25 September 1822
Lady Clitheroe’s Estate, Bedfordshire
The quiet tapping started soon after Hermione departed Mel’s bedchamber.
What now?
Her cousin had not quite wrung a peel over Mel’s head, but she had been displeased. Not so much about Mel’s and Mr. Lovelace’s late return to Lady Clitheroe’s, both of them bedraggled and wet after being alone together most of the day. Their dramatic arrival had stirred concern from their hostess, winks from the male guests, and glares from the young ladies stalking Mr. Lovelace.
Mel was, in a word, ruined. What nonsense. She pulled out a pin from her tangled coiffure.
Though Mr. Lovelace was appealing, a forced marriage to him—Hermione’s first impulse—reminded her of the one her mother had been planning for her. The thought of coercing an unwilling party to marry was abhorrent.
When she dismissed the suggestion, Hermione’s true concern became clear. Ruination required an early departure from Lady Clitheroe’s excellent cook and a swift return to the genteel poverty of Hermione’s Hampshire cottage.
The secret visit to Grandfather had also displeased her. For that, Mel felt a trifle guilty. But only a trifle, because Hermione would have wheedled the man for money, and Mel’s pride couldn’t have borne that. She’d sent Hermione off and prepared to deal with her own hair.
The tapping grew louder, probably the maid Hermione had sent away. She would do the same. Combing out her own tangles would give her much needed time to think.
She rose from the seat by the fire clutching her comb.
The latch rattled, the door eased open, and a figure entered.
She gasped. “Mr. Lovelace.”
He quietly closed the door and took her hands. “You are well?” he asked.
He’d changed to dry clothing and was fully dressed, while she was in her nightgown and robe.
“Yes,” she said, distracted by the warmth radiating from him, remembering his kiss on her palm, for heaven’s sake. “What are you doing here?”
“Your cousin did not berate you too badly?”
She scoffed and smiled. “She’ll greatly miss the fine meals when we return home. We’ll leave the day after tomorrow.”
He pried the comb from her hand and drew her closer to the fire, seating her and then kneeling before her.
Alarm bells clanged, a cannon boomed along with them, and every one of her nerves tingled as they had in the inn when he’d pressed his lips to that most sensitive part of her hand. She’d been wooed by men just as handsome; men both strong- and weak-willed, men who were crafty and men who were dolts. The army had men of every variety, and though she’d come close, she’d never lost her head. Or her maidenhead.
Yet.
“We must talk,” he said.
She inwardly shook herself. “If you recall, talking is what caused our delay.” They’d talked on the journey to Grandfather’s, and again after they’d left. And then, his innocent-but-not-innocent kiss had loosened her tongue even further—and his. They’d talked through the late afternoon and into the evening, through a meal and another round of tea. They’d shared stories about their childhoods and he’d spoken with such a deep fondness of his parents, and siblings, and nieces, and daughter that she’d been more than a little touched.
They’d also talked of investments and politics and trade. The rain had lifted long before they’d departed the inn.
“Yes, and I don’t regret one moment of it,” he said. “Will you make me the happiest of men? Will you marry me, Miss Parker?”
“Marry?” The cannon in her chest boomed again. “Don’t be s-silly.”
He seated himself next to her and kissed her, a soft press of his lips to hers, sweetness laced with a heated promise of more.
She drew away. “It’s not necessary. You don’t need to save me.”
“I see that I need to convince you. How shall I go about it?” He traced his fingers over her cheek and onward. A pin flew, and a lock of hair slipped over her shoulder. “You being you, I’ll start with the pragmatic reasons.” His breath tickled her ear as he leaned close, spotting and removing hairpins. “Even as we speak, there are gossips in their bedchambers writing letters to friends reporting on our absence together, alone, for the whole day; our stop at an inn together, alone, and our return.”
Together. Alone.
More pins and hair fell, like the elements of her plan scattering about her.
“Your grandfather’s recommendation that you marry the proper sort of man is a sound one. You are knowledgeable, Miss Parker. Brilliant, actually. Courageous, but not foolish. I could tell that from your conversation with Mr. Sawley. And I have a seat in the Commons.”
It went without saying that he would have a seat in the Lords when his father died, but he’d made it very clear to her that afternoon that he loved his father as much as she’d loved hers, and was in no hurry to claim the title.
The remains of her coiffure collapsed, and his fingers combed through her hair.
“You’re brilliant, and you’re beautiful, Miss Parker. Mary Elizabeth.”
“Mel,” she whispered.
“Mel?”
“It’s what my close family call me.”
“Mine call me Fitz for Fitzhenry.”
The name suited him, noble as well as seductively derived from the French. “Son of Henry?”
“Yes. Henry is my father’s name.”
He said no more, only watched her, steady and unblinking, while her heart thumped and clanged and she tumbled into his midnight blue gaze. His full lips quirked, his hands reached for her and she went willingly.