Page 96 of This Marquess of Mine

He raked a hand through his hair, disgust burning his insides. Jesus, he was a selfish cur. A cowardly cur.

He loved her, for God’s sake.

He surged to his feet and set his brandy on the mantel with a sharp thunk of glass on marble. Then he began to pace, back and forth, back and forth, marching an agitated path in front of the fireplace, his mind alive with realization.

He loved Olivia Blakely.

Of course he loved her. He wanted to marry her, too, and spend the rest of his days with her at his side. Why was he only now realizing it? Why had he resisted for so long?

“Because you’re a ruddy idiot,” he grumbled, his mouth a twist of agitation.

He’d told himself he wanted his freedom, that he wanted to enjoy his life as a single man for as long as he could, when in reality, he was simply scared. Scared of the future, of the uncertainties of life, of the vulnerabilities that came with being human.

These vulnerabilities were felt by everyone; faced by everyone. No one was immune to them. He knew that. So why was he acting as if he didn’t? Why was he acting as if he were the only man on the planet coursing through life without a safety net?

Why was he so bloody scared?

He halted before the fire and stared up at his father’s portrait again, determination setting his jaw.

He was through with it, with living like a frightened man. He was done. Life was much too short to live it in fear of what might be, and if his father’s death had taught him anything, it was that time was our most precious commodity.

He owed it to himself, and to his father’s memory, to make the most of every second he was gifted, and he wanted to share them all, every last second, with the woman he loved.

He only hoped he could convince her to take them.