Mary Balogh: One Night for Love

"Is it?" he asked her, lifting her hand to his lips and holding it there after pulling back her glove. "But you are only six-and-thirty, my dear."

He was laughing. Oh, not out loud, but there was laughter in his voice, wretched man. She tried to draw her hand away, but his own closed more tightly about it.

"Lyndon," she pleaded, "be sensible. You owe me nothing. You owe much to your name and your position."

"I owe something to myself," he told her. "I owe it to myself to marry where I love, Elizabeth. I love you. Will you marry me?"

"Oh," she said—and could think of nothing else to say for several moments while he turned her hand and found her bare wrist with his lips. "You will regret this in a few days' time after everything is settled with Lily and you realize you will soon be free to do whatever you wish with your life. You will be relieved that I have said no."

"Are you saying no, then, my dear?" He sounded suddenly sad, the laughter all gone from his voice. "Will you look at me now and tell me that it is because you do not love me and choose rather to live the rest of your life alone than with me? Into my eyes, if you please."

She turned her head and looked at his chin—and then into his very blue eyes. Ah, could such a look be intended for her? The sort of look with which Neville regarded Lily and which she had so envied? But the Duke of Portfrey was looking unwaveringly into her eyes.

"Promise me you will never regret it." Hope and terror all mingled together were doing painful and peculiar things to her insides. "Promise me you will not be sorry in a year's time or two years' time if mere are no children. Promise me—"

He kissed her hard.

"I have never known you to babble nonsense before today, Elizabeth," he said well over a minute later.

"Lyndon." She blinked her eyes to clear her vision. Somehow her hands had found their way to his shoulders. "Oh, Lyndon, are you quite, quite's—"

He kissed her again, open-mouthed this time, and pressed his tongue past her startled lips and teeth right into her mouth. It was such a shockingly intimate embrace that she lost both her breath and her knees and was forced to lock her arms about his neck and cling for dear life. And then she kissed him back, touching his tongue with her own, sucking on it, listening with exhultation to the soft murmurs of appreciation with which he responded.

He was smiling when he lifted his head again. "I do beg your pardon," he said. "I interrupted you. What were you saying?"

"I have the feeling," she said severely, "that you will not allow me to complete any sentence you do not wish to hear."

"You learn fast," he said, rubbing his nose against hers and then trailing soft kisses across one cheek to her ear before nibbling on her earlobe and startling a cry of pure pleasure from her. "But then you are an intelligent woman. You must understand now how I intend to enforce wifely obedience."

"I never realized how absurd you can be," she said. "Or how unscrupulous. Lyndon?"

"Mmm?" He feathered kisses along her jaw toward her chin.

"I do love you, you know," she said, closing her eyes. "As a dear friend and so very much more than just that. If I marry you, I will try my very hardest to give you a son."

He threw back his head and laughed aloud before hugging her very tightly to him. "Will you indeed?" he said. "Those are provocative words, my dear— very provocative. I will test your resolve on our wedding night, I promise you, and every night following it. Perhaps on the occasional morning or afternoon too. When, Elizabeth? Soon? Sooner? By special license? I have no patience with banns, have you? I am forty-two years old. You are six-and-thirty. I want us to spend every day, every moment, of the rest of our lives together."

"We are not so very old," she protested.

"Certainly not too old," he agreed, kissing her on the lips again. He grinned. "Let us see what those children decide to do during the next day or two, shall we? I shall certainly insist upon a proper wedding at Rutland for my beloved Lily—nowhere else will do. But I would dearly like her to have a stepmother to help me organize it."

"Ah," she cried, " now we come to the real point of all this. Now we come to the truth of why you are going to such pains to persuade me—"

He kissed her long and hard.

Chapter 26

Newbury Abbey, Lily had discovered, looked much the same and yet so very different. She had been oppressed by it, dwarfed by it, overwhelmed by it when she had last been here. Now she could admire its magnificence and love the light elegance of its design. Now it felt like home. Because it was his home, and surely would be hers too.

During the day and a half since her arrival she had talked with everyone and enjoyed everyone's company—including that of the kitchen staff with whom she had taken coffee at midmorning while she peeled potatoes. She had been in Neville's company too, though she had not been alone with him even once. The most private they had been was that minute—no, not even so long—when he had leaned into her father's carriage.

It did not matter. There was a way of being alone with someone even in the midst of crowds. She had grown up surrounded by a regiment of soldiers and its women and children and had learned that lesson early.

They conversed with each other—in company with others. They looked at each other and smiled at each other—in full view of everyone else. But all the time there was really just the two of them, and the shared understanding that at last the time was right. That at last she was home to stay. For the rest of their lives. Lily was sure she was not wrong.

It had not yet been spoken in words, for although the time was right, the exact, perfect moment had not yet arrived. And they would not rush it—it was as if they had a tacit agreement on that. They had waited a long time; they had endured a great deal. The moment of their final commitment would reveal itself. They would not try to force it.

The carpet in the drawing room was rolled back during the evening so that there could be dancing for the countess's birthday party. Lady Wollston, Neville's Aunt Mary, took her place at the pianoforte. Neville danced with his mother and then with Gwendoline, who liked to dance despite her injured leg. He danced with Elizabeth and Miranda.

And of course he danced with Lily—the last dance of the evening, a waltz.

"I am selfish, you see, Lily," he told her with a smile. "If it were a country set, I would have to relinquish you to other partners with every new pattern of the dance. With a waltz, I have you all to myself."

Lily laughed. She had danced with her father, with Joseph, with Ralph, with Hal. She had thoroughly enjoyed the evening. But only because she had known that finally, at last, she would dance with Neville.

"I knew it would be a waltz," she told him.

"Lily." He leaned his head a little closer. "You are a single woman, daughter of a duke, bound by all the proprieties that apply to a lady of the beau monde ."

Lily's eyes danced with merriment.

"I have already spoken with Portfrey and have won his consent," he said. "I could speak with you formally in the library tomorrow. Your father or Elizabeth would bring you there and then tactfully leave us alone together for fifteen minutes. No longer than fifteen—it would be improper."

"Or?" Lily laughed again. "I hear an alternative in your voice and see it in your face. If the prospect of fifteen minutes alone in the library makes you wince, as it does me, what then?"