Page 45 of With Love in Sight
“Why did you return then?” she asked.
His skin glowed golden in the warmth of the blaze, his pewter eyes reflecting its orange light as he looked at her. “For you.”
The breath left her body in a slow exhale. “Me?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, reaching for her hand, “I knew I could never get you to agree to marry me in London. I needed you in a place where you could be free to be yourself, out from under your mother’s thumb. And I knew you would love it here.”
She remained silent, as he must have known she would. His thumb absently rubbed over her knuckles, the small intimacy softening her spine and relieving the tension in her head. How she had missed this ease with him.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was uncertain, as if afraid to break the tenuous peace. “You never did tell me why you will not marry me.”
Frances’s face flashed into her mind. She wanted to grip his hand tighter and tell him exactly why, that she loved him and was afraid he would never love her in the same way, that he would one day wake up and realize he had been burdened with a socially inept wife who had no business being a marchioness, that she would die a little inside every day until she was a mere shell of a person and he resented her presence in his life.
Instead she gently withdrew her hand from his. “We won’t suit,” she answered softly. “Not in that way.”
“I think we can both agree that we do, Imogen.” His voice was a purr, washing through her in a delicious way. She steeled herself against it.
“That is not all there is to marriage,” she replied firmly.
He was silent for a moment. “No. You are right in that. But we have developed a wonderful friendship in the past weeks.”
She had to say something. She had to know, once and for all, if there was more possible for them. “But,” she managed, even as her blood pounded loud and hard through every part of her body, “couldn’t you eventually want, or feel, more?”
She wanted to recall the words the moment they were from her mouth. What had possessed her? How could she have been so bold?
He smiled at her then, and it was so tender that she felt a spurt of hope. His next words, however, dashed that all to pieces.
“Have no fear on that score, Imogen. I’m not the kind to ever fall in love. I’ve never felt anything even remotely like what the poets and dreamers talk about. So you may rest your mind—I will never fall in love, will never be unfaithful to you, will never leave you.”
He looked for all the world as if he’d just gifted her with something infinitely precious. She tried to return his smile—after all, what else could she do? So there was an end to it. She felt the hot press of tears but fought them back.
“And we do have passion, as I think you’ve seen,” he continued, his voice suddenly dipping lower, making her remember things she had no wish to. “To have that, along with friendship, is more than I ever hoped for in a marriage.”
She could not stay here with him a moment longer. He thought he was making things better, convincing her of their suitability, not knowing that he was only pushing her further away.
Standing, she made to leave. “I must get some rest.”
He rose and again caught her arm, forcing her to stop. “You do care for me a bit, don’t you, Imogen?”
She nearly blanched. “You know I could not have lain with you if I did not…care for you.”
He moved closer. “Then give it a chance, Imogen. Give us a chance.”
She should refuse him, remain stern and unyielding and let him know in no uncertain terms that she would not accept him. Especially after the revelations of the past several minutes.
But even after his verification that he would never love her, the words would not come. She tried to force them out. But her throat closed up and her lips would not form the words. Instead she found herself pleading, “I need till the end of my visit. Please.”
He studied her for a long moment. Then something changed in him. His face took on a determination that frightened and thrilled her, and his lips quirked in that lazy, cocksure smile that melted her very bones. His gaze fastened on her lips. She could do nothing but stare up at him like a rabbit in a snare.
“I think you will find, Imogen,” he practically purred, his hand cupping the back of her head, his deft fingers massaging into her hair, “that at the end of these two weeks we will suit. Very much indeed.”
Chapter 19
Imogen spent more time than usual readying herself the following morning, but it was not by choice. Kate had insisted on giving her hair a softened look, framing her face with curls.
