“You love someone else,” she whispered.

Wait . . . What?

It took him a moment to realize he hadn’t said it aloud. Had she gone mad? “What are you talking about?”

“Billie Bridgerton. You’re supposed to marry her. I don’t think you remember, but—”

“I’m not in love with Billie,” he interrupted. He ran his hand through his hair, then turned to face the wall as he let out a shout of frustration. Good God, was that what this was all about? His neighbor back home?

And then Cecilia said—she actually said, “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he retorted. “I’m certainly not going to marry her.”

“No, I think you are,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve recovered your full memory, but you said as much in your letters. Or at least Thomas did, and then your godmother—”

“What?” He whirled around. “When did you speak to Aunt Margaret?”

“Just today. But I—”

“Did she seek you out?” Because by God, if his godmother had insulted Cecilia in any way . . .

“No. It was entirely by chance. She’d come to see you, and I happened to be leaving to purchase my ticket—”

He growled.

She backed up a step. Or rather she tried. She’d clearly forgotten that she was already up against the edge of the bunk.

“I thought it would be rude not to sit with her,” she said. “Although I must say, it was very awkward to play the hostess in a public house.”

Edward went still for a moment, then to his amazement he felt his lips cracking into a smile. “God, I would have loved to have seen that.”

Cecilia gave him a bit of a sideways glance. “It is much more amusing in retrospect.”

“I’m sure.”

“She’s terrifying.”

“She is.”

“My godmother was a dotty old woman in the parish,” Cecilia muttered. “She knit me socks every year for my birthday.”

He considered this. “I am quite certain Margaret Tryon has never knit a pair of socks in her life.”

A little grumbling sound formed in Cecilia’s throat before she said, “She’d probably be ridiculously competent at it if she tried.”

Edward nodded, his smile by now reaching his eyes. “Probably.” He gave her a little nudge so that she sat on the bunk, and then he sat beside her. “You know I’m going to marry you,” he said. “I can’t believe you thought I would do otherwise.”

“Of course I thought you’d insist upon marrying me,” she replied. “That’s why I left. So you wouldn’t have to.”

“That’s the most ridic—”

She placed her hand on his shoulder to silence him. “You would never have taken me to bed if you thought we weren’t married.”

He did not contradict her.

She shook her head sadly. “You slept with me under false pretenses.”

He tried not to laugh, he really did, but within seconds the bed was shaking with his mirth.

“Are you laughing?” she asked.

He nodded, clutching his middle as her question set off another wave of glee. “‘Slept with me under false pretenses,’” he chortled.

Cecilia frowned disgruntledly. “Well, you did.”

“Perhaps, but who cares?” He gave her a friendly nudge with his elbow. “We’re getting married.”

“But Billie—”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “For the last time, I don’t want to marry Billie. I want to marry you.”

“But—”

“I love you, you little fool. I’ve been in love with you for years.”

Maybe he was a little too full of himself, but he would swear he heard her heart skip a beat. “But you didn’t know me,” she whispered.

“I knew you,” he said. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I knew you better than—” He paused for a moment, needing the time to collect his emotions. “Do you have any idea how many times I read your letters?”

She shook her head.

“Every letter . . . my God, Cecilia, you have no idea what they meant to me. They weren’t even written to me—”

“They were,” she said softly.

He went still, but his eyes held hers, silently asking her what she meant.

“Every time I wrote to Thomas I was thinking of you. I—” She swallowed, and although the light was too dim to see her blush, somehow he knew her face had gone pink. “I scolded myself every time.”

He touched her cheek. “Why are you smiling?”

“I’m not. I—well, maybe I am, but it’s because I’m embarrassed. I felt so silly, pining over a man I’d never met.”

“No sillier than I,” he said. He reached into the pocket of his coat. “I have a confession.”

Cecilia watched as he unfurled his fingers. A miniature—her miniature—lay in his palm. She gasped, and her eyes flew to his. “But . . . how?”

“I stole it,” he said plainly, “when Colonel Stubbs asked me to inspect Thomas’s trunk.” He’d tell her later that Thomas had wanted him to have it. It didn’t really matter, anyway; he hadn’t known this when he’d slipped it into his pocket.

Her eyes went from the tiny painting to his face and back again.

Edward touched her chin, raising her eyes to his. “I’ve never stolen anything before, you know.”

“No,” she said in an amazed murmur, “I can’t imagine you would.”

“But this—” He pressed the miniature into her palm. “This I could not do without.”

“It’s just a portrait.”

“Of the woman I love.”

“You love me,” she whispered, and he wondered how many times he would have to say it for her to believe him. “You love me.”

“Madly,” he admitted.

She looked down at the painting in her hand. “It doesn’t look like me,” she said.

“I know,” he said, reaching a shaky hand out. He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, his large palm coming to rest against her cheek. “You’re so much more beautiful,” he whispered.

“I lied to you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I think you do.”

“Did you do so with intent to hurt me?”

“No, of course not. I only—”

“Did you wish to defraud—”

“No!”

He shrugged. “As I said, I don’t care.”

For a second it seemed she might stop protesting. But then her lips parted again, and she took a little breath, and Edward knew it was time to put a stop to this nonsense.

So he kissed her.

But not for terribly long. Much as he wanted to ravish her, there were other, more important matters at hand. “You could say it back, you know,” he told her.

She smiled. No, she beamed. “I love you too.”

Just like that, all of the pieces of his heart settled into place. “Will you marry me? For real?”

She nodded. Then she nodded again, faster this time. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, oh yes!”

And because Edward was a man of action, he stood, grabbed her hand, and hauled her to her feet. “It’s a good thing we’re on a ship.”

She made an inarticulate noise of confusion but was immediately drowned out by an unfortunately familiar shriek.

“Your friend?” Edward said, with an amused arch of his brow.

“Not my friend,” Cecilia replied immediately.

“They’re in there,” came the grating voice of Miss Finch. “Cabin eight.”

A crisp knock sounded on the door, followed by a deep male voice. “This is Captain Wolverton. Is aught amiss?”

Edward opened the door. “My apologies, sir.”

The captain’s face lit with delighted recognition. “Captain Rokesby!” he exclaimed. “I did not realize you were sailing with us.”