“It’s difficult not feeling those antics in the drawing room weren’t intended as some sort of strange form of revenge upon me.”

Abigail had withdrawn from the company with the marquess into one of the lesser rooms, this one having not been thought of in anticipation of use, had no fire and only a few branches of candles that Harland himself had hastily lit. They were well away from the others, though. For now.

Although it wasn’t hard to guess what the subject on their tongues would be for the remainder of the evening. Or year, rather.

He replaced the tinderbox upon the mantelpiece and faced her. “When I was a boy, I found a kitten. A small creature with grey and white patched fur that I—well, I wanted to keep it. I still remember how I felt the day I held it and it fell asleep curled on my knee.” He swallowed. Hard. “But my father told me men don’t keep cats, they keep only dogs, else they’re not men. I’ve gone my entire life without stroking another cat so much as once. I’ve wanted to. Every time I come close, I relive standing there before him and I—I can’t. I like dogs plenty well, believe me, but I want a cat. I always have.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’ve never told anyone before. I let my father shame me, and I’m tired of holding onto it. Because by thinking what I said was spoken out of a need for revenge is casting my actions in the worst possible light. I’m weary of secrets. They’re isolating. They’re corrosive to the soul. I don’t want that for either of us—not where the other is concerned. Not in anything, really.”

“What did you expect? That you might bend me to your will?”

“I have no expectation of you.”

“No expectation, indeed.” She pursed her lips. Her stomach was heavy, as if she’d overindulged in the sumptuous meal instead of only having picked at her plate. “I realize who and what you are, my lord, what you’ve been raised to expect from the world, but are you really going to tell me you had no thought of what your declaration would do to me?”

“I’m not ashamed of what I feel for you, Abigail.”

“The world is bigger than that. You’re a man and a marquess. Nothing can touch you. I’m one of thousands of women who need employment if she hopes to keep herself warm, fed, clothed, and dry. And for the first time in my life, the certainty of being able to continue a quiet, respectable existence has been thrown into serious doubt.”

“You’re entitled to having wants and desires. If you didn’t believe so yourself, you would never have come to Mandeville for the ball.”

Impatience sparked within her. How dare the man see through her with such effortlessness? “You forget, my lord. I’m nothing but the daughter of a gamekeeper.”

“Is that all? The sum of one accident of your birth, trapped like me into that one, single idea?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. I think you’re scared to see it. Because you’re so much more. You’re the woman who loves me—the woman I love. That’s what you are. So don’t be frightened. Everything else, what does it matter?”

Love?

Oh dear sweet savior, the marquess wasn’t going to toss that word into the mix, was he?

Abigail tried to swallow away the lump that had risen in her throat. The sooner she parted ways with this man, the better for the both of them. It would be all too easy to be talked into becoming his mistress. It would be all too easy to believe that they had something—something real that wouldn’t pour through their fingers like water.

“You’re full of pretty talk now, my lord, but it’s only a matter of time. You’ll tire of me. This…this…” She struggled to find the words to express the burning desire that ignited her soul when she was near this man. Even now when he was the most muddle-headed, ignorant, infuriating man of all time, the desire to throw herself down to let him have his most wicked way with her could have burned her bones red hot until they vanished to dust. “…hunger between us, it will fade. It’s not love. It’s as fleeting as a wave in a lead tub. No matter what you think, I haven’t stolen your heart.”

“You didn’t steal my heart, you wench.” He took her into his arms. “That’s too fine a term. You right and filched it, like it were no more than a spoiled apple on the corner of a cart in the market. And because I certainly can’t forgive you, there’s but one hope.”

She arched her brows at him in an expression she’d only ever idly practiced in romantic daydreams. “And I suppose you’re going to deign to tell me what that is?”

“Why, marriage, of course.” He lightly brushed his lips over hers. “It’s really the only remedy.”

She let her head fall back so he could find his way down her throat. The heat of him. The nearness of him. The smell of him.

In spite of the resolve to keep him at arm’s length not a moment before, she melted into ripe and ready surrender, letting her hands roam him as his roamed her. An unmistakable hard part of his male anatomy pressed against her belly. If she could only hitch herself upon it…one last time. Would that be fair?

Oh, to Hades with fairness. Fairness could go hang. If Harland whispered the question in her ear, asking if she wanted to, here and now, people gathered only one room over, and servants probably eavesdropping on conversation, she’d readily acquiesce.

“I don’t see your heart as a spoiled apple.”

“Don’t you?”

“No. If for no other reason than I’d have more sense than to flitch a spoiled apple. I’d take the biggest, freshest, and most palatable piece of fruit within my reach.”

A wide smile softened his features. “That’s reassuring, I must say. Because that’s all it was—all it ever has been. That is, until you came along and made it something better, I never saw it for what it was.”

“My lord, I’m not going to be your mistress.” Yet here she was in his arms, his body poised to worship hers.

“That’s good, because when I mentioned an m-word, that wasn’t the one that arose from my lips.”

She snorted. “If I won’t be your mistress, I certainly couldn’t be your wife.”

“How much time do you want? A week? A year? I’ll wait, Abigail. I’ll wait longer than you think possible, if that’s the only way you’ll allow me to prove myself to you, and when that time has passed, you’ll see. Nothing will have changed.”

“You said you had no expectation of me.”

“Well, I am going to require an answer of you. Right now you think nothing permanent could be built upon the foundation we’ve begun upon, such as it is—and I can’t blame you. Rationally, what sense does this make?”

“It seems to make a good deal of sense to you, my lord, which could only mean you’re mad as a hatter.”

“If this is madness, let me never reclaim my mind.”

“How can you think your mind is so decided? What you feel now—”

“I’d rather you didn’t tell me what I feel, if it’s all the same to you.”

“But you believe yourself so certain—”

“If it’s certainty you want out of life, madam, you should prepare for a multitude of disappointments.”

“My point exactly.”

“I’m reminded of what you said during our night together.”

Oh, goodness, what had she said? She went wary, waiting for something she’d said in a heated moment to incriminate her. “What was that, my lord?”

“When you wouldn’t share your name with me—you said, I didn’t need to know your name to know you.”

She went hot, but kept her head high. “You’re perhaps taking the comment a little out of context.”

“I know what you meant at the time—but think of it now. How true it is. Why take years when we already know—”

“You won’t have me speak for you, my lord. Don’t presume to speak for me.”

He kept silent a moment. The candles flickered, their movement making a little fluttering sound in the otherwise hushed space…like their hearts.

“I can make you but a single promise, Abigail. A man has nothing if he doesn’t have his word.”

“And that is?”

He softened. “The one I had in mind is more traditionally spoken before a parson.”

Abigail looked away. “My lord—”

“No, listen to me. On the surface, it is mad to want everything I want on so slight a provocation as a handful of hours together, even I must own that. But if it were only lust—well, I’ll leave off that for now—what you must know is that I’m not afraid to look below the surface and acknowledge what I see there, whether the rest of the world might deem it madness on my part or not. It’s not the length of time we’ve known each other, it’s what we know of each other from the time we’ve had. I have seen you and I finally recognize what I’ve been missing my entire life. You.” He slipped a hand into hers, knitting their fingers together. “Please. Come. That’s all I ask.”

“You already have my answer, my lord.” She extracted herself from his arms, body wailing in sorrow as if even down to the smallest fraction of her being, she carried the knowledge—the physical knowledge—that she was about to sever herself from this man for the rest of her life. She pulled her hand away last. “My answer is no.”