Page 84 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
When she opened them, he was standing before the hearth, the document in one hand, his brandy in the other. He shrugged, tossed the will onto the coals, and then splashed the remains of his brandy upon it.
She jumped to her feet, more speechless than ever.
Graeme watched the flames leaping, shriveling, turning the noxious document to embers as black as the souls of the men who’d created it and signed it. Lord Vernon, Diddenton, Sir Morris, and worst of all his cousin, Archie.
What sort of man took a woman to wife and treated her like the doxies he hired to whip?
In all the excitement of the day, Blythe might not remember the conversation that took place in Lunetta’s parlor, but he did. That conversation and the few facts parsed together from Blythe’s reaction to their morning visit to Soho, and Coralie’s story days earlier, told him everything.
Could he help her heal? Would she let him?
He looked up to find her standing next to him, hands twisted at her waist.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I would never have thought…” She took a deep breath. “I would not have this on your conscience.”
“My conscience?” he said.
“Yes. You are a good man, Graeme. Your honor?—”
“Is perfectly in order. What is dishonorable is those pieces of parchment shriveling there.” He took her hands. “I told you I would share this burden. You did the right thing to bring that to me. It gives me hope.”
Her mouth dropped open, but no words came out, so he went on.
“Hope. Yes. Hope that despite my mistakes, despite everything that has gone before, that you might?—”
She set a finger over his lips, and desire stirred in him. He ought to take her finger into his mouth, to suck on it in hopes of stirring similar feelings in her.
Instead, he took her hand away. “I am going to court you,” he said, “properly. Whether you want me to or not.”
She stood just watching him.
“Not seduce you. Not force you. Court you. I hope that you will remain here in London. With Lady Hermione as our chaperone, we’ll attend social events. We’ll go to the theater. We’ll host guests. During the day, I’ll see to business—the business of Chilcombe as well as government business—while you correspond with young Mr. Stockwell regarding matters at Bluebelle Lodge. When the season ends, I’ll escort you and the children to Bluebelle Lodge, and I’ll go on to Risley Manor. I’ll invite neighbors there and would very much like you to serve as my hostess. Together, and with the support of Mr. Jarrow, we’ll tackle the local society. You’ll have time, Blythe. Time to get to know me, to decide what you want, and I hope, to grow to love me as much as I love you.”
More moisture pooled in her eyes and she swallowed, but still remained silent.
“What say you?” he asked gently.
She nodded and expelled a breath. “All right.”
“We’ll be family, Blythe, as well as neighbors. We won’t be lovers until we marry.” He bit his lip. “Much as I desire you now.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “I would not spoil things, Graeme, for some young lady who?—”
“No young ladies for me.” He managed a smile. “I want the ancient Blythe Blatchfield.”
“Ancient?” She pulled her shoulders back and blinked, and then a smile bloomed.
“An October wedding?” he asked, “Or ought we to wait until Christmas?”
“Graeme.”
“Surely your hair will not be gray by then?”
She scoffed and swatted him. And then she let him kiss her quite thoroughly.
Epilogue
October 1824
