Page 47 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
“Yes; it’s clear enough the house has been in a sad state of disrepair for quite some time. If you’d like it to remain standing until Georgie reaches his majority and can inherit it properly, it needs some maintenance.” He moved closer, his thighs pressing back her skirts. “We had an agreement, Lizzie.”
“Strictly speaking, I only agreed to marry you.”
“Strictly speaking, marriage entails certain legal rights over your person.” Long fingers framed her face, tilted her chin up. “Some of which are rather difficult to exercise at a distance.” His lips brushed the corner of hers. “Lizzie. You’re not frightened, are you?”
“Of course not.” But it had the distinct tenor of a lie, and his chuckle frayed her already-frazzled nerves. Her heart pounded against the cage of her ribs. “A—anyone could come in,” she said.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, but that teasing pressure only increased. His hand curved around the back of her neck, fingers stroking lightly over her nape. “I suppose if someonedidhappen to come upon us…I’d have to marry you.”
The amusement in his voice should have rankled, but didn’t. Somehow, her hands had settled upon the warm wall of his chest, fingertips scratching across the embroidered fabric of his waistcoat. “You’re already marrying me.”
“So I am. Well, then, there’s no harm in it, is there?”
But there was. Every time he drew close, her thoughts muddled into a terrible tangle and her head went heavy with a sort of drunken languor that disturbed her. A coach and six could have driven straight through her perfectly-ordered kitchen and she would have been none the wiser. The whole world seemed to tighten and narrow, reduced down to just bare sensation—the pressure of his fingers at her nape; the heat of his arm at her back; the thrust of his tongue into her mouth. How foolish was she, truly, toknowthe trap he laid for her, and to walk into it willingly anyway?
And then she was thinking of nothing at all, not for seconds—minutes—hours—until finally he murmured against her lips, “Lizzie. The toast.”
“The…toast?” Even the word felt unfamiliar upon her lips, as if she had been reformed, remade.
“It’s burning.” Again, that thread of amusement wound through his voice and curled into her ears.
On her next breath, the acrid scent of scorched bread assailed her. “The toast!” Galvanized, Lizzie shoved Luke away, waving at the plume of smoke that had erupted from the pan with one hand while feeling for the tongs with the other. “Oh, it’sruined, you—you—”
“What? Jackanapes? You’ve used that one already.” He snagged a piece of ruined toast, tossing it between his hands to cool it. “Might I suggestknave?”
“MightIsuggest you absent yourself from my kitchen before I carve you up like a side of beef?” Lizzie cast a pat of butter into the pan and two fresh slices of bread after it, irritated by the trembling of her fingers.
“Now, now, it’s bad form to gut the groom before the wedding. I’m almost certain of it.” There was an ominouscrunch. “Good lord,” he mumbled around a mouthful of blackened crumbs. “It’s burnt straight through.”
“You didn’t haveto eat it.”
“I thought you might have been tempted to stab me if I had gone for the bacon.”
“Of all the things for which I might be tempted to stab you, bacon is the very least that ought to concern you.”
“Good,” he said, and he snatched up yet another piece as he turned to leave, laughing at the infuriated sound that rose from her throat as he made a clean escape.
∞∞∞
The ring that sat upon Lizzie’s finger was heavier than it had looked, though perhaps it was merely the weight of what it represented that sat so heavily upon her hand.
She hadn’t expected him to have one. It had been something of a surprise when the reverend had called for one, and she had stammered through a few half-hearted protestations—until Luke had produced it from his pocket. A polished ruby surrounded by a ring of diamonds in a band of gold, and though it had gone on easily enough, now it wanted to slip off her finger, and she had been forced to curl her fingers into a fist to keep it where it was meant to sit.
Upon the fourth finger of her left hand. Because she wasmarried.
A family heirloom, he’d said. Every Marchioness of Ashworth for the last hundred years had worn it. And now it belonged to her.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he said as the carriage proceeded up the drive toward the house. “I had it brought down from London.”
“When?”
“It arrived this morning. Along with my carriage, and a cart for whatever belongings you care to bring. My servants are packing now. Hadn’t you noticed?” The cant of his head was inquisitive, faintly surprised.
“No, I—I suppose I had other things on my mind.”
A soft snort. “Only you could overlook half a dozen footmen tromping about the house,” he said. “Do you like it?”
“Oh.”Not particularly. It didn’t fit properly, it weighed down her hand, and she suspected there would be a whole host of complications and inconveniences that came with it. Which likely made it the ideal ring to suit her marriage, which was both complicated and inconvenient. “It’s…pretty.”
