Chapter 34 #2
“What are you talking about?”
“Admit it, James, you want a conventional wife, not one with a reputation as a wanton…or a murderer.”
A conventional wife? He might have laughed at the absurdity of her notion, if he hadn’t seen the pain in her eyes and heard it in her voice.
“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say those things—or even think them.
” He drew her close again, knowing this time, he might never let her go. “You killed that man to save my life.”
“I did it for you. Possibly the first thing I’ve ever done without thinking of myself first…”
“I put you in danger. Dear God, Elizabeth, what if I had lost you?”
She gave a watery laugh. “That’s what I was thinking when I swung that musket. What if I lost you? My love. My only love.”
The words rushed out before he could stop them. “And you are mine, Elizabeth Harcrest. In this life, I will only love you.”
“So how can you say we can never be together?” She pounded his chest. “How can you speak of sending me away?”
His heart, the one that he had taught himself to believe he didn’t have, felt as if it were being sliced with a million razors. “What else can I do?” He had to make her see, to understand, that sending her away was the right thing to do. “My reputation is a disgrace…”
“As is mine.”
Damn her beautiful hazel eyes, she was laughing at him.
James tried again. “The Dinsmore estates are in debt—I am not a wealthy man. Far from it. I cannot keep you in the manner to which you are accustomed…and I will not take money from your brother—even if he had a mind to give it, which we both know he has not. Do you understand what that means?”
“If both our reputations are in tatters, we shall have no need of fine clothes, or expensive entertainments.”
“Do you take nothing seriously, Elizabeth? I must work for a living. I intend to continue spying.”
“I take you very seriously, James Dinsmore.” She slid her arms around his neck, whispering in his ear. “And I’m sure if we put our heads together, we shall make the most perfect pair of spies.”
James looked again at the spit of land that marked the edge of France. At the waves, crashing against the rocks. Elizabeth was like those waves, wild, insistent, relentless. How could he resist her?
She kissed his neck.
Why did he want to? For his love for her, too, was like the ocean, deep and never-ending. “I have nothing.”
“You have me.”
She was everything.
“We shall never be respectable, Elizabeth.”
“We shall never be dull,” she amended.
He kissed her then with fierce desperation, as if his body might convey everything his words could not. And when at last he found the strength to stop, he said, “I shall see Joley delivered into Grenville’s hands, dispatch you to Moreham Hall, and then…”
“No.” Elizabeth tore herself from his arms, staggering back. “Don’t you understand? I love you, James Dinsmore. I will be ‘dispatched’ like tattered baggage!”
“Tattered baggage?” He caught a strand of hair the wind was teasing about her face and smoothed it back. “I prefer to think of you as windblown.”
She thrust his hand away. “Don’t think you can charm me—”
He caught her by the shoulders. “Elizabeth, don’t be thick.”
“Don’t be thick? Of all the—”
“I’m not trying to charm you. Damn it, woman, I’m trying to propose to you.
If I do not return with you to Moreham Hall, how shall I request your hand in marriage?
You must agree, considering the circumstances, that a letter would be grossly inadequate.
” Elizabeth stopped mid-tirade, her lips forming a perfect O.
James laughed. “I was going to seal my declaration of love with another kiss, but with your mouth agape…”
“You said you would never marry me—”
“I, too, can learn from experience.” His hand slid from her shoulders down her back, and the wind conspired with them to draw her into his embrace. “As I am discovering, I have been mistaken about many things…”
He bent his head to kiss her, but she pressed a hand against his chest to stop him.
“What if Rafe refuses you?”
“I will not be refused,” he declared, knowing it as surely as he knew anything in this world. “You are mine, Elizabeth Harcrest. You always will be.”
Anne glanced over the fan of her cards at Agatha, annoyed her hand wasn’t better.
Her cousin took a card from the center of the little round table in the green room and smiled.
It was a good thing the woman didn’t gamble, Anne thought disagreeably; anyone could read the state of Agatha’s hand from her face.
She rubbed her temple. “Agatha dear,” she said loudly, “I’m afraid we must discontinue play; my head is simply pounding. ”
Agatha’s smile melted into disappointment. “Are you certain, Anne?”
“Quite positive,” she said, folding her hand into the deck.
Agatha watched as Anne slid the deck into an ivory box. “I had thought we might compare hands”—she sighed—“just to get a sense of how the game might have turned out.”
Anne assumed a practiced expression of pain, one she’d long ago perfected in front of her looking glass.
She reached for Agatha’s hand. “You are right, of course, sweet cousin, but I couldn’t bear it, not with the way my head feels.
The numbers and the symbols seem to be performing a most uncivilized ballet. ”
“You poor thing.” Agatha was instantly apologetic. “Suffering in silence while I’m rattling on about a silly game. You must lie down. I will ring for something cold. Or would you prefer something hot?”
“I’ll be fine.” Anne pressed two fingers to her forehead and rose from her chair as if it hurt to do so.
Walking stiffly toward a yellow and green brocade armchair near the window, she closed her eyes as if the light hurt them.
“I’m sure it’s all the worrisome thoughts in my head that are causing this pain. ”
Agatha drew up an embroidered footstool and settled at Anne’s side. “If you’d like, I’ll rub your hands, and you can tell me all about what’s bothering you.”
Anne stretched out one long, pale hand, watching as Agatha’s wrinkled fingers moved deftly over it.
Her head really did seem overladen with worries.
Should she expose Rafe Moreham’s involvement in trade now, or wait until next season?
And why had the Comtesse de La Brou said that Elizabeth was at Hartsdale?
Had she gone there at some point in the summer, or was she missing from Moreham Hall?
And then there was the letter Anne had intercepted yesterday, from Sir Edmund Bogglesworth, addressed to her father.
The memory of the letter truly made her head throb.
She needed to talk to James. She’d have to make do with Agatha.
“Sir Edmund Bogglesworth would like to apply for my hand in marriage.”
Agatha nodded.