Page 54 of Lyon of Scotland
“What is it?” Again he seemed to know her thoughts—it had been that way between them from the first.
“I still wonder,” she said, pouring more cocoa for both, “why you married me. You were not obligated, and did not come to London planning to court me and propose—although I am glad you tell it that way.”
“The full truth stays between us, shared with very few.” He sighed. “It was not obligation. I wanted to marry you. But something still troubles you about that.”
“I am thankful, truly. So Papa sent you to find me?”
“It was more a suggestion, and I promised to look after you. I took it too far, and I will always feel remorse about it.”
“We know what happened. As for Dove, I was trying to take care of things myself. I am not a wilting sort.”
“I know that. And you did all you could. But Frederic Dove would challenge the most strong-willed person, and he proved he could be dangerous. He meant his threats.”
“He did. So you acted on chivalry and remorse?”
“Hannah,” he said sternly. “I acted on affection as well as concern. The affection began long before London.”
He had said so before, and it thrilled her again. Yet something still tapped at her.
“Many marriages begin on less,” he said. “We will find our way and do well.”
“I hope so, but…I must ask, since you have not said.”
“What have I not said?” His eyes, large and warm and dark, met hers. “How can I declare that I love you and have you believe it?”
“Love me?” She caught her breath, cup poised in the air as she looked at him.
“Love you,” he said. “I love you. I am not asking the same of you. It takes time—I am still sorting it out myself. I am a thoughtful lad who needs a little courage to talk about some things.”
She set her cup down, and for an instant, fought tears as her heart swelled. “Lord Strathburn,” she said. “I love you. I have loved you since we talked of strawberry jam.”
He laughed, took her hand across the small table, lifted it, kissed it. “A wonderful moment that I will never forget, Hannah Gordon.”
“Now, or the jam?” She pressed his fingers, stroked the back of his hand where the scarring felt rough.
“Both.” He kissed her hand again, released it. “But I see you thinking hard about something still. Just here, that frown.” He reached out to tap her forehead. “What bothers you?”
“This, then. Did you come to London to find a heraldry artist, and decide to take me back with you? And marriage was one way to do that?”
He raised his brows at that, as if taken off guard. He sipped chocolate, shredded a bit of bread on the plate. “You have a blunt way when you want, I give you that.”
“Did you know I was at the College of Arms?”
“I did not. Your father did not mention it specifically. But he had asked me another time if I needed an artist in my offices.”
“He mentioned that to me once. It gave me the thought in London when I met Sir George. So in a way, it helped me. But I wonder—I just have to know—if you wanted me to paint for your office, and married me in part because of it.”
“It crossed my mind, but I am not underhanded. Why would you ask that?”
“Something Charley Dove said put the thought in my mind.”
“I discussed the need for artists with Sir George, for both our offices with the king needing new royal crests. But I would never do that. Understand?”
She nodded, watching him. He was silent for a moment, then tapped the table thoughtfully. “I did consider it. In our heraldry office, we have lost two artists in the last few months. With the king’s coronation coming up, there is much to be done. So of course, I wondered if you could be convinced—but I would never act on that. I also told Sir George that the design of the king’s Scottish armorials belongs to our office. He did not agree.”
“He wants the credit for the king’s new coats of arms to go to the College of Arms in England. Did you know I had made designs for the Scottish armorials?”
“I only learned it later from you. Who else knew?”
