Perhaps it was the amazing and strenuous adventures of the night, or perhaps the fact that she’d been working so many late hours at the paper, but whatever the reason and despite her predictions on the subject, Clara succumbed to sleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and the only reason she woke was the fact that someone was moving around in her room.

Eyes closed, her senses still groggy, she wondered what Rex was still doing here. Hadn’t he gone? A vague memory of him slipping out her door came into her sleep-dazed mind, but the moment it did, any speculations about what he was doing back again vanished as she remembered the amazing things he’d done earlier.

Never, until last night, had she ever felt truly pretty. But when he’d knelt in front of her and called her lovely, when she’d heard the hushed, awestruck quality of his voice, it had made her heart sing with a joy and a confidence in her own feminine power that she’d never possessed before. When he had kissed and caressed her, she’d felt every bit as lovely as he’d deemed her, and a lifetime of gawky awkwardness, of feeling overlooked and plain had melted away under the scorching heat of his eyes and his hands and his mouth. Even now, it was still with her, that feeling, and she smiled in her sleep.

A drawer opened and closed, intruding on blissful, dreamlike memories, and she decided Rex could not possibly still be in her room, for why would he be opening drawers? With an effort, she dragged her eyes open to find the gas jets lit, a bright crack of light coming through between the closed draperies, and her maid putting undergarments away in the chiffonier.

“Forrester?” she mumbled, blinking against the light. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Clara.” The maid turned, offering her an apologetic look. “You were sleeping ever so sound, I didn’t think putting away a few things would wake you.”

“It’s all right.” She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, trying to come awake. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past eleven.”

“Eleven? What?” Astonished, Clara bolted upright, fully awake. “So late?”

The plump, middle-aged maid nodded. “Yes, miss. I’d have woken you, but you were sleeping ever so, and I thought it best to let you be. You’ve been working so hard and been so tired lately. I hope I haven’t done wrong?”

“No, no, of course not,” she hastened to assure. “And I suppose you’re right that I must have needed the rest. Quarter past eleven? Goodness, I never sleep so late.”

Even as she spoke, she thought of what she’d spent her night doing, and she hastily turned away before Forrester could see any hint of her thoughts in her expression. Shoving aside sheets and counterpane, she got out of bed on the opposite side from where her maid was standing and walked to the window. Pulling back the drapery a fraction, she blinked a little at the bright sunlight. “What a lovely day. What are the carriages for?” she asked, noting several broughams and landaus in the drive.

“Miss Chapman has arranged a picnic luncheon to the White Cliffs for anyone who wants to go,” Forrester said. “They’ll be luncheon here, too, of course, for anyone who chooses to stay behind, and after the picnicking party returns, there’s to be croquet and tennis.”

“Tennis?” Clara thought of Rex’s body, how splendid it had looked on the court in tennis whites. And how much more splendid he’d looked without them. She closed her eyes, picturing his naked body, his wide shoulders, the powerful muscles of his back and arms, the lean and luscious lines of his bum. She’d sensed the first time she’d ever seen him how athletic he was—more suited, she remembered, to some ancient Olympiad than to a sedate little London tea shop. Seeing his magnificent body had proved her instincts right.

What about her other instincts? she wondered suddenly. Which had been right, the ones that had deemed him a rake and a cad, or the ones that had allowed him to stay with her and lie with her? Maybe both, she realized, and she felt a sudden jolt of misgiving.

I’ve been trying to keep you safe . . . from me.

She shivered, and the question whispered through her mind of what would happen to her now.

“Do you want to go, Miss Clara?”

She jerked, startled, and opened her eyes, the curtain falling from her fingertips as she turned to her maid. “Sorry? What?”

“The picnic. If you want to go, we’d best get you dressed. The carriages are supposed to be off at twelve sharp, so Miss Chapman said.”

Clara gathered her scattered wits, pushing delectable thoughts of Rex’s magnificent body and forebodings about the future out of her mind. “I do want to go, yes,” she answered and turned from the window. “Hetty promised me an outing to the White Cliffs, for I’ve never seen them, and I don’t want to miss the chance.”

It was a mad dash to get her ready in time, but Clara soon learned that the White Cliffs might have to wait for another day. The big grandfather clock on the landing had already chimed the hour by the time she raced past it down the stairs, and when she arrived at the bottom, she found Carlotta waiting for her.

“Sorry,” she said, skidding to a halt, out of breath as she tucked her parasol under one arm and worked to button her gloves. “Am I terribly late? Is everyone waiting on me, or have they already left?”

“No, no, they haven’t gone yet, but I don’t think you’ll be wanting to join them, in any case.”

Clara frowned, puzzled, especially because Carlotta was smiling like the Cheshire Cat, and that almost never happened. “What do you mean?”

Carlotta slid her arm through Clara’s. “Let’s take a walk, my dear.”

Her bewilderment deepening, Clara allowed her sister-in-law to lead her across the foyer and out of the house. “Where are we going?” she asked as they turned in the opposite direction from the carriages in the drive.

“The rose garden is lovely, with everything in bloom,” her sister-in-law said. “I thought we might go there.”

“What about the picnic?” Clara asked as they rounded the corner of the house and started across the south lawn. The question was barely out of her mouth, however, before she saw Rex standing by the entrance to the rose garden, hat in hand, and any thoughts of the picnic or seeing the White Cliffs of Dover went straight out of her head.

Lord, he was handsome.

All the memories of last night came flooding back in a burst of pure joy, and she smiled.

He didn’t smile back.

Clara’s steps faltered, but Carlotta’s arm was still entwined with hers, impelling her forward. As she approached, his face was so grave, she immediately thought something terrible had happened. “What is it?” she asked, irrational fear striking her heart as she imagined a cable from the Continent forwarded here and conveying awful news. “What’s happened?”

She glanced at Carlotta, and her anxiety eased, derailed trains and sunken yachts fading from her imagination as quickly as they’d come. Irene, it was clear from her sister-in-law’s demeanor, was perfectly well.

She turned to Rex again. “What is this about?”

Instead of answering, he gestured to the path. “Take a turn with me?”

Carlotta’s arm slid away, and to Clara’s astonishment, her sister-in-law gave Rex a nod, turned around, and departed, leaving them. “Carlotta?” she called, but the other woman kept walking away. “Where is she going?”

“Out of earshot.” He slid his arm through hers. “Walk with me, please.”

He pulled, urging her gently into the rose garden, but even as she walked with him, she was looking back over her shoulder. “What on earth is she thinking? She can’t leave us alone out here. She’s my chaperone.”

“We’re a bit past the point of chaperones, don’t you think? Clara,” he went on before she could reply, “I asked Lady David to arrange a private meeting between us, and when I explained my reasons, she consented.”

Reasons? There was only one reason a man would make such a request of a chaperone.

With that thought, a torrent of emotions surged through her all at once. Disbelief, dismay, jubilation, trepidation, joy, hope—in a flood, they came, simultaneous yet distinct, each one powerful enough to overwhelm her. She stopped walking, unable to take another step, and yanked her arm out of his hold.

He stopped as well, turning to face her. “Surely you can guess what my reason is?”

One emotion nudged upward past all the others, rising above the tide, threatening to carry her utterly away. It was hope.

And yet, hope of what? Not happy matrimony, because he wasn’t the marrying sort, and she’d always known that. Just as important, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to marry him, for she’d never contemplated it, not once until this very moment. So, why was hope rising inside her, wrapping around her heart, squeezing her chest with such dizzying excitement? What was she hoping for? She honestly didn’t know.

She looked down, staring at the gravel path under their feet, trying to set aside any romantic notions and remind herself of realities. This was Rex, which meant the idea of marriage was absurd anyway, so—

He reached for her hands, interrupting this chaotic stream of thought, and she watched as he clasped them in his, his bare fingers entwining with her gloved ones, turning her toward him. “Clara, we have to get married.”

Not so absurd after all.

And yet, oddly enough, it wasn’t quite a proposal.

“Have to?” she echoed, trying to make light of it, striving to think. “Heavens, that’s quite a definitive statement from a man who doesn’t believe in marriage and openly advocates free love.”

“Don’t tease, Clara. This is hard enough.”

It shouldn’t be hard at all, should it?

“You can’t possibly want to marry me,” she said.

“Yes, I do.”

“Don’t!” she ordered fiercely, lifting her head, yanking her hands free of his, every instinct she possessed telling her he didn’t mean that. “Don’t lie, Rex, for God’s sake.”

He inhaled sharply and looked away, confirming that at least in this case her instincts about him were sound.

“Very well,” he said after a moment. “Since you are demanding precise language of me, let me give it. What I want, Clara, is you. I have wanted you ever since you gave me cheek on that ballroom floor. I still want you.”

Now that, she thought with a delicious thrill and hint of relief, was more like what she’d been hoping for.

“And if we were anywhere private,” he went on, “I’d ravish you quick as lightning, whatever the risk, right here, right now, if you let me.”

Laughter bubbled up and came spilling out. “I fear if we were somewhere private, you wouldn’t be the only one doing the ravishing.”

He didn’t seem pleased to hear it. “That’s why we have to marry. You’re not the sort of woman a man can ravish and leave.”

She stiffened, any tendency to laugh vanishing as quickly as it had come. “Are there such women?”

“I think you know there are,” he said, “so please don’t go all prickly on me, Clara. There are mistresses, courtesans—”

“Widows,” she cut in. “Lady Dina Throckmorton, for example. Your friend Lionel seems to think she’s that sort of woman. Is she?”

“Let’s not get into the weeds by talking about Dina and Lionel, all right? Let’s leave them to sort out their own affairs while we sort out ours.”

“But you seem to think that she and I are different, that we deserve different consideration from our lovers,” Clara persisted. “I want to know why you think so.”

“Do you really need to ask? Dina was not an innocent woman and Lionel did not ruin her. I, however, did ruin you, despite all my efforts not to. I tried to stay away from you. God knows, I tried.” Unexpectedly, he gave a laugh, and the harshness of it made her wince. “I failed, as the events of last night so aptly demonstrated.”

She felt cold, suddenly, all her joy in their night together fading. “So, what you are saying is that you wanted me against your will, fought it as long as you could, but having failed and succumbed to your passion for me, you now feel honor bound to offer me marriage, even though you don’t really want to make a life with me, or any woman. Do I have it right?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned away. She’d heard enough.

He wouldn’t let her go. “Let’s get this clear,” he said, stepping in front of her. “When I came to you last night, I knew just what I was doing, and what the consequence would be. It was a choice, Clara, one I did not make against my will. It was a free, conscious choice. I wanted you, and I accepted that marrying you was the price I would have to pay to have you.”

“Price?” she echoed in disbelief. “There is no price, Rex. A life with me is not something that can be bought.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You made a choice for yourself.”

He stirred, looking away. “You could have told me to go. You didn’t. You let me stay. You made a choice as well.”

“I am not disputing that, but you assume that our choice was the same one. It was not. Do you remember,” she went on before he could reply, “what I said that afternoon in the drawing room of my father’s house? When I told you what I wanted for my life?”

“I do, yes. Believe me when I say I have not failed to take that into consideration.”

“Indeed?”

“You want honorable marriage, which I am offering, though a bit late in the day, I grant you. You also want children.” His gaze lowered, then lifted. “A desire that might already be in the process of being fulfilled. Have you thought of that?”

She hadn’t, heaven help her, not until this moment. And Irene had explained the facts of life to her so painstakingly when the vicar had come courting. A lot of good it had done her.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, seized by a sudden jolt of panic.

Rex grasped her arms as if perceiving her suddenly wobbly knees. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice savage. “There’ll be no shame for you. No ruin. I swear it. We’ll be married straightaway, and no one will know. We’ll live at Braebourne, of course. Don’t worry,” he added, his voice gentling. “It’s a big house, enormous, wings sticking out every which way, plenty of room for a dozen children. It has dogs, horses, apple orchards. It’s in the Cotswolds—Gloucestershire, to be exact. Our village is Stow-on-the-Wold. Very picturesque. Lots of thatched cottages, rambling roses, and bilberries everywhere in summer.”

She felt the appeal of what he described. How could she not? “It sounds like everything I’ve ever wanted,” she whispered and felt an absurd desire to burst into tears. “But it doesn’t have the one thing that matters, does it, Rex? You want me, you are willing to marry me, but—” She took a breath, looked into his stunning blue eyes, and made herself to say it. “But you are not in love with me. Are you?”

His lips pressed together. He stared back at her, his face showing regret for what he did not feel and probably never would. The silence seemed endless. “No,” he said at last, a simple reply, brutal in its honesty.

Again, she tried to turn away, but he would not release her. “Clara, I realize this is not the most romantic situation, and I’m sorry for that. You talk about love, but I honestly do not know what you mean by the word. Infatuation? Passion? Companionable friendship and affection? What sort of love is true and lasting, and what love is not? How does one know the difference? As I’ve said, I desire you. I think very highly of you—”

“Very highly,” she echoed dismally. “Goodness. That’s almost as romantic as celestial marriage.”

“Well, I’m not offering that, just so you know.”

How absurd, she thought. For the second time in her life a man was proposing marriage to her, the first because he didn’t desire her at all, and the second because he desired her too much. But neither had offered marriage out of love for her. She had a penchant, it seemed, for men incapable of loving her.

“Well, there we are, then,” she whispered, sagging in his hold. “You do not love me. And—” She stopped, unable to say she did not love him. She couldn’t say it, for it would be, she realized, a lie. She did love him. She’d been falling in love him all along, bit by bit, starting that very first moment she’d seen him in the tea shop.

How mortifying to know she was such a fool.

Pride came to her rescue, enabling her to say something. “And that means you will marry me, not out of that love, but out of obligation.” Pain pierced her chest at the word, her heart cracking wide open, breaking right there in front of him. “An obligation inevitably becomes a burden. I will be no man’s burden.”

“And the child, Clara? What will the child be if you refuse me?”

She flinched, drawing back as far as his hold would allow, desperate for space and time to think. “We don’t even know if there will be a baby.”

His gaze was steady, impenetrable, and as cool as ocean waters. “And if there is, it will be my bastard, if you do not let me do right by you.”

“I’ll decide what to do about that when it happens, if it happens, which it probably won’t.”

He shook his head in adamant refusal. “The longer we wait, the more risk of scandal. I have no intention of compounding the wrong I’ve done you by risking your reputation.”

“And I have no intention of making an irrevocable decision because you insist upon it. My answer is no. I will not marry you.”

“And if there is a child? Will no still be your answer then?”

She didn’t reply, and she could feel panic setting in again, not the panic of an illegitimate child, of giving it up or raising it alone, or of her own possible ruin. If she stood here much longer, she would waver in her decision. She might even relent, and then, she would be trapped. She could see her future with him, a future that was secure and safe and bleak. She could see herself years from now, still in love with a man who did not love her, a man who’d had more women than he could count and had never loved any of them, who could very well not be capable of love at all and who might not even manage to be faithful. She would want him to love her and only her, she would hope for it, yearn for it, and if he could not give his heart and be a true husband to her, it would destroy her.

She looked at him, knowing he was still waiting for an answer to his question. “I refuse to worry about things that haven’t happened,” she said, and jerked hard, wrenching free of his hold. She ducked around him, fighting back tears as she walked away.

“This isn’t over, Clara,” he called to her.

Yes, it is.

She did not say it out loud, and she did not look back, and as her heart broke into pieces, her only consolation was her absolute certainty that refusing him was the right thing to do. Whatever it cost her, giving him her heart was not worth the price of her soul.