Page 59 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Though they didn’t, of course. And he knew it too. “The rain has stopped,” he remarked with a sigh as he rolled away from her, onto his back. “I should take you home.”

“I suppose so, yes.” Aunt Mildred would fuss if she were gone much longer. She propped herself on one elbow for a last look at him, sprawled in naked splendor. “But thank you for bringing me here. I wish I could stay.”

His chest rose and fell on an almost-silent breath. “You could . . . if I made you mine in earnest.”

“That wasn’t in earnest?” she asked with a playful smile, dragging a fingertip down his arm. “My goodness.”

But he was perfectly serious, it seemed. He turned his head to face her. There was a rawness, a vulnerability to his expression greater even than she had seen downstairs, as if more of the mask had been chipped away by their lovemaking.

“I could make you my wife.”

Her breath caught. “You’re only saying that because of what we’ve done, because you think it’s the honorable thing to do.”

He shook his head, his hair bright against the pale sheet. “I’m saying it because I need you.” Then he sat up, so that she could no longer see his face. “I’d hoped you needed me too.”

This wasn’t at all what she’d imagined when she’d vowed to use his interest in her to save the magazine.

Then again, almost everything that had happened since that day had been beyond her wildest dreams.

What might happen if she dared to push the boundaries of her happiness beyond the back room of Porter’s Bookshop, beyond this cottage, even beyond the Covent Garden stage? This would be writing a new ending, indeed.

“Graham.” She slid her hand along the sheet and tangled her fingers with his. “I do.”

Chapter 18

Julia woke with a start at another knock on her chamber door. Blinking awake, she took in her narrow bed in her narrow room in Mrs. Hayes’s house.

Had yesterday been a dream?

But no. The pleasant twinges that greeted her when she lifted her head from the pillow were more than ample proof of what had transpired the day before.

“Come in,” she called, dashing one knuckle across her lips to wipe away a smile.

It was Jess this time. “Do come quick, Miss Addison. She won’t listen to reason.”

Julia scrambled from her bed, snatched up her dressing gown, and hurried after the maid. After what had happened last evening, she could only imagine Aunt Mildred’s state.

Graham had returned her to Clapham a little bedraggled and damp, thanks to another spate of cold rain, and later than intended, because he had insisted on making love to her again—so gently, so tenderly, his powerful body had trembled with restrained desire. Julia trembled again at the memory.

Daniel had been waiting for them at the door. The boy hadn’t even bothered with a greeting. “Mistress wants to see you,” he’d reported. Julia had already had one foot on the stairs when he’d added, “You too, sir.”

It little mattered that Mildred Hayes was a small, sickly, old woman, propped up on pillows and confined to her bed. The moment the two of them had crossed the threshold of her chamber, she had launched into such a tongue-lashing, punctuating her words by jabbing her folded lorgnette at each of them in turn.

“Daniel—curricle—Scotsman—gone for hours—surely recognized—gossip—reputation—”

“My apologies for distressing you, ma’am,” Graham had interjected smoothly when she had finally paused to draw breath. “Your niece has consented to make me the happiest of men.”

The hackneyed expression was doubly ridiculous from a man Julia knew to be gifted with language, and who kept his emotions under such strict regulation.

But on Aunt Mildred, the words had worked like a magic charm.

Her choleric color had faded to girlish pink, and tears of joy had sprung into her eyes. “My Julia, married, to an earl?”

Graham had left soon after, with a kiss on the hand for Mrs. Hayes and one on the cheek of his betrothed. Julia was left to settle and soothe Aunt Mildred, who had at least been wise enough not to ask questions for which she did not really want answers.

“And to think, it’s all down to that mix-up with my theater box,” she’d said, just before drifting off to sleep. “You really must invite Mr. Pope to the wedding.”

Julia couldn’t guess what this morning’s renewed agitation might portend.