Lucien was just stepping out of the smithy when a carriage pulled to a halt in front of him. Meg’s cousin Jemima and her husband Allan were inside.
Jemima held out a small folded square of parchment. “Message for you, sir.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes. “You drove over here to deliver a note from Meg?”
Jemima shook her head. “We’re visiting Allan’s parents for the week, while I can still travel.”
“Then I won’t keep you.” Lucien stepped back. “Enjoy your visit.”
As soon as their carriage was out of sight, he unfolded the tiny missive. It bore just four words:
Home alone.
Come over.
He shook his head fondly. Meg was impossible. And Lucien was definitely coming over.
When he arrived, he half-expected her to greet him at the door wearing little more than stockings and garters.
Meg not only opened the door fully clothed, she had three iron nails protruding from one corner of her mouth and a hammer in her hand.
“Dieu merci.” She shoved the hammer to his chest and dropped the nails into his palm. “Come tell me if this shelf is crooked. I feel like it’s crooked. No one ever told me putting up shelves was so difficult.”
He trailed her into the cottage. “Your cousin left an hour ago, and you’re already remodeling her house?”
“Not the house.” She motioned him to follow her. “The nursery. They’ve been picking up things they need for the baby, and stacking them in a corner of the drawing room. I want it to be ready for them when they come back.”
His heart skipped. “You’re moving to Houville next week?”
“I have to start paying rent next week, if I want the room.” She shrugged. “I might as well give Jemima and Allan the last few months of privacy they’re ever going to have.”
“But next week is Christmas,” Lucien stammered. “You can’t leave before Christmas. Maybe your cousins don’t want you to go.”
“They literally asked me to go,” she reminded him. “They need the nursery.”
“They don’t need it next week,” he insisted. “And it’s not like they’ll never have privacy again. The baby will eventually…”
“Turn twenty-five and marry?” Meg finished with a droll expression. “Excellent point. I’ll be sure to explain to them that although I could have given them privacy, I chose not to because they’ll have a second chance for it after a quarter of a century. Provided the baby doesn’t become a spinster.”
Lucien glowered at her. What he meant was that he didn’t want to her to leave, and she knew it.
She gazed back at him blandly.
He ground his teeth. She was going to make him say it.
“I—”
“You’re leaving a fortnight later. I know.” She pointed at the wall. “Can you straighten that shelf before you go?”
He tossed the hammer onto the bed, then realized it was likely The Bed; the one in which Meg indulged her most wanton literary fantasies. He turned to a side table. There it was. Fanny Hill. He could be wrong, but from this angle it looked like every single page had been dog-eared.
“I’ll read to you later,” Meg promised. “Tell me your favorite fantaisie, and I wager I can turn to the right page on the first try.”
Lucien didn’t need to read a book in order to find his favorite fantasy. He was staring right at her.
“You’re right.” She moved the hammer from the bed to the table and trailed her fingers over the mattress. “We have all week to put up shelves. Why not start with dessert first?”
With a single step, he closed the space between them. She was in his arms, returning his kisses, and then they were falling backward, caught by the softness of the mattress and the warmth of each other’s embrace.
What happened to his cravat? Somehow it had been tossed to the floor. Just like his jacket, his waistcoat. It was hard to pay attention to his rapidly disappearing clothes when his lips were busy kissing Meg’s, and his hands were occupied with loosening the back of her gown.
When she straddled him to lift his shirt over his head, he took advantage of the opportune position to taste her breasts. She gripped his hair with her fingers and rubbed herself against him as he teased and licked. He could do this forever. He could do anything forever, as long as he was with her.
He was in love.
Lucien stopped licking.
Meg glanced down. “What’s wrong?”
“Mon Dieu.” He closed his eyes.
She lowered her hand to cup his cheek. “What is it?”
Love. So, what was he going to do about it? The wise thing would be nothing. The reckless thing…
He flipped her over so that her back was to the blanket and Lucien was on top. It did not make him feel like he had the upper hand. He was just as lost as ever. The only thing he wanted was her.
“Marry me,” he said before he lost his nerve.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
She didn’t need him. He understood that. She had no desire to wed. He mostly understood that. But if she wanted him enough…
“Marry me,” he repeated.
She bit her lip. “No.”
He stared at her. “You don’t want to?”
“You don’t want to,” she corrected.
“I do want to. That’s why I asked you.”
“You desire me.” She brushed her fingers to his face. “It’s not the same thing. There are too many reasons why it wouldn’t work. But I desire you, too. And here you are, in my bed. I know what I’d like to do next. What do you desire?”
He gazed down at her. He’d never expected to fall in love, never expected to want her to marry him, never expected to ask twice and be rejected soundly in the space of a minute.
Now that he knew any lovemaking would only be temporary, now that he knew for certain they had no future, what was he to do? Put up a shelf and run home? Or stay in the place he really wanted to be, if only for the night?