Chapter 28

Tessa stepped foot inside the Sloane Street townhouse and knew she wasn't alone.

And she should have been.

The house had been empty of servants these last three days.

Blaze Jagger, her mind provided the next instant.

No.They had an understanding and had shaken on it. Jagger wasn't the most upstanding citizen, but he had a code.

Her ear picked up a muted clank from the back of the house—a kitchen sound.

She left the door unbolted behind her in case she needed a hasty exit and made her step light as a cat's. Instead of making directly down the corridor, she took a quick detour into the drawing room. Beside the fireplace, she found it—the iron poker.

No one was taking it from her this time.

Slow and quiet, poker held high, she made her way down the corridor, kitchen sounds becoming more distinct with every inch forward. The low roar of water coming to the boil…the glassy clink of teacup against saucer…It sounded very much like…

Someone was preparing tea.

Which begged the question…

Who would break into her house to make tea?

She stopped shy of the doorway, tightened her grip around solid iron, stilled her breath, and ducked her head into the room. Her eye instantly lit upon an imposing male form incongruent with a small kitchen, his back to her, facing the stove but also well away from it, as if trying to figure out what to do with a pot of boiling water. Her heart performed a neat little trick and flipped over in her chest, and she lowered the poker.

Julian.

The immediate emotion was joy unlike any she'd ever experienced, so bright and so buoyant within her chest that she might float away with it. But the emotion that followed quick on its heels was much more complex—an emotion that held her feet firmly to the ground. Her brow crinkled into a deep furrow, and a notion slammed into her.

She was furious with this man.

In fact, like that pot of water on the stove, she was boiling with it.

She gave her throat a light clearing, so as not to startle him. No scaldings would happen on her watch.

He tossed an unconcerned glance over his shoulder before half turning, rueful smile curving his mouth, tempting the anger within her to cool. "I seem to have reached an impasse," he said, apologetic.

She'd been determined not to speak, but she found herself saying, "A kettle would've made it easier." She'd never been able to resist imparting a bit of instruction.

He nodded. "Ah."

The man had obviously never made tea. But then, he was a marquess, why should he have?

"You'll want to slide the pot off the heat."

He did as instructed, and Tessa tried not to let the well-worn rhythm of teamaking soothe her. She didn't want to feel at ease with this man.

She was too angry with him.

"I brought tea," he said.

It would've been a superfluous statement, except he jutted a stubbled chin that hadn't seen the sharp side of a razor in days toward the kitchen table. Arrayed on its surface were all manner of meats, cheeses, breads, pasties, and mysterious other foods wrapped in linen.

"I wasn't sure what you would have the appetite for, what with your, erm, condition," he said, stumbling inelegantly over the words.

"My condition?" she asked, knowing full well his meaning.

"I've heard women get cravings for this or that." He looked as if he might begin perspiring. "I wanted to be prepared."

She might've found his thoughtfulness sweet—if she hadn't a rather large bone to pick with this man.

Even so, an annoying part of her still might.

Her eye caught on a tin—tea. She was moving before she could catch herself, her curiosity too strong to resist. "Is the tea black or green?"

"It's from Japan, if that helps."

She cut him a surprised glance. "Japan?" Goods from Japan were incredibly difficult to procure as the Japanese only traded with the Dutch and Chinese.

"Through a merchant in Limehouse."

That got a lift of Tessa's eyebrows. The truly excellent rare teas could be found in Limehouse, if one knew the right people. She reached for the tin. "It'll be green, then," she said, taking refuge in facts rather than the emotion this—sweet…thoughtful—gesture sparked inside her. "The water needs to cool for four or five minutes before you pour. The leaves will be too delicate to stand up to water just off the boil."

She prised the lid off the tin. It was the aroma that hit her first—fresh and grassy, like the scent lifting off a spring garden on a dewy June morning. Her eyes drifted shut with pleasure, then opened. Contained within the tin weren't leaves, like she'd expected, but a green powder that held an otherworldly glow.

Julian saw the question in her eyes and answered. "Matcha tea."

"I've heard of it from various traders, but I've never been able to buy it." She hesitated. "You can't have known this tea existed."

A smile at once wry and boyish curved his mouth, lit within his summer-blue eyes. An ache twisted through her gut. "I didn't."

"Then how did you know to track it down?"

"I simply asked for the rarest tea in the world." A dry laugh sounded through his nose. "The answer was more complicated." Another laugh. "I thought I would need to hire a Bow Street Runner. But I managed, in the end."

And Tessa saw the tea for what it was.

A gift—and an apology.

She wasn't ready for the apology yet, but she very much wanted to taste this tea.

"I'm not sure how to prepare matcha," she said, contemplatively. "My finest strainer, I think."

Julian stepped back and ceded the space to her, as she assembled the tea-making essentials. She felt him standing awkwardly behind her. The mistress of this kitchen hadn't asked him to take a seat—and she wasn't about to.

Not yet.

Not until she was good and ready.

She spooned a few dollops of matcha into the strainer and reached for a large ladle before pouring sufficiently cooled water over the powder.

"The merchant said it only needs a minute to steep," Julian provided.

The minute dragged by in silence, each second keenly felt. But years of running a gaming hell and existing just on the correct side of the law—and a few times on the other side of it—had taught Tessa many important lessons.

One of them was the usefulness of silence—to gather one's thoughts…to draw them out like a poultice on a wound…to sweat out one's adversary.

All three, if managed correctly.

Even a gift of the rarest tea in the world wasn't enough to solve the issues that lay between them. If they were to stand a chance, it was what lay within them that would have to be drawn out.

But first, perhaps, best to begin with the obvious.

She removed the strainer from the teapot and set it aside. At last, she turned and indicated Julian take a seat at the table. She poured for both of them before sitting in the chair opposite, facing him.

Now, for the obvious question…"I take it you'll tell me why you've broken into my home?"

To tellyou I love you and can't go on existing another day without you.

Julian couldn't very well say that.

Tessa would toss him out on his ear—and rightly so. He didn't have the right to speak such words to her.

Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he settled for, "To bring you sustenance."

Her eyebrows lifted. "In the form of the rarest tea to be found in London?"

"Aye."

"That's…extravagant."

Julian held her eye. "Not when it comes to you."

Her gaze slid away and took in the feast spread across the table. She wasn't ready to hear those words.

He tore off a hunk of bread and paired it with a slice of cheese. He hadn't been sure which foods to bring, so he'd asked Cook to pack a little of everything in the kitchen.

A little of everything in a marquess's kitchen—even one who lived alone and didn't entertain—was considerable.

He cleared his throat. "An interesting rumor about you is spreading through London."

"Oh?" she asked around a bite of mutton and potato pie.

"That you're leaving for the Continent."

Somehow, he'd been able to speak the words that had been clogging his throat for twenty-four straight hours.

She swallowed. "Italy."

Like that, rumor turned to fact, and the dread churning his gut turned into a solid object.

Of course, he'd known it for the truth the instant he'd entered the townhouse today. Though Tessa hadn't been home, it had felt empty of her in a greater way—as if cleared of her essence.

"Not keen to see summer end, I suppose," he said, lightly, to fill the unbearable silence that had drawn out.

A complex mixture of emotions passed behind her eyes. "All seasons come to an end."

Julian's stomach twisted like a towel wrung dry.

Pleasure…joy…That was all he wanted to bring this woman. And he'd seen as much shining in her eyes when she'd opened the tin of matcha tea. But what shone out at him now was the very opposite. Wariness…pain…hurt.

And now she was speaking of seasons coming to an end—their season coming to an end.

He must make it right.

Two simple words were the correct starting place…"I'm sorry."

Of a sudden, her chair scraped across pine floorboards, and she was shooting to her feet, anger blazing within her eyes, illuminating them with a white-hot flame.

Anger she had every right to.

With determined efficiency, she gathered dirty dishes and brought them to the sink where she began rinsing. Julian supposed it was no accident she chose a task that kept her back to him.

He settled into his chair and watched her in silence. She looked very much like herself. The signs of pregnancy weren't showing yet. He thought of the months to come, of the changes they would bring to her, and he wanted to be there for every single one of them.

At last, the clattering at the sink fell silent, not a dish left to be done. Yet she continued standing with her back to him.

"Tessa," he said, her name a soft susseration on quiet air.

Turmoil radiated from the too-still lines of her body.

"Tessa," he repeated.

Her head canted to the side, presenting him with her profile.

"Let me have my say," he said. "Then I'll leave if you like."

A moment's hesitation, then…"You can talk while I pack."

Swiftly, without a backwards glance, she was out of the kitchen and halfway down the corridor before Julian pushed to his feet. Up the stairs she went, him careful not to follow too closely at her heels or stare too openly at the sway of hips beneath skirts.

It was only when they were standing in the room that it occurred to them both at once that she'd led him to her bedroom.

"Well," she said.

And hiding just behind the word Julian detected bemusement and, perhaps, the hint of a smile.

How he wanted to close the distance between them and kiss that slightly kicked-up corner of her mouth.

Wanted it with every cell of his being.

So, he propped a shoulder against a bedpost and said, "I've been a fool."

Those were the words he should've led with earlier.

The blaze of anger in her eyes cooled a few degrees. "Fear can do that to a person." Still, a guarded quality hung about her.

"Fear," he said. "I'd lived with it for so long, it felt like a natural part of me. It would've gone on that way for the rest of my life, if not for one fated occurrence."

A slow moment beat past until her curiosity drew her into asking, "Which was?"

"I met you."

Silence fraught with the words spoken and the ones yet unspoken stretched the air thin and tight.

"I wanted you, Tessa. The wager wasn't more than that—a chance to have you. I had to have you." He swallowed. "Which made you all my fears come to life."

The hard edge in her eyes softened. "I hadn't realized I was such a gorgon."

The hope held tight in his chest peeled back a layer—but it hadn't yet received permission to fully expand. He needed to keep talking…"I loved you—I love you. But the old fear…" He gave his head a shake. "It didn't know what to do with love."

Her eyes shone with empathy, as she said, "All it knew to do was turn it into pain." She took an unconscious step forward. "A reflex protective of the self, because there is no safety in love."

She was now close enough that he could reach out and touch her if he chose.

He kept his hands at his sides.

Not yet.

"But, Tessa, you showed me another side of love—its true side."

The hope he felt now shone in her silver-blue eyes. "Oh?"

"Love is not only how one feels about another person. It's as much what one feels about oneself."

She reached out, bridging the distance between them, and took his hand. "I do love you, Julian."

He swallowed against the sudden lump of joy in his throat.

"But," she continued, "love might not be enough for us."

Of a sudden, he couldn't breathe. The very real possibility existed that he might lose her. He searched his mind for the right words before he realized they wouldn't be found there.

The right words would come from his heart.

"You revealed the man I was meant to be, Tessa, and he is here before you, still growing in the light…in your light." He threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed. "I won't be perfect. I will make missteps. But I will always strive and fight for us." With his other hand, he reached out and hesitated. "May I?"

Tears shining in her eyes, she nodded.

He placed his palm on her still-flat belly. "I will always fight for you and our child."

"And yourself, Julian."

"You deserve better than me, my darling Tessa."

She shook her head, the adamancy in her eyes enough to rival her sisters. "What I deserve or what you deserve doesn't matter. You are the man for me, Julian. The solution to our equation is simple. One and one makes us." Doubt flickered in her eyes. "But…"

"But?"

"How can I trust…"

"Me?"

"This. That you won't wake up in a week or a year and allow the fear to take over again?" She shook her head, fervent. "I cannot—will not—allow a fear of bad blood to touch our child."

A reasonable response, he understood with his mind. He hoped his heart had the correct answer.

"The fact that you love me, Tessa, has shown me something. I need to love myself to be worthy of loving you. And that's all I want—to be worthy of you…to be worthy of our love. To prove myself worthy of it every day—and I shall. That is my solemn vow to you and our child."

He dropped to his knees before her and pressed his mouth to her stomach, hoping he'd had the correct words in his heart. And yet, still more needed airing. He tipped his head back and met her eyes. "You freed me."

She lowered herself to join him on the floor. Their eyes on an even plane, she said, "You freed yourself."

A chuckle rumbled through his chest. "You're allowed to take due credit."

She smiled and ran her hand through his hair. "As are you. I might've shown you the path, but you've done the uphill work of treading it. I didn't solve or fix you. It's always been your work to make yourself whole."

"Ah, but there you're not entirely correct, my darling."

Her brow lifted in tolerant disbelief. "I'm not?"

"It's love, Tessa, that makes us whole, and that must be shared." He pulled her close. "I want you. I want our child. I want a dozen children?—"

"Let's not get carried away," she cut in with a laugh.

"The more love, the merrier."

He cradled the nape of her neck and pulled her mouth to his. All the vows now and soon-to-be spoken demanding to be sealed with a kiss.

One and one makes us.

Within its simplicity lay its strength—the solid foundation for the rest of their days.

Some days would be perfect; others rotten.

But he and his darling Tessa would face them together.