Page 71 of To Love and to Loathe
“I’m sorry,” he said against her hair, his words coming out muffled and indistinct. “I don’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” came her equally muffled reply from where her face was pressed against his chest. “This is long overdue, I think.”
So he didn’t apologize, not for his trembling, not for the overly tight grip with which he held her, not for the occasional kiss he pressed to the top of her head. Not for the tears she was too diplomatic to mention, though she must have felt them, wet and hot against his skin and hers.
When at last he had himself sufficiently under control—though whether a minute or an hour had passed, he couldn’t have said—he drew back slightly, keeping his arms loosely wrapped around her but creating enough space between them for him to peer down into her face.
“I’m sorry for… for last night,” he said again, the words feeling woefully inadequate.
“I’d imagine you are,” she said, sniffing. She raised her nose in the air as she did so, giving the impression of a very haughty rabbit.
A very haughty, very attractive rabbit.
He was beginning to think there was something seriously wrong with him.
“I concede now that announcing one’s plans to propose to another woman isn’t the best way to earn a lady’s trust and affection,” he added, and was rewarded with that oh-so-Diana eye roll that he loved so much.
“You don’t say,” she said.
“It’s just—you caught me off guard, and I’d worked out this entireplan—oh God, I can’t believe I was actually planning toproposeto Lady Helen Courtenay.” He was suddenly wide-eyed with horror. He seized her elbows. “Have I lost my mind? Is this what love does to a person?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing the past twenty-four hours,” she assured him grimly. “It’s all very alarming.”
“Do you,” he started, then halted, floundering. “That is—I know Ibollocksed things up last night, but I’ve never been in love, and I think I just… panicked,” he finished lamely.
“I know,” she interrupted serenely. “That was part of the reason I was angry with you, you see.”
“You knew I was in love with you?”
She huffed in irritation. “Of course.”
“I see,” he said slowly, which was as far from the truth as any two words he’d ever uttered in his life. He saw nothing. Women were entirely perplexing creatures.
“Of course you don’t,” she said matter-of-factly.
“No,” he agreed.
“I knew you loved me,” she explained slowly, as one might to a child. “I knew I loved you. You, however, seemed to know neither of these things, and, moreover, seemed to think thatproposing to another womanwas somehow a satisfactory resolution to our situation.” He could see her getting worked up again just speaking of it, and he hastily headed her off before she could get into a proper fury, because Diana in a proper fury was a dangerous thing.
He took a deep breath. “I’m not good at things like this,” he confessed. Diana let out a laugh that was an extremely close relation to a snort. “All right,” he amended, “I’m utterly rubbish at this. I made a mistake. But I’ve never had to—well, this is going to make me sound like a prize ass—”
“Too late.”
“Thank you,” he said, giving her a withering look. She smirked back at him. “I’ve never had to try terribly hard with women, you see.”
She lifted an eyebrow with such expressive skepticism that he was surprised barbed insults didn’t spring into midair between them, fully formed. “You’re right, that does make you sound like a prize ass.”
It should not have been alluring to hear her insult him, and yet somehow it was. He was beginning to think himself curiously perverse where she was concerned—first the freckles, and now this?
“But—well—you know. The title. The money. The… well, my appearance. I’m told it’s tolerable.” He gave her his best rakish smile. Naturally, it seemed to have no effect on her whatsoever, which was of course all part of the appeal she held for him. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say they were lining up, but… it was never terribly difficult. And I never promised them anything, and they knew not to expect anything. We didn’t go so far as to shake on it, like you and I did, but it was the same general understanding. And there were never any issues, because we both knew the rules.
“But, with you… the rules changed. I found myself feeling things that I’ve never felt for anyone before, that I’ve neverletmyself feel for anyone. Caring for people is dangerous, you see. I learned that one the hard way.”
“With your brother,” she said quietly.
He nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “I was… in a bad way after he died. I was grieving him, and it wasn’t so long after my father had died, either. My father was a bit of a bastard, but it’s still something to find yourself all alone in the world at the age of two-and-twenty, with an indebted estate and a whole host of people who are depending on you for their very livelihood. I acted out a bit, I suppose. And I realized that it was easier that way, to play the character rather than to be myself. If everyone believed the idea of who the Marquess of Willingham was, I didn’t have to worry about any of them knowing who I really was instead.”
“I understand that,” she said under her breath, and he believed her—he believed her as he would have believed no one else in thatmoment, because of course she did. She had been doing much the same thing he had, for years and years.
