Alex drifted into consciousness slowly, becoming aware of a pleasant lassitude, a general feeling of well-being. Sunlight warmed the side of his face. Without opening his eyes, he let the sensation bubble up inside him and spread out, and he realized with a slight shock that he was happy. Not merely content, but joyful. He wanted to leap out of bed, fling open the window, and shout out his happiness to the world. He felt invincible, as optimistic as he could ever recall.
Last night with Emmy had been extraordinary. He slid his hand sideways, searching for her, and encountered only cool sheets. He sat up, seized with sudden panic, and glanced around the room.
Where was she? Had she played him false? Sneaked back to London without him? The little—
No. She was sitting in the window embrasure in her chemise, her knees drawn up to her chest, looking out at the inn yard. She turned when she heard him move and gave him a shy, tentative smile as if unsure of her reception.
The morning light behind her made a halo of the soft curly fuzz of her unbrushed hair, a red-orange glow around her head, and Alex was momentarily struck dumb. With that peachy glow to her cheeks, pink lips, and those damnable freckles, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to cradle her against him at the same time as he wanted to overpower her. He tamped down a fierce tide of lust.
Sometime over the past twenty-four hours, he’d come to a decision. He couldn’t turn her over to Bow Street. She needed his protection. Not just from prosecution, but from Danton too. And the best way he could think of to do that, after catching Danton and having him tried for the Italian’s murder—was to give her the protection of his name.
He was the Earl of Melton. If she married him, even if Bow Street did decide to prosecute her for the theft of the jewels, as the wife of an earl she could claim “privilege of peerage.” As a countess, she couldn’t be arrested or imprisoned, except at the request of her fellow peers. She would have the right to be tried by a jury of peers in the House of Lords, who would determine her sentence, and—since she wouldn’t be accused of either treason or murder, the two exceptions to the rule—even if she were found guilty, she could escape punishment if it was her first offence.
Alex was hoping she could avoid prosecution altogether if they returned all the jewels to the Prince Regent, not just the diamond she’d stolen from Rundell & Bridge. Prinny was immensely fond of grand, dramatic gestures, and he never tired of opportunities to flaunt his benevolence. He’d be thrilled at the idea of being able to present the missing French crown jewels to the French ambassador or to the newly reinstated King Louis at the next state visit.
The Prince was also a fan of settling feuds by marrying enemies off to one another. A secret romantic at heart, he abhorred violence and always preferred a peaceful solution to any problem. Alex would personally vouchsafe his wife’s future good behavior and swear to keep her out of trouble.
He almost laughed aloud. Good God. Was he mad? He’d never thought he would marry, at least, not for another decade or so. And yet the idea of being wed to Emmy Danvers wasn’t unappealing. Quite the opposite.
He was attracted to her in ways he hadn’t experienced with any other woman. If he married her, he could kiss her whenever he wanted. And yet his desire wasn’t completely sexual. Lust was undeniably a factor, but there was more to it than that. He loved her strength, her bravery, her quick wit. He loved catching her eye in a shared joke across the room, the way they seemed able to engage in silent communication. He appreciated her humor, and even the quiet moments, holding her in the darkness, just standing next to her without speaking. She engaged his mind. His heart.
Alex blinked. Good God. Was he in love? The kind of thing the poets went on about?
It definitely wasn’t the moping, gloomy love of Shelley, or the quiet admiration of Keats. Nor was it the desperate, soul-rending agony of Byron. But the prickly, teasing, exasperating love of Shakespeare’s Beatrice and Benedick, or Katherina and Petruchio?
Maybe.
There were so many things he didn’t know about her, things a man ought to know before considering a woman for his life partner. What foods she liked and disliked, whether she could play a musical instrument. How she took her tea.
But they were minor, of no real import. At her core, he knew her. Despite her crimes, he believed in her intrinsic goodness. She was not unkind or unfeeling. She cared deeply for those who had her trust, and she would defend those lucky enough to be in her inner circle to the death.
She would have made a bloody good soldier.
He couldn’t wait to learn all the tiny inconsequential things about her. Things that would doubtless drive him mad, or fascinate him, or delight him in equal measure.
She was pragmatic, a realist. She wouldn’t refuse him. She would recognize that this was the best option available to her. The one that would cause her family the least amount of distress.
He supposed it could be called a marriage of convenience—at least for her. He’d always thought that a singularly stupid phrase. Everything about the woman was inconvenient.
His own family would doubtless say he’d made a dreadful mésalliance, but he had a reputation for doing things out of the ordinary. This might well prove to be his greatest scandal yet. They’d recovered from the disgrace of him owning a gambling club, however. They would recover from this. His father had been after him for ages to settle down and start providing him with grandchildren. And besides, who cared what anyone else thought? He wanted Emmy, with that clever mind and tart mouth. He could do far worse for a wife.
Maybe marriage would be good for him. He’d seen a change in Benedict since he’d married his Georgiana. He was happier, more settled, as if Georgie had added an extra dimension to his life that had been missing.
Alex had grown so accustomed to living with partial sight that he was barely conscious of the lack. But what if he suddenly regained his complete field of vision? Maybe marriage was like that? Like gaining something you never knew you’d been missing and finding your life immeasurably richer because of it. He prayed it would be so.
“You don’t seem to be much of a morning person, Harland.”
Emmy’s amused greeting jolted him from his thoughts, and he realized with some chagrin that he’d just been staring at her like an idiot for the past few minutes.
“Morning,” he croaked. His voice was almost an octave lower from sleep, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Morning, Miss Danvers. I trust you slept well.”
He took pleasure in the delicate pink flush that warmed her cheeks. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of embarrassing her. He ran his fingers through his hair, then over his jaw, testing the need for a shave, which was a pointless move considering he didn’t have a razor with him and there was no way he’d trust a blade provided by this establishment. It would probably be rusty and blunt. He’d slice his own ear off.
“We should go,” she said briskly. “We need to get back to London so you can organize your ambush for Danton. We don’t have much time.” She glanced away from his bare chest and looked out of the window with a worried frown. “What shall we do about the carriage? I doubt we’ll be able to find a wheelwright who can fix it in time. I can’t ride all the way back to London.”
Alex flipped back the covers and put his feet on the floor. She kept her gaze primly averted. He suppressed a smile. He found his breeches and tugged them on, along with his stockings and shirt. His boots were a disaster. Though dry, they were almost impossible to pull on, but he managed it at last and turned to her.
“I’ll go down to the taproom and see if there’s anything to eat for breakfast. And I’ll enquire about hiring a vehicle of some sort.”
He made a point of looking inside the jewel box to make sure it was still full, and she sent him a withering look.
“Do you really think I’ve had time to hide them somewhere?”
He hefted the box in his arms and gave her a charming smile. “Better safe than sorry. I know the dangers of underestimating you, my love. You should be flattered.”
She sniffed, only partly mollified.
He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and looked back at her. “Don’t worry about Danton. I spoke to Seb—Lord Mowbray—before we left and told him to be ready. Believe me, this isn’t the first ambush we’ve ever set. Get dressed. Come down when you’re ready.”