Page 648 of From Rakes to Riches

“I am certainly Pease Porridge Cold and rather stupid to come away in nothing but my gown and evening slippers.”

He instinctively took her chilly hand to chafe warm and found himself at a disconcerting loss to do so—he could not do so with only one hand.

The realization shocked him anew, because for a moment there, he could swear he had felt it—pins and needles of feeling along the whole of his missing arm, from elbow to fingertips—alive and reaching for hers.

But the feeling faded into an empty ache. An empty, ravenous ache he needed to assuage. As soon as he got her safe and warm.

“Your Grace!” If his secretary was astonished to see his employer ushering a young woman with no cloak and no chaperone over the doorstep of Warwick Court, he hid it well. “You must be perishing from the cold.”

“We are indeed, Hodge.” The snow had begun to fall in earnest, slanting down at such a rate that he and Penelope were covered in wet flakes from their dash from the carriage. “It’s a bitter night. My betrothed will require some warmed wine, if you would please alert the household. No—belay that.”

Marcus had wanted to begin as he meant to go on—Penelope would be his wife as soon as he could find a clergyman to make an honest man out of him—but until he was sure of the special license, it were more prudent to keep the whole of the staff from gossip. “If you might do that yourself, to leave us privacy?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Able Hodge was all wary accommodation. “May I wish you very happy, sir.” He bowed to Penelope. “There is already wine, and a fire laid above stairs, in your chamber, Your Grace. If you pleased to take your ease there?”

“Thank you, Hodge. We’ll go up directly.” Indeed, his Pease Porridge was shivering in her snow-dampened gown. “Damn my eyes, I seem to be conducting this elopement rather badly.”

Penelope’s small smile was teasing. “Have you conducted many others?”

Marcus could only bless his stars that she met difficulties with such good humor—it boded well for them.

“Not a one. You are my first. And only.” He took her hand again and kissed it before he led her up the high, twisting staircase. “You?”

She shook her head. “No. Though I will admit I contemplated one, before I came to my senses.”

He did not need to ask with whom she might have contemplated eloping. He need to remember that shewaseloping withhim.Theyweretogether.

And he meant for them to stay that way. Always.

He took up a fresh blanket from the carved chest at the bottom of the bed to replace the snow-wet fur but could do no more than offer it to her. “Wrap yourself up in this.”

With only one arm, the ability to perform that service was beyond him.

What other services he was yet to be unable to perform, he would soon discover.

Penelope seemed to feel his unease—she rubbed her bare arms. “It’s very elegant,” she said of the tall room.

“It’s overlarge,” he answered, happy to talk of easy nothings. “After the comfortably close confines of shipboard life, I will confess I find Warwick Court so big it feels empty.” He poked up the fire to chase more of the chill to the corners. “But I hope you will like it.”

Penelope took a deep, steadying breath before she stood. “I like you.”

“Brave girl.” He handed her a glass of warm spiced claret. “Get that in you to chase out the chill.”

“Thank you.” She took a sip. “Gracious, that tastes divine. Almost as good as you.”

Everything within him eased and tensed all at the same time in an entirely different way than before. “I am honored you should think so.” He kissed the soft lips she turned up to him.

She tasted of wine and winter warmth, of cinnamon and nutmeg-spiced happiness—a happiness he would drink in until he was no longer thirsty.

He touched her face to draw her close, to feel her petal-soft skin pressed close to his.

She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck to run her fingers through his loose hair.

“Your hair is wet,” she whispered against his lips. “And your coat is damp, too. Come under the blanket with me,” she coaxed as she began to push the coat from his shoulders.

“No.” The word came out no less harshly than he intended.

“Beech.” Her voice held no rebuke, but he felt her reproach all the same. “If you mean for us to be together,” she asked quietly, “do you mean to keep yourself from me? Am I to keep myself from touching you?”

---