Page 40 of The Dangerous Lord

It shamed her that he could think she’d go on writing about him after what they’d done. “Shall I expect more of your attempts to expose my identity to your friends?”

He shot her a solemn glance. “I’ll keep quiet if you will.”

“Then we’re agreed. Lord X no longer has any quarrel with the Viscount St. Clair and vice-versa.” Nor any reason to speak to him, she thought, an inexplicable pain gripping her chest. Nor any connection to him whatsoever.

As if that thought had occurred to him as well, his jaw went taut. He faced her fully, trailing his gaze down her trembling body, then back up to her face. He now wore an expression of resigned acceptance. “That’s probably best. After all, it wouldn’t do for the viscount to quarrel with his fiancée so publicly.”

She gaped at him. “Fiancée?”

“Our encounter here this evening has brought me to a decision.” He cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping over her once more. “Felicity, you and I should marry.”

Chapter Ten

Colonel Shelby informed his long-suffering fiancée that due to his injuries during the war, he did not think it fair of him to hold her to their engagement. But when the faithful woman said she loved him for his heart alone, he gladly relented. The wedding will take place on Candlemas at St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

Lord X, The Evening Gazette, December 13, 1820

Ian could tell from Felicity’s incredulous expression that he’d surprised her. What else could he expect? He’d bloody well shocked himself.

“Wh-What did you say?” she stammered.

“I said we should marry.”

He hadn’t meant to be so blunt. He certainly hadn’t intended to propose when he’d come up to her room an hour ago. He’d meant only to scare her a little, make her see she couldn’t continue this battle between them.

Then she’d put on that damned dressing gown, the bit of lace that showed more than it concealed. He should never have watched her undress. He should have revealed his presence before then. But three days away from her had made him hungry, even after reading her inflammatory column. Three days and three nights of remembering their searing kisses had made him want a glimpse of her body, and she’d obliged him so quickly he’d been powerless to end it by revealing his presence in the room.

Still, he didn’t regret a minute. Nor did he regret proposing marriage. True, his decision had been hasty and his reasons complex and tangled even to him. Felicity, with her love of rumor and her unbounded curiosity, was the last person he should marry.

Yet he wanted her in his life. No other woman could match him tactic for tactic and forever surprise him. Marriage to her would be anything but boring.

He watched as she swung around and walked to the fireplace. Lambent light bathed her slender body, and her damnably flimsy wrapper clung greedily to her very attractive derriere. Lust bolted through him anew.

With a groan, he admitted the truth to himself. He didn’t only want her in his life—he wanted her in his bed. That was the trouble—he wasn’t thinking with his head or at least not the one with a brain. Otherwise, he’d never be considering marriage to this clever miss with her penchant for gossip.

But he’d made up his mind. He needed a wife—why not have one he’d enjoy? God knows he would enjoy her. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to keep from stripping her naked and acting on all the carnal impulses her winsome body inspired.

Two things had prevented him. The first was her status as a respectable virgin. It went against his moral code, such as it was, to deflower that sort of woman. The second—and perhaps more compelling—reason was the sure knowledge that a single night with her would never satisfy him, and she’d never allow him more. He might seduce her once, but his self-righteous gossipmonger would cut her throat before she’d consent to being any man’s mistress.

Besides, he didn’t need or want a mistress. He needed a wife. And if he married her, they could have as many nights in bed as their passions allowed. The very thought made him hard again.

“Well?” he bit out impatiently when she lifted the brass poker and stoked up the fire in apparent distraction. Sparks danced in the cold air about her tempting body.

“You’re asking me ... to marry you.” She stumbled over the words, as if they still seemed alien to her.

“It’s not such an odd idea, is it?”

“I-I don’t know. I mean, yes, it is. You’re a viscount.”

“Now that’s an astute observation,” he muttered, garnering a frown from her. He made a dismissive gesture. “It has nothing to do with anything.”

She set the poker aside and faced him. “Doesn’t it? I’m a nobody. Why would you want to marry me?”

Deliberately, he trailed his gaze down from her welter of rich cinnamon hair, past the delicious breasts he’d pleasured to the part of her he wished he’d also pleasured and tasted and sampled ... When his gaze snapped back to her face, he saw she understood. “I want to marry you for the same reason any man marries a woman he desires.”

Scarlet color stained her cheeks, and it occurred to him that he seldom saw her blush. It was becoming, especially on her. He’d have to make her blush frequently once they were married.

“But men of your sort⁠—”