Page 43 of Married to the Lord

“Questioning such things is not helpful.”

“Do you think we were always meant to be together, Miles?”

He clenched his jaw. It would be so easy to plant seeds of doubt, to ensure that she and Henry were never together again. But it would mean nothing. Henry was an ass for his current behavior but he had always been the better of them. If he could sort himself out, he’d be the best husband for Augusta, Miles was certain of that.

“You always seemed to like him,” he said vaguely.

“Yes, I suppose I did.” She looked down. “Oh, you’re bleeding!”

Frowning, he peered at his hand. A well of blood had pooled on his palm—enough to make it drip through his fingers. He grimaced. He’d completely forgotten he’d even cut himself. “Had a little fight with a glass.” He tilted his lips. “The glass won.”

“I can see that.” Augusta retrieved a handkerchief from her bodice before he could fish out his own and forcefully grabbed his hand. Swiftly, she wrapped the delicate fabric around his large palm and pressed down upon it.

He swallowed at the sight of her delicate, pale fingers upon his slightly tanned and worn skin. Too much time fighting had left his knuckles scarred, tiny white strips criss-crossing over them. In the pale light of dawn, the marks seemed brighter.

He wished he could will them away—will his past away even. Go back to a time when his hands were scar-less and smooth. He could not help but wonder if he had never fallen down the hole of drinking, fighting, and gambling, would he have been able to court Augusta? Make her his? Or was it simply that she and Henry really were always meant to be together? After all, they were closer in age and Henry’s temperament complimented Augusta’s. Miles’s quieter disposition was no use to her. Together, the two of them would be about the quietest couple in theton.

His train of thought came to a standstill when he felt her soft fingers brush across his knuckles.

“I have ruined your glove.”

She glanced at the discarded garment in question, the white fabric marred by a small red stain. “They are not my favorite.”

“Well, that is a relief.”

“How did you get so many scars?” she asked, continuing her torturous exploration of his hands with her own. Her thumb fell upon a particularly large scar that was still puckered.

“Fighting,” he murmured reluctantly.

“And this one?”

“All fighting.”

She tilted her head. “What sort of fights?”

“Gus...” he protested, voice tight.

“Was this when you went away?”

He shook his head. If he were a clever man, he’d stand up now and ignore her incessant questioning. Unfortunately for him, he had to be about the stupidest man in England.

He remained where he was, reveling in the feel of her soft fingertips, drawing in the sweet fragrance of her, and taking far too much pleasure in the way her dark lashes fanned out against slightly shimmering, pale skin as she studied his hands. Her distraction gave him far too much time to absorb the sight of her.

He most definitely was the stupidest man in England. Why the hell did he want to prolong his torture?

At least he would remember this...remember her. Once she was married and wrapped up in life with Henry, he could recall sitting here and feeling as though he was in the presence of the sweetest, prettiest woman he’d ever known. He smirked to himself. His warped humor and gruff ways were certainly no good for her. No wonder she had always been drawn to Henry.

“Why did you fight, Miles?”

He blew out a breath. Here he was hoping her curiosity would wane. Did he know nothing about women? It seemed so.

“Who can say? Sometimes because I had to. Sometimes because I wanted to.”

There, that would scare her away.

“Why did you want to?”

Damn her.

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