scratches along the side of the mahogany dresser, as though he had taken a knife to the corner, and the curtains were very slightly ripped at the hem. A hand had been thrown up in the face of time, and here it had stopped.

He closed the door behind her and she looked around, curious about the paintings on the wall. "Are these Thomas Hyatt's?"

"One. The others are replicas."

"They're beautiful."

He looked directly at her. "So are you."

The unabashed sincerity in his voice made her blush, a little foolishly, and she strolled to the window, gazing out across the garden and at the glint of ocean in the far distance. "I hadn't known you were so near the sea here," she said in surprise.

"Would you like to visit?"

She glanced archly over her shoulder. "Perhaps when we are married."

"We should probably discuss the details," he said, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her waist. She leant back into his chest. "I don't mind telling you that a runaway marriage is off the table."

"A shame. I was looking forward to fleeing to Gretna Green in the dead of night."

"I believe you would," he said wryly.

"If the situation called for it, certainly. But I doubt it will. After all, I'm of age and perfectly able to make my own decisions without the permission of a ridiculous parent." She twisted in his arms, looking up into his handsome face. "May we marry here?"

"Not London?"

She made a face. "My first marriage was in London."

"Then I'll consult with the local reverend. Would you like me to procure a special licence?"

At the thought, her nose wrinkled. Gretna Green, she could have endured, but she had married Bolton by way of special licence. "Have the banns read," she said. "We can wait three weeks. Unless you intend to abstain before our wedding night, in which case I will overcome my distaste for special licences, and even the prospect of marriage in London if it will make you mine faster."

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "If I've broken my vows once, I hardly see the harm in doing so again."

"I never properly thanked you for retrieving my painting for me. It must have cost you a great deal."

"No," he said, fingertips brushing her face, his eyes searching hers. "It cost me nothing I don't mind losing." A slow smile broke across his face. "But if you would like to thank me, I can think of a few ways in which you may." Without giving her time to answer, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Once there, he busied himself with the pins in her hair.

"When will your family return from Havercroft?"

"Not for some hours yet." He eased her dress aside and kissed the slip of bare shoulder it revealed. "I'll have you presentable again before then."

"I wouldn't count on it," she warned, and tugged at his cravat. She wanted it off, all of it. He retaliated by removing her layers, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar clothing—although if she had her way, it would become familiar soon enough. Before she could return the favour, he seated himself against his pillows and drew her bare back against his clothed chest.

"Henry," she said, but he shook his head.

"Let me touch you."

Well, there seemed little to be said to that.

His hand travelled luxuriously down her body, exploring one breast then the next, before the soft curve of her stomach, her hipbone, the flare of her thighs below, then finally between them. She could not help arching her back at his touch, and he made a low noise in the back of his throat at the slick feel of her against his fingers. So often he seemed to forget that as much as he wanted, she was his equal in desire.

She had every intention of being his equal in every way.

"You're ready for me already," he said in a low, guttural voice that made her think of a flickering candle, wick burnt low.

Pleasure throbbed deep inside her, even before he slid a finger in.

Her head tipped back against his shoulder, and his other arm came to band across her stomach, holding her in place. Her backside came into contact with his erection, and he sucked in a breath, his arm tightening. Remembering the way he had climaxed helplessly in his breeches the first time they'd come together, she rolled her hips, and it became a competition. Her naked, him clothed; both working to provide the other the most pleasure.

To think, they might have been doing this all along if she had not been such a fool.

The heat coiled in her lower belly, and she knew with a rush of delight and disappointment that he was going to win.

"Have you been practising?" she asked between breaths.

His grip on her squeezed reflexively. "No. Have you?"

She was so close now. "Not since before you."

"I hated it," he said, voice a low growl against her ear, finger insistent inside her, thumb stroking her folds in relentless circles. "When I learnt that you'd had lovers beside your husband while I had waited, I hated it."

Her nails dug into his arm, and ground herself against him, urgently enough that he groaned.

"And now?"

"Now I am incapable of hating anything about you." He stroked her one more time, and she quivered on the edge. "I want you to teach me all you've learnt. And then I want to surpass all the men who came before."

No one else had ever held her the way he had. And she had thought, before Henry had returned to England, that she hadn't needed it.

He knew his lack of experience made him in need of tutorage; no other man she had been with had ever been so open to learning.

She had never felt so wanted when she was with him.

If she could have had her life play out differently, perhaps she would have done—she would have married him at twenty, and they would have learnt to love the life they had. But given the hand she was dealt, she refused to regret anything. Not her choices, nor the person she had become.

And she felt nothing but relief that he had come to accept it the way she had.

"I love you," she gasped as pleasure broke over her.

His arm banded across her chest. "I love you too," he said fiercely, then almost before her climax had ended, she was on her back and he was hovering over her, all taut muscles and unfocused eyes. It was a matter of seconds for him to strip off his waistcoat, shirt and breeches, and then he was inside her with a rush. She raised her legs to better allow him access, encouraging him deeper, and they both made a sound of satisfaction.

"I'm glad I waited for you," he said, holding her gaze as she tightened around him, so sensitive the feel of him inside her was almost overwhelming, the sensation too much.

"I'm glad too," she admitted. "I tried not to be."

"I like that you are."

She didn't apologise for not waiting for him, and he didn't ask her to. This was who they were, and only by becoming what they had could they ever have found their way back together again.

His body pressed her into the mattress, and she sank her teeth into his shoulder as he found completion inside her. They stayed like that a long while.