Chapter Eleven
Neville shook his head no, even as he turned Millie’s question over in his mind.
He would not be a tyrant, but how could he prove he would not have some of her father’s tendencies?
He didn’t know exactly what she’d gone through, and he hadn’t known the man.
He’d only Harbury’s warning and the occasional comments she’d let slip.
He could tell her he was not usually quick to anger. He could tell her he’d never taken his rage out on anyone else. And that he wasn’t prone to bitterness. But those truths did not provide the whole answer, because Millie was not wrong about his disapproval.
He had disapproved—fundamentally disapproved—of Millie.
He’d told Asquith and Blackwell his protection was necessary to save her from herself.
At the same time, he hadn’t admitted caring for her to the point of distraction and urgently desiring her presence.
He’d stared at her outrageous dress at Almack’s with covetous distaste.
At the same time, he’d wanted to abscond with her to the privacy of his bedchamber and strip her of that garment—first bodice, then skirts, then stays.
Given that evidence, he could see himself slipping into tyranny where she was concerned.
What if Millie was right?
What if his mother was wrong?
What if even love was not enough of a basis for a happy marriage? What if he could love her as much as he did, and yet still turn into the tyrant he feared becoming?
A tyrant not like Millie’s father, whom he’d never known, but a tyrant like his own.
He sighed roughly, allowing himself the sweet agony of touching her face.
His father never lost his temper, either, as there were “some things gentlemen just didn’t do.” And his father had never treated Neville, or John, with any degree of contempt. But their mother…. She’d been a different story.
His father had been critical of his wife’s clothes, her friends, her passions.
His mother, a duke’s daughter, had not been intimidated. Her sense of worth, her determination to fulfill her place in the world, had not been changed by her marriage. But still, she’d been hurt by his censure.
Something Neville had not fully understood until their conversation the other night.
And, without overtly speaking against his father, she’d let Neville know she feared he might be capable of the same dismissive behavior toward his future wife.
Then, when he’d seen Millie with Asquith in the stables, he’d struggled to suppress a jealous surge. How was he going to act when less scrupulous gentleman of the ton attempted to engage her in games of seduction?
And they would. He knew they would. Because some gentlemen of the ton made a game out of cuckolding their peers.
Millie, whose every move dripped sensuality, however unconscious, would become their prime target once she was wed. Even now, with that ill-fitting gauzy bit of fluff wrapped around her shoulders, he could barely keep himself from drawing her into his lap.
Delilah. She was everything his father had warned him against.
And yet, she was also smart. Perceptive. Brave. When she smiled at Neville, everything in life felt like it had a reason. When she laughed, all became right with his world.
He dropped his arm. Her palm stole over his own as she patiently waited for him to argue his part. He released his grip on the chair, turned up his hand, and entwined her warm fingers with his own.
Could a joining be wrong when the partnership felt so right?
“I cannot promise you that I won’t get jealous.” His gaze traveled over those lovely, angled cheekbones, then to the mouth so frequently turned up in mocking sarcasm. “I cannot promise that some sisterly mischief you will doubtless undertake won’t leave me upset.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“The way other men look at you…” Well, sometimes he had to wipe perspiration from his brow.
“Neville—”
Her eyes were so wide and deep and inviting.
“—Augustus—”
Would her odd choice of his name never cease to leave him utterly vanquished?
“—I only want you.”
So she’d shown him at the theater. Would her desire for him be enough? Possibly. He could hold those words like a talisman tucked into his heart.
When the inevitable jealous surge came, he could stand still, confident in her devotion, and let the wave pass him by. And when she—or her mischievous sisters—got to playing a prank, he could remember that playfulness was part of what made him love her so.
Everyone was occasionally embarrassed. Hell, he often embarrassed himself.
He dropped his gaze to their joined fingers.
Together, could they become better than they were separately?
Could she, perhaps, grow to love him, too?
“I’m going to get jealous,” he continued.
“I’m going to get embarrassed. But I promise you that I am man enough to know my impulses are often fleeting, irrational feelings with little basis in truth.
And I can also promise I would never impose burdensome restrictions on you because of those fleeting impulses. ”
He squeezed her fingers. She squeezed his back.
“I am not your father.”
She took a deep breath. “No,” she conceded. “He would have liked you, though. Especially if you promised to put me in my place.”
Again, she’d hit him with her verbal rapier.
Her place?
Devastating.
He knew exactly what she’d meant, too. A subservient place. And, right now, she was quite literally at his feet.
“Come up,” he urged, moving to the side. “Come up and share my seat.”
She glanced to the small place by his side—the chair hardly had room for two. But he couldn’t countenance her moving to the other side of the room. Misunderstandings were less likely if they stayed physically connected.
He tugged on her hand, pulling her to her feet.
“Let’s see…” She studied the chair. “How can this be done?”
She settled herself, not beside him as he’d intended, but with her legs across his lap. He held up his hands while she tucked her bum into the open space with a slaying wiggle against his thigh. Then, she rested her back against the chair’s side.
He brought his right arm behind her for support and let his left arm hang. He could hardly rest it against her thighs!
She wrinkled her nose. “Not quite right.”
She threw her legs across his lap, and he oomphed as they landed.
“There.” Graciously, she arranged his other arm across her shins, which were partially hanging over the chair. “You were saying?”
Out of the frying pan into the fire. “I was trying to tell you the only ‘place’ I want you to be is right here by my side. If you would have me, I would not—”
He’d started his sentence with a conditional, as if she might not accept. He had to believe she would. Why else would she have situated herself in his lap?
Whatever she had believed before, she could not be ignorant of how much he wanted her now. Hadn’t his actions made that clear? If they hadn’t, his body was certainly asserting needs, something she must be able to feel, close as they were.
“You would not…?” she prompted.
“I will not treat you as if your place is beneath me. You’ll be…”
Was there a word for a treasured female friend? “My wife” felt too possessive. “My lover” not strong enough. He finally settled on a word he’d never thought he’d use.
“My beloved.” His swallow felt cobblestone rough. “Just as I hope to become yours.”
Her head tilted, and her smile softened. But her eyes told him she was not entirely reassured. He’d have to give her more.
Absently, he ran his fingers up and down a spot just above her feet. “You say your father influenced your fears of marriage. Mine influenced my fears as well.”
“Fears?”
He met her curious gaze. “He would have referred to you as a Delilah.” As he did my mother.
“The infamous seductress?” She brightened, almost as if pleased. “I know our governess taught us that one, but I’ve always preferred the New Testament to the Old. The story’s details have become hazy.”
He couldn’t believe she genuinely didn’t remember. “Would you like me to remind you?”
“Certainly. Although…” she considered. “If the story involves seduction, why would my governess think it one appropriate for young girls?”
“I don’t know,” he mused. “Then again, not all children’s stories inspire and delight. Some teach you what dangers lie in wait.”
“Dangers?”
“Delilah was the woman Sampson loved who cut off his hair.”
“Ah, yes.” She lifted a brow. “But that doesn’t sound terrible. Hair must be cut, after all.”
How practical. He smiled. “Not Samson’s hair. Sampson was the strongest man alive, and his strength was in his hair. He fell in love with Delilah. Unbeknown to him, however, Delilah had been bribed by his enemies to uncover the secret of his strength.”
“Absurd! You’re strong and your hair is short. But do go on…”
He played the details of his father’s version through his mind, feeling all the weight of his father’s belief in feminine moral weakness and inferiority.
Telling the story would be difficult, but he had to help her understand the source of the fear his father had planted in him.
“Delilah tries to manipulate Sampson into revealing his secret several times, and each time, he gives her false information. Sampson’s enemies capture him but don’t know the truth, so he is able to fight his way to freedom. ”
She harrumphed. “If he gave her the false information, he would have realized she was not to be trusted, no?”
“I never considered, but yes, I suppose. Finally, Delilah tells Sampson if he truly loved her, he would tell her the truth about the source of his strength. And when he does, she betrays him by cutting his hair while he sleeps.”
She looked deeply into his eyes. “Perhaps, I am a Delilah.”
“What do you mean?”
“I came down here determined to lure the truth out of you, too. To make you tell me why you wanted to marry me and if I could trust myself to you. And, I think, in an indirect way, you just have. You want me, and you fear me, just as I want and fear you, too.”
Now, he knew for certain she’d been fully aware of the story all along.